Sunday, January 22, 2017

Tulips Tomorrow

I am crazy restless pacing my apartment,
moving baubles around and cleaning out purses
I would sweep but I swept yesterday
I would sleep but my fridge is full of beer
and nothing else
All my vases are clean but empty
That must be a metaphor for something
I think something new is about to begin
It's not spring
it is cold and rainy, but things are changing
Maybe it has something to do with me
I have to tell you
there is something peaceful inside of me
It can drive me to hysterics
if I do not make lists of the money I spend
It makes me uncomfortable to feel complete
So when I realize my apartment
fits perfectly together but there are no flowers,
I pull everything out of the closets
and write down: Buy tulips tomorrow

The Highest Road leads to The Mountain Top

Unsolicited advice:
take the high road
Do not simmer
in hate or fear
Be happy today
Show your neighbor
what happy is
It is a warm winter
and the gardens will
need tending to soon
Push the dirt around
with your bare hands
Push the wind around
with your own breath
If you think nothing has changed
than you are not paying attention
If you think we are not winning
then you are not breathing
Slow it down,
take it easy, baby

Friday, January 13, 2017

100 Pieces of Paper and a Stolen Typewriter

I tried to open the packaging with the tip of a quill
and cursed myself as the delicate catch,
meant to pool ink,
split in two and folded over backwards

Something consoled me,
some things are just for show,
so I opened the package with my fingernails
and looked up the word "bravado"

I made a promise to myself to forgive mistakes,
to be delicate and hard, free and captured,
to forget about loneliness
and the unfolds of being split in two

Something like mercy or hard feelings
split open me as my fingertips
pecked harder at the keys
It made me feel brave again

I began to reckon the big picture
and that thing that often escapes me
made itself known in black ink
The universe swallows everything

So when I mention you, me, sex, 
gin, escape artists and tight wires,
all I mean to say is, do the right thing,
None of this will be remembered

Fina China & Ceramics

It is the sublety of the soft blue
played against lustre

breakable figurines positioned behind glass
or wrapped in paper

It is the way eyes settle and hold fast
onto fragile things

delicate shapes meant to be touched and turned,
baubles and doorknobs

It is the way one cherishes their own
but still wants other's

It is fine china, ceramics, and clay,
the moon, sun, and earth

The simple pleasures of perfect design,
detail and balance

It is the way she wouldn't look at him
and the way she would

She was the pretty things put on display
and he was a bull

It was the reason he didn't want her,
the reason glass breaks

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Candid Blue

She described the color to me in epic detail
and I promised her
I would find it
and bring it to her

She squealed
she exalted
she was astonished
and said over and over again
This is perfect
as she ran her brush against
and with the wood grain
I agreed
It is the best thing
Before we knew it we were high on fumes
laughing as we cut in the edges
Listening as the other spoke of her body,
her once forgotten sense of self,
and ultimate affinity for painting

They both knew they were the only ones
who would ever see the mess they had made

They both knew
they were the only ones
who would ever see
the mess they had made