Can’t Talk Yet

Sometimes, World Poetry Day is missed because of brutal fucking ignorant mental illness lapses. Anxiety and depression. The pneumonia was easier, gang. By a mile.

Listening to confessions from a mother

And songs respecting the struggle of abortion

I cried

At least the baby didn’t die

She said

I smiled for the first time

In miles

She’s been in

The car with

Me

Us

Half of

Gone

Many times

Can’t talk about it

Not to someone

Being so nice

To me

An indicator

Of true illness

Doing it again

Misplacing comfort and kindness

Where I want spark

Two lengths of jumper cables

Battery leads corroded

Green

A color I knew

Wearing it in the crowd

Staring the stage

Wanting my own light

Coveting conversation

Forsaken for

Hugs that don’t need feet

Those come from both

Sets of Arms

I’m told

Cemented you chipped me

Not enough to be broken

But enough to be surrounded

By ceramic pieces

Mosaic

Disconnected enough

That every edges finds

Your soles

When you get out of bed

In the morning.

Can you sprain your

Diaphragm crying?

Or is that just

Heartache

Setting up housekeeping?

Rattling pans

And nailing down

Carpet

Planning to stay

Until the foundation

Gives

Tucked with wool

Set aside from

The destruction

Handed gently

Handled

Purpled with

Neglect

Color of a fresh

Bruise

Waiting for the

Ease of pain

That comes with

Greens and yellows.

Twitching to a

Touch

Melting to a

Mouth

Stealing comfort

Even though

It’s freely given.

Some things

Can’t talk about.

Not yet.

Drain

Flowing down my leg

Just like my book

No pain

That I can feel

Only what

I can see

Should see

could

See

If only

I’d stop

Looking at myself

Pouring out of me

Like feelings

Seeping

Like purulence from

A re-opened scar

Like rancid

Avalanche of garbage water

From the truck I

Backed up to your door

Dumped my shit

Without ever giving

Ever yours

In exasperation

And exhaustion and

Maddening spinning

And swirling

This side of intolerable

Around the same

Endless

Rankling

Circular

Pattern

Drain that

I felt

That I was

Bivalves w(hole)

letting out

The rot

Sucking up

The reassurances

Leaving a mess

No casual plumber

Could possibly

Untangled

Everyone in the room

Is frustrated

And wet

My stain

More than Neptune’s ocean

Could fathom correction

You called them ours

Spilling so I wouldn’t

Be the only clumsy

Broken

Drain in the room

And I loved that

I would have sat

With you all night

Smelling like our scotch

Letting our shower

Wash it all

Down the drain

Non Ho Farfalle

Butterflies

Those tuggings and

Pullings at leads

And tendons

And lungs

Begging for action

Divine in the moment

Made to break the next day

Because

We aren’t all fed

On myths and moonlight

These things are needed,

In mind,

Mind,

For solace and inspiration

And getting upright

Some days

But most days

Hard days

Sad days

That not even

Butterflies will fix

Mercurial moths

That show you one

Form then

Leave in another

Not light

Not gentle

As their name

Promises

But toothy like wolves

Weighted down

Like

A sinking ship

Surrounded by

Sharks

Instead

A bowl of pasta

Set for me

A extra large sweatshirt

Smells unlike me

a sit down

A trust that

Isn’t questioned

On paper or

In mind,

Mind

We don’t

That’s the wings of

A thousand

Not under your lungs

But beneath your feet

Grateful for solidity

Solidarity with space

And heart

And truth

Warm, Wrapped in wool

Not fragile gossamer

Held in arms

Strong as oak

Living with

Steady

Giving

Knowing

And known

smiles

Rather than butterflies

K

One

Word

Sound

A

Syl

La

Ble

Yep

K

Meh

So

Much

Hurt

In

One

Small

Space

Once

Said

Hurt

Back

Won’t

Hear

More

Ears

Shut

Heart

Closed

Strike

First

Save

Your

Soul

Can’t

Be

Left

Said

First

Felt

Most

Left

Last

Hurt

Far

More

Teeth

Shut

Key

Hit

Send

Push

Down

Don’t

Push

Deep

Press

Hard

Not

Made

For

Such

Force

It

Comes

Out

In

The

End

Up

Yours

How

Can

One

Punch

Break

It

All

So

Much

To

Feel

Say

Scream

Cry

Gut

Wrench

Howl

Reach

Out

Give

Up

Take

In

Fuck

Off

Get

Over

Learn

New

Hope

High

Risk

All

Go

In

Weak

Come

Back

Strong

Here

For

The

Long

Road

Wrong

Turns

Right

And

All

The

Love

But

All

There

Is

To

Give

Is

K

Turn

Key in hand

Matches the one to my

Mothers house

My dad isn’t there any more

Another one gone so

It’s hers

But this key

This key

Mine

Fits in my hand

Right away

No carving

Scars next to my finger

Wonder how that is

I walk in the door with

Problems and sadness

Sometimes food and

Poetry of

Questionable

Worth

A room of rugs

I tried to kill

And powders and

Sprays

And guitars that aren’t mine

Unless I want them

Access and trust

And how do I pay

That back with words

And pastries

And promises of love

I can’t prove but can

Imagine

And I do

More every day

How can I trust

This turn

This metal cut

To fit me

When my brain

Screams to change

The fissures that I

Dug myself

Deep and wrong

Can a key

Tooth and bite

Fit a cracked and

Clefted doorway

Can it lock out

What blew off the door

And froze the room

The metal warms

And matches my skin

When I hold it

So maybe

It can’t

But

It can turn

If I can

Dig It Out

The universe gifted me a gorgeous poem from Amanda Lovelace.

Gifted is my attempt at levity and positivity.

And not being so much of a face-down mess.

I was trolling Instagram and drowning in the thick, dirty seas of jealousy and I saw her post.

I love this poet.

I love her work. And her truth. And her anger.

Mostly her anger.

This one reached out and grabbed me.

It speaks about the truth of knowing that no one else can dig out our sadness.

I was hit in the heart with the proverbial blade of that spade.

My vision of that is that no one can take away what another person left behind. That rancid trash has been heaped, and it’s staying. No new neighbor is going to help haul that away. Your mess now.

Another take, is that can the same person return to the site where they dropped hurt and heaviness and take it away.

One they’ve left it, they’ve left it. Roots are set.

Their removal tools will never be as sharp and quick as their planting rig. Your mess now.

You need to fire up your own chain saw to tear that fucker out.

Dig it out

The shit and sadness left

Let them lease the land

Tender and toiled

Turned over and

Spread with shit

To make the hardest thick.

And now I play farmer?

I kill things that depend on the ground.

I don’t cultivate them.

So what do I do with

This stony fill?

Mound it intro a gravestone,

Leave it for dead?

Play house and

Put up a foundation?

Lug it around for days

And days

And days

Until you forget

What it was like to walk around

Without the weight of a corpse

In your soul?

I can’t recommend that.

Too fucking hard.

I’m old and my joints

will not oblige.

They won’t haul it away.

And you can’t take it with you.

So leave it.

Dig it out.

Make a messy, gnarly pile.

Let the maggots and the beetles

Have their day.

Dig it out.

Leave it there.

Don’t look at it again.

But take the shovel.

Would Just

Thinking a lot about not fitting.

In place.

In arms.

In hearts.

How we say we’ll be happy if we “would just” …

We lose so much light in the cave of

would

just.

Would Just

You are

You would be

So perfect

If you would just

Adjust the smallest

Turn of your phrase

And the cut of your dress

Dress not for me

It’s for them

But so that I can see

See how much you could

Accomplish

Could if you would

Just attend

To the bends of

My will

Will you be available

Asking out of

Expectation

Not anticipation

Because the answer

Is no

Taking back you

For

I

Know already what I have to do

Who I need to be

Because that’s not on

Your list

Mind

So I persist

Me

And my heart

And my dreams

Fixed on our shelf

Because yourself

And your matter

Are what matters?

Time to scatter that

Shelf to the floor

Remind

I

Eyes to see and remember

The parts of me

that would

just

Make magic and

Absolution

Fulfill and

dissolution of fears

And defenses

Cause applause and

Reverence’s if you

I

Would just

Believe that

there isn’t perfect

If you would just

But there is beauty

And awe and

Spectacular love in

I

So if you

I

Would just

Trust

In me

That

Would

Just

Be

everything.

And I

I would just

Be

Perfect.