If you’re all alone on Thanksgiving Day, with no turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy, your heart aching from loneliness and neglect, and your shame keeping you from making even one single phone call to some relative who is surrounded by devoted loved ones, just keep in mind that, for what it’s worth, we’re together in this poem, sharing these words. Sleepy late-afternoon football chatter will fade away, but this conversation will last
The carnival is sick freedom, something less, passing through town, barking forbidden desires, promising an untranslatable ticket to the show. Our parents encouraged this. They wanted us to rub up against something different, strange and welcome, but only for an instant, in the blink of an eye. “Love but don’t touch,” they said, “and don’t admit your love. It’s just a passing fancy.”
I chose the third wave of the set, gliding over water so aqua cool that every cut, bruise, and scar along the way faded into something I never was but am forever becoming. That night, gazing at the sea, I dribbled blood red wine down my shirt. It glowed like a birthmark in the fading sunlight, crystallizing focus in a quieter land, and the lapping waves told me that this
Emotional truth should never get a free pass. All too often, it’s a noisy intruder lashing out in blind frustration. It devotes endless hours to reconstructing bones in the desert in a vain attempt to reanimate an imaginary creature. When it thinks you’re a captive audience, it will usher you into its hail-damaged garden, assuring you that you’re always welcome, so long as you don’t stray too far from the
I dreamt last night green arms of grass rose-up and overtook the city. They call this wilderness sprawl. I dreamt last night animals of all kinds two by two stole into the cities and marched the humans back to secret dens to rehabilitate them in the ways of Earth. They call this humanitarian aid. I dreamt last night the stars and planets took to heart the sight of pollution, stench,
When all the starlings, robins, jays Have given up and gone to nest, The crows refuse the calling night, Defer the final rest. Over the waiting conifers They improvise an arabesque, A final celebration to The dying fire in the West. Like fighter pilots when flight was new, Over the field they chase and dive, Rise like ash from an unseen fire, Circle like everything alive. The second ending, it’s
