Thread — April 23, 2017

Thread

The single most important concept in reality theory is thread-

the stitches that pull one moment to the next moment,

to any moment, to every moment,

and blow about untethered and vague when picked loose.

I stood lazily against the doorway of my girlfriend’s ugly purple room,

inebriated and soaking in her curls like I was sucking the sweetness from honey comb-

when I noticed threads for the first time.

It started with a red sinew plucked astray from my heart which flourished wildly, turning and looping to spell out a secret.

In a timeless language it told me in that moment, I was every drunk 20-something in every half-baked first home thinking they fucked it all up but knowing it didn’t matter,

because every young lover has always held the same medicinal honey.

Crystal cupped sunken cheeks in busted hands, half-turned to pluck at a burnt orange rope hanging solemnly from the ceiling,

and then I heard her plead she knew her father was a bastard… but he wasn’t always.

She stared up to every broken kid’s maybe-there-but-probably-not god,

and asked me when her father became the father he is and when she became that bastard too.

I came closer to place a hand on her knee and we sat at the edge of the couch, every bastard father who probably had a bastard for a father

and told themselves they’d address that shit some never-coming day.

Our bodies rocked to competing rhythms as Alan Watts flowed through the speaker,

a gold ribbon tickling at the base of our spines and tangling itself in the bow which wrapped this gift to us-

“If there was a Big Bang in the beginning– you’re not something that’s a result of the Big Bang.

You’re not something that is a sort of puppet on the end of the process.

You are still the process.”

and our pupils expanded as we became unshakably aware-

we were born of every atom that chose to explode forth and be alive and were, in turn,

every humbled young mother who ever swung comfortably…

uncomfortably…

again comfortably from vague, untethered threads.

All The Rest — October 25, 2016
Welling Up — September 19, 2016

Welling Up

Sweet little boy

with sycamore-scraped knees

welling up with heartache

for the summer honey bees

 

You are an ocean

free to rush barren land

and nourish outreached hands

as you muddy up the sand

 

 

You are a rain cloud

free to blanket towns

and clean the homes of dust and soot

as you come pouring down

 

You are a shower

free to warm chilly skin

and cradle broken bodies

to let them feel again

 

Sweet little boy

with sycamore-scraped knees

welling up with heartache

for the summer honey bees

 

You are free

Dirty Dishes — September 18, 2016

Dirty Dishes

 

 

 

Growing bold against your coldness, I slip a foot under the sheet.

Graze the curve behind your ankle and you snap your neck to chastise me, your best stone wall impression in lieu of letting me hear your voice. You know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say anything.

Cupping your face with my thoughts since you won’t let me use my hands, I thrust at you a desperate, misty-eyed rendition of the lines I’ve been running through my head since we last put on this routine.

Though I know from experience you’ll batter each word just as it leaves my swollen mouth- lest you hear any way in which you may be at fault.

“Is this how you see the rest of your life?” memory of a friend’s concern rings sharply inside of me.

Is this how I see the rest of my life…

I tell myself what I always do; so many passionless relationships…maybe the stones you throw are worth their weight in rushing blood and “forgive me” kisses.

My quivery monologue comes to an end and you turn away, unimpressed with my efforts as ever. “Maybe this is worth it”, I repeat with dwindling conviction.

“The dirty dishes stack up high, but at least they’re proof we’re eating.”