it starts to rain and i think:
it’s about damn time.
i don’t know where i’ll go from here, but
this wet space is a good place to start.
i can’t write a goddamn poem—and
i keep thinking about bukowksi and
how he said don’t try—but if some
thing doesn’t come out soon i may im-
plode. i keep walking around the house
saying: i don’t know what to do.
i keep walking room to room know-
ing what to do and not doing it.
procrastination is an act of
rebellion: against the
expectation, against self.
there’s a world inside my head—
and even i can’t access it.
every thing is happening in another
visions spinning in spirals, surrounding me, closing
in, cushioning at times, but mostly suffocating.
i don’t expect you to under-stand. i don’t
expect to be able to see into yours, to climb up
and into for comfort. what are we together?
what do we do in these moments?
push? pull? hold?
getting in the car and driving through the hills
while blasting tom petty seems enough for now.
i drive by every place i have lived—except that one:
tucked up too far into the mountains, into the memory.
some days we cannot love our neighbor
because we do not love our selves. we shut up
into our houses. we lock our doors and windows and hide.
we are trying to love our selves; but we are lost. we are
trying to love our gods; but we are tossed aside
again and again by our own minds.
how do we get so far out of alignment? why does it
feel so good to snap back in—like one of those car seat
buckles with four sides that you have to line up just right
to feel the click while the kid kicks and screams and fights?
sitting with my adult-in-training after an argument—in which
nothing is solved except for the yelling and the receiving—
and watching law & order and laughing occasionally and
continuing to exist side by side seems enough for now.
do we let ourselves drift further away
so we can feel the relief of return?
do we have any control over any of it?
should we? or are we just rolling
along on the wave, letting it carry us to
the next destination? who are we to try to
control the sea? perhaps the moon goddess within.
perhaps you are my muse. perhaps a muse is just a
long lost love—or one never fully realized—who
triggers us and prompts us and provokes us and
pushes us—painfully far and prosaically wide at times.
perhaps you are part of my cluster, following me through
these sacred lives as we teach and learn and grow from
each other. when i think about my love for you, i want
to bring you flowers; i want to plant my forever in you:
inside your head, inside your hands, inside your heart.