parenthesis

my poetry
a kind of
postscript significant.

after-the-fact
parenthetical
asides, to read once
i’m finished.

posthumously pertinent
or seashelled:

right now, not
in-hand examined;
merely seen at feet,

objects which curl in
on themselves,
hold something alive.

so i, i will keep
curling.

a little experiment
of toughing it
out here on earth,

just the same.

cardigan

day dawned
already filmy,
grease-stained from
dark dreams.

the last legs of my
indifference
collapsed at 9 am,
everything

engulfed in flames.
ran through
a few rants,

waited
for the caffeine
cooldown & a bit
more clarity.

bad feelings
are not bad
in themselves.
you feel them
& move on,

like you put sweaters
in dressing rooms
back on hangers
when they don't fit.

no luck in store today
try again tomorrow.

pick

a word, pick
a string of words.

a poem can be
a beaded thing, not like
a strand of pearls, more like when you stick
a threaded needle into
a bright pile of glass beads.

a pattern emerges,
an unintended result of repetition.
a single bead that marks
a beginning:
a color, or shape for
an eye to stick to.

a rhythm in
all of the static
and white noise.

monday tuesday

a truly monday sort
of tuesday.

i’ve covered my desk
in a veritable townscape
of paper, envelope, post-it pile
abodes:

missing their rooves,
lying in wait
for my workday whirlwind

 of wednesday.

mania

manic up morning

i try poems

& delete

poem

& delete

morose sounds trite

with so much sun outside

& my poems

today have

that aa glint

in their eyes

of sorry

but it’s sorry

they aren’t back

in those good ol’ days

& not sorry

for what shit

they dragged

so many selves through

it’s sorry i’m

reminiscing

with this crowd

of pen & paper

not

actually drowning

& too sick

to swim