strange how life proceeds in chunks
of time, in blobs
in maple-sap slowness though winter sun burns down the day.
i’m not moving fast or slow. i’m not sure i move at all.
but here i am so distant from the where i was before.
hard to grow up in stagnation,
hard to breathe through strangulation
but the currents bash us on the rocks
and air feeds the conflagration.
tempting to fear change and abhor it
cower, believe there’s nothing for it
but things static can't get better,
there’s no way out if you ignore it.
all things were meant for motion
dead hearts can’t pay for your devotion
we’ll never have what used to be,
for all your indignant brash commotion.
give up the power bought with chains,
defund the price you set on pain
let the future come in dancing
before nothing beside remains.
i want a name for this absence
that i knew was coming, yet dislike
in these moments where i realize
i was not as ready as i thought.
i want a name for it, to introduce myself
and then ask it to come in.
we can share a cup of tea together
i am so tired of the cold,
sick of loneliness that chills.
i want to jump into a fire
that loves me enough i do not burn.
(a sign of lonely winters,
that I dream that such a thing exists.)
we stood together on a street corner
and waited for the fall of rome
with bread in our hands, both tearing off
bite by melancholy bite.
you said ‘i think i see it coming. there’s
something in the air, like dust
that isn’t there yet.’
i looked for it. saw nothing. you
were crying when i turned,
quiet. soft and slow, like
you didn’t mean to do it.
that was years ago, and rome
still stands, a few more pieces missing.
lots more added on. and i
am on a different dusty street corner
alone. i miss the taste of bread.
I think I keep falling in love with the sun,
or people who shine like it does in my dreams.
I want to be warm. I want to see life
in shadings of light that pulls sharp at the seams.
I want to think I can love with joy running rife,
rich and abundant and shining undone.
But I never have burned from the sun in my dreams,
or been eaten with heat that compelled me to run.
something has been settled,
unfinished tension turning whole,
a long ongoing dance brought to completion.
but in its wake there comes a doubt—
what happens next? what new start
must be brought awake to life?
what else can be said in silence
when the chance to change is done?
I don’t believe that malice is inherent in the world—
the ocean washes shells ashore to die, without disdain.
I do think the miraculous is proven by our lives,
by the ways we build up meaning from overlapping joys.
So here we are. The sun is up, and shining on the waves,
in a frequency of light that is attractive to our eyes,
and we are here to see it and remember breaking noise,
remember and bear witness to the ways the world unfurls.
-what will the music sound like?
-like coming home. like tragedy.
-i hear tragedy already, every time
i fall asleep.
-it sounds like tragedy in story,
like someone else’s pain,
like it hollowed out the ache
and turned it to a drum.
-what kind of drum beats tragedy?
-your heart. just as does mine.
what price is set on pleasure where I cannot see it stack?
is there some suffering
i must endure
in days to come
these stolen joyful moments. is there
some great bill coming due?
can i have happiness that does not merit
a balancing of grief?
(is there a point to asking questions when i fear to know the truth)