February 16, 2020
A gasp of sun after so long,
we stretch our muscles
like the trees and their branches,
like the horizon and his arms.
Spring lays in wait,
such a beautiful child,
She reminds us of
ourselves back then,
so young.
She was the harbinger,
and now she just smiles.
This time last year,
we had no idea;
not for much longer now.
In this gasp of sun let's stretch
from now until we knew.
February 17, 2021
Today just feels
like yesterday,
but older,
just dusted.
Not new,
but true.
The days
are no longer
in stacks,
by name.
The days
are scattered
on the carpet.
The hours are
blowing in the
wind of the
oscillating fan.
Why is everyone
so quiet?
It's because
to speak,
we must know
what to say.
February 18, 2021
The playmakers on the radio are
talking in their sleep now,
static hisses like
the kettle on the stove.
Finally, we can drink
our tea in peace.
You've seen it's snowing in the south?
We're going mad.
And you've seen the corners of my mouth
turned down, I bet.
This isn't how it was supposed to go
but I can't remember how it was.
To all the things I should
have done last year,
farewell,
I won't be seeing you again.
To all the things I thought
alone last year,
come back,
I will think of you once more.
February 19, 2021
Fishing boat season,
so dark and romantic,
the rain runs away
with the sleeves of your shirt.
Met at the base of the
giant Kauri tree,
old and aware
of the hand we've been dealt.
Daydreams of leather seats
wet with the steaming heat.
I see the sun
where it hangs up ahead.
Soon we'll all be
on the bay in our fishing boats.
Low in the water,
we'll all make our bets.
February 20, 2021
Dipped in honey
on a Saturday.
It lifts the color of me
up, up, up.
I will be sunny,
by the end.
I will be bright
by dead of day.
Talk about how
dad wants to be a mailman,
for the simple good
of letters in boxes.
Talk about all
the drugs we're on,
and the drugs we all
should be on again.
Talk about all
those people
who left us,
back then,
over coffee
and 2000's T.V.
We hardly recall them,
anymore,
so they feel faraway,
like a memory you only have
because it's been said
you should have it.
We can't imagine
not knowing us,
like they do.
Maybe it will
be morning all day,
and their hours, too,
will drip sticky-slow,
like microwaved
breakfast syrup
all over them,
far too sweet
a sentiment,
and they, too,
will talk
about us.
February 21, 2021
We stayed up
far to late last night
and I fell asleep
by candlelight,
and talked to poets
in my sleep,
they came in dreams
to baptize me.
February 22, 2021
The strange of life
is setting in now.
I had all but forgotten
this twist in my chest.
People from the past,
people who'll know
the ghost of you
when you come back.
Coincidence and
dread in gut and
graves in real life and
seers on boardwalks.
This time I am going to
worship by the window.
This time I'm going to
leave it up, wide,
for the wind.
This time,
I'm going to lay
back against the sill
and and look up
at the tops of the trees.
This time when it rains
I'll be the first who
feels it fall, so strangely
to the ground and
on the roof of
the house.
If rain is strange,
I, too, am strange,
and if it is not, too,
I am strange for how
strange I find it.
The strange of life
is setting in again.
Oh, how I've missed,
hearing things in the wind.
February 24, 2021
Accomplishments today.
Body right and the concrete
cleansing of things.
All great, but still
not productive as my
days of paper and pen,
days of sweet music,
of stories on screens.
Inspiration reining,
dousing me in kerosene,
striking me against
the way of things,
just so.
And then creation,
white hot,
moving through me like
a dancer through the air.
And I know they all
want me to have days
and days of concrete,
of fresh oxygen and
acknowledgement of form,
but, to me, this day
just feels like such a waste.
Thanks so much for reading!
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