Thursday, July 21, 2016

or something like it (summertime, part one)





















Summertime galore:
You cannot keep me indoors this time. Work, gym, late nights of youtube back-and-forths on a porch swing. Little things, large. Loud things, soft things. My heart, my anger, my bliss of a back road and bridges and getting my life again and again.

Monday, July 11, 2016




Healing will come.

You will not outrun the weather. Nor the grey hairs that bloom in heats of four on your head, who call to mind phone cord and minute hand. Part the mess anywhere and you will find a streak screaming. Familiar bark slowly begone.

You will not stay the same, and you shouldn't anyway.

You will not have the courtesy of linear, or name, or latch. It will be and that is that.

You will write. You will find the words even if it means digging to core of the earth. You will share it and you won't. Every line pulls a splinter.

You will get angry. So angry that vision leaves you and ground turns blue and bodies around you beet red-red-red. So you learn to be and let go, until the release outweighs the need and the red runs to pink then pale then dry and a thousand shades of green takes its place.

And you will be different and you will be you. Again and again. Every day a little more lung, more pulse. More stretched apart fingers and more to pass through them. You will not need something shut to prove it. Instead, you will riot the windows up. The ground away, roof too. Unclose it all, let's say.

Heal until you forget how the bones felt unfused.

Now, on your feet. On your toes. On your mend on your mind on your very last swig of sorry. No more sorry. On your word. On it all, on it none.