I am starting to understand this need for jargon, how to hold on to our humanity we simplify others’ noting agonal breathing not drowning on dry land. Kindness? You could argue it either way, and what’s the point? I just noticed you can see the whole stadium from the parking lot, a clear view of green serene lanes of turf– that’ll be nice come summer.
[DNR/DNI] It rained tonight, really rained, for the first time this year– I wonder if you were still around to see it. On the floor it’s always endings or the beginning of ends and there’s two ways you can go out that door and I’d call either of them leaving.
[Honesty] We regret that nothing good can follow these two words.
Still writing December this new month left me behind, already and the night now hesitates to come and cover my confusion and twilight is the exact shade of go out and go by like everything else so fast it feels slow in that way a crash does.
A mouse in the wall. Why write at all? These are hidden sorts of noise. . And you can fill a hole but not a distance. . I’m trying not to try.
In all this fog -heightened silence ears strain for a sudden noise, the streets exaggeratedly empty, the shut up glow of houses so inaccessible, no one will ever walk these streets again, except there, under a lampost’s sharp cone, a figure, attached to a dog, or drowning in place, I’ll never know, the white night swallows it up before I reach that block, and our floating paths don’t cross again.
What you want, and what you get– During Friday’s commute the fog obscured all, no notion of a lake under the bridge just strings of brake lights and headlights connecting through the damp, the freeway blocked, and I thought of course it’s a wreck, but no, someone jumped into the stream of cars. Later I heard a guy ask for his legs back, he was leaving that day, he was ready to move on, now, […]
Our words may outsize us, haunt us, outlast us, but this margin was too small– Would that we could all see how they carry on, to do due penance, or to watch them grow, flow, and divide as a river forks to small tributaries, the open sea. A word once spoken cannot be unsaid, a swoop and curl that speaks through ink can’t be erased, even if thrown away it wasn’t, then it was. At […]
Funny how the fog appeared, from nothing, a haze that revealed itself as night fell, two gradients, both with a soft affect, dark streets not as hard floating under mist, the helipad guide lights dreamlike candy-colored orbs– although it could be that I am so tired that I love everything, indiscriminately, just for being. It’s a strange response– or strange reaction, or repercussion, or compensation, or reciprocation– That. That’s probably most apt.
[The day] The gray rooms are not large enough to hold all that they contain, the precedents of admits, the recycled air and soft TV voices from other sides of curtains. And on the psych floor, small slots of afterlifes, another day, then another day, then another day, or sometimes not.
OPTIONAL POETRY 