Daily Poetry & Prose

It could happen to you: that's a jazz standard. What could happen to you is of a major concern to me. Are you alright?

Did you look into my pocket  and find gold or love? Did you look into my eyes and see a man or a mirror to see yourself as a thief? My pain is not a promise to you. I am going to hideaway.

 Life is over, she said. Yes, I said, over there. Over where? she said, lifitng her head. If we head that way we'll see it. Get your hair out of the way. Look over there, the hair is in your eyes move it with your hand Then move your eyes up to the horizon with your eyes on the horizon you see the distance Yes? Over there? It's over, but it's over there See when it's over It's just over there There's a new life, do we see it together now? Yes I see it. Do you see it? I am quite intrigued even through my tears I see the horizon's distant drawn line where the shimmering sun is setting there and we are setting out.

Today is a day of celebration, of joy and laughter and mirth, of pride and peace and posterity, of grasshoppers and frogs and baseball bats.

It's a hard day a day that is hard, unlike soft days like fried eggs. No, this day is hard. Hard like a stone and hot-- hot enough to fry an egg on. This day is hard. Hard like a handle of an axe. Hard like the stone on the beach. Soft days are soft like cushions. Smooth like the lace curtains blowing in the wind. Wet like a river running over rocks.

It's hard to know what to say about color It's a thing that is soft to express It's a tangible part of my hand It's a sharp idea Color is basically a metaphor from what I understand though I've been taught that grass is green The likeness of one thing to another is not as invigorating as the discovery of differences A gambler once said he was in love with the moment the  dice were in the air. I relate that to the moment we put the puzzle together. Or the split seconds we spend in joyful eternity comparing this to that and back again.

I hit my head against the refrigerator  like a boa constrictor wrapping me in a chill it's not the words we use it's the energies behind them Calm and resolute versus jubilated and unrestrained my grime.

It's an odd feeling to realize that your country is doing something wrong, like killing people and hiding the truth. It's odd to be proud and then remember things like the Trail of Tears and things happening right now as we speak. It makes me want to drag a stick across the ground, sadly. The correct response is rage isn't it?

Heartbreaking? You don't even know the sound. You think a door creaking is a scar. Heartwrenching? You don't even know the pain. You've been pinned to a clipboard, not pinned under a car. I wouldn't wish pain on you not a day in my life But I feel you breathing down my neck and you know that ain't right. Who are you to knock on my door late at night? Who are you to trespass into my swimmin pool swim naked and prolonged lift yourself up and approach the diving board walk slowly to the edge bounce bounce then pirouette into a perfect 10 slipping into my deep?

I hear singing in the art space, and I'm not making this up. Most of my poetry is completely imagined but I tell you right now, I am listening and someone is playing a radio and the voice is high and melodic and yearning and I can't tell if someone is singing along or if it's just the chorus whispery and yearning.

She knocked on the pineapple like it was a door She listened as if it was a radio. I think she was seeing if it was ripe. Her feet were flat I could tell because when she walked I could see the bottom of her shoes. She bought spaghetti and plastic forks apples and a pound of cheese. She held onto her crinkled dollar a moment too long. I sighed as I waited. I was only buying bread and raisins, I had a meal to prepare, and she had already eaten hers. 

I'd like to never forget you. I'd like to fight in the right way to refuse you. My fierce toes can dig into the sand but it's not Malibu. I'd tear apart a ferris wheel to spin like a falling wave lost in what I used to crave I've become a pebble on the beach of someone else's shore.

Oh, pass me by, I said, completely stilted and sniffing in the cold. My ice hands were melting inside my warm jeans, I absently craved coffee. What would become of my walk today? A traffic jam had me held up and I couldn't get through. I had been walking each morning, like an elephant I could not forget. I was realizing that computers were not altars and I really shouldn't be sacrificing my eyes and time to them like I was killing goats before Passover, or whatever is happening these days. The world is a huge mess, a basket of hornets wrapped up in wool and about to burn. Can you even imagine a soldier's life? I toughen myself as I pull my jeans on over my leggings. It will be cold out. But I go.

The sunlight hits the red brick wall and I see your face The darkness falls in shadows on the cold grey cement and, I see your face The red ball of the sun falls behind the trees and, I see your face The waves crash on the beach, in quiet rhythm and cacophony and I hear your voice.

I must sit down. My tired feet are pressing into my shoes, on the hard linoleum floor. Above me, the giant ceiling opens up. There is a clock suspended for all to see. The heavy iron arms move by themselves. Many tiny people in black coats are running to their trains. Each person is on a mysterious path. My eyelids are heavy, and I hear footsteps, but I stay still. I am sitting on the oak benches in the great hall at Union Station. My back digs in and I sigh. The trains are on time. There are men working on the tracks to make sure the switches got flipped, flashlights in the tunnel, caught along the grey cement water-stained walls. There are ticket sellers and bathroom attendants, and people at the McDonald's and the convenience store. I wonder what it's like to work somewhere all day, when everyone coming through is going somewhere else. 

The innovation of the algorithm the data mining thief who knows your every move down to what color of socks you wear Every click is logged in his big, dark mind and the people used to talk about being judged on Judgement Day but now it's going to be Google reviewing your clicks popping up gifs and you won't be able  to escape.

There is no pain in the world yearning for bright light The darkness of the days burning down the mountains has escaped into its own listless night Fascist commentary subsumes the rapture the blaring trumpets eternally demand justice softly muttered against the wall true love is always just graffiti

The saint is sewn into the tapestry with golden threads  reddish hues of twisted yarn fabulous to a chosen few  she holds the Bible up to her breast cajoled by the devil but flat-footed and sure she suffers to stand straight. Misguided woe was just a path of wonder rabbits mistook for a den the grasses beaten down by feet as we pushed through. I slept sideways on the back porch for many moons only to make breakfast one last time before my breakthrough. I had to break a few eggs, as they say, to make an omelet.