i’ve submitted the revised draft
and I think it’s better this way

The river crawls back to the sea, you see,
and we all turn in someday, too;
Whatever life gives us is temporary

i wanted the same mountain but a different climb
the sun is shining too brightly in my eyes
it feels just like an interrogation light
yet the future’s looking dim
Does that seem right?

My luck lies buried
beneath the lakes of Washington
All of the reasons to think again
and go back to Hangman Creek

There were things I’ll –
well I don’t know if I should say
But it’s true and I have a knot in my stomach

More time,
we all cried for it
if it could be born in between
the heartache of
Two contrarians
I’ll name it Janus

Eke out a little existence
this is the realm where no one’s listening
Tear off the masks!
there’s nothing really left so it’s time
to dig through the ashes
and reassess

there’s snow overhead
maybe we don’t need a radio
do people still know morse code
in the post-apocalyptic future?

/

Enough, right now it’s ground zero
there’s no time to build a memorial
so grab your guns and get moving

/

When I let someone pervade every bit of the world
then every bit of the world seems to laugh in my face
it’s like I’m George Bailey but I have no Clarence
so I keep trudging in the same cursed parade

and I never liked being on display
like a tiger in a cage
carving a line in the ground where I pace

but the cage of fibs is lying in splinters
it can’t keep the monster contained

the illusion was about maintaining control
it should have been letting go
because nothing remains pristine
and even new feelings get old

;

Ok

I believe in not getting enough sleep
and enjoying what I eat
and as Steinbeck said,
living violently

I know I am beautiful
but when I look in the mirror, I still see
an insecure 15-year-old
gazing back at me

And I am a musician
who was taught the philosophy:
If you are going to make mistakes,
it’s best to make them confidently

don’t praise a river for flowing downstream
it carves out the delta whether you know it or not

the lamb won’t stray til the shepherd has gone;
in the crook of the land she sleeps on,
heart warm and beating,
sweet lamb with sweet dream-bleating.
and he lingers by her, reading

but is it better to live off the wheat or the wind?
is it better to cavort or to settle in?
while lambs slumber, he wakes within
new adventures will always await him

4-26-21

My lover gave me a string of pearls
to wear around my neck
Stony reminder of a rare heart
“No one will ever love you like you are,
but I will love you into becoming.”

Sleepless night after sleepless night
kept up by the memories
that mercifully erased themselves
(and still
the insomnia
remains)

I did not change my name;
my name has been the same

 

She writes poems about other people
Like they’re stolen silk
Laid coolly against skin, delicate imposition
Shines like honey, soothes like milk
In a Renaissance world, life is in the linens

And it seems unlikely
that she wove from the beginning
It’s Just Another Thing She’s Trying
soon to be Just Another Thing She’s Quitting

Okay
okay
taking a breath
Yes I feel like death
But you could keep me close to your chest
Draw me out, put me through the spinneret
You think I’ll be fine?
Bet

I want to believe in a more beautiful future.
Oh, you think I’m foolish? Foolishness is the counterweight to seriousness.
Like a cool breath of wind on a pot of hot tea.
Chaos tempers tension. Whimsy tempers nerves.
We’re squatting in the garden. We’re piling up onions in the greenhouse,
long tendrils, fresh smell, dry newspaper, old boxes.
Will you put up a picture? Will they know who I was?

Depth of mystery, won’t you speak to me? I carry you with me, always.

And I remember sneaking upstairs to the room where the old organ lulled
in the corner by the window, years of dust in the keys,
and it still played.
And also piles of big pointed brushes
which A-ma used to write
in slick black strokes
on thick rich paper

Heck, I have had one or two of those big brushes, myself,
but my hand was always unsteady and illiterate
and children are given water, not ink.

don’t ever fall for anybody saying they understand you
those are the ones who give themselves the right to reprimand you
and in the end, zero in on everything you can’t do
they won’t follow through even if they planned to

there’s a black light burning brighter
than the moonshine, the igniter
all the purpose on the pyre
all is worthless in the fire

and there’s no reason left to sleep
when all the good dreams are really happening
he looks at me and I feel it unraveling
the golden touch, the majesty

the lilac, the cognac, the straight face, the gay laugh
the quiet before the heart attack
Can I please have it all back?

the windows, the pillows, the breezes and the billows
it’s cold here but god knows
there is life still in the primrose