1996

Your quilt, one of many

Stitched with tears, bakes in sunshine

National Mall grass

Ghost Knife – Two tankas

I had forgotten
the sharp knife of loneliness
that carves grey into
flesh, bone, leaving gaping holes
Nothing fills them. Nothing. Nothing.

 When will I remove
my wedding band? When you stop
ignoring my words.
Searching for why, for answers
to questions I never asked.

Air Brakes Cranks

One more thing you took when you left:
Simple pleasure of turning the cranks.

The shop smells of rubber
sweat, molten metal, grease
crowded with every kind of
bicycle possible
standing in racks on the floor
suspended from the ceiling
leaning against each other
in a beautiful disarray
of type, size, color, purpose.

Jersies, vests, shorts, bibs
socks, gloves, shoes, clips
water bottles, bottle cages
tubes, tires, pumps, wheels
tools, levers, lights
baskets, panniers, racks.

Helmets.

So much joy in this little shop
Another home, back then
in the beginning
in the middle. 

Now?

In the aftermath of the end?

When lava tears fall
melting
choking
obliterating
friend and enemy alike?

 It is just another place.

Alienation.

Anomie.

Upheaval.

I leave, without buying anything
without saying a word.

Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Who the Fuck are You Anyway?

I can’t see you Friday,
I’m Busy.

 Maybe we can spend time together
SaturdaySundayMondayTuesdayWednesdayThursday
Perhaps Next Friday?

 No. I’ll be Busy then, too.

And Every Day After That.

Click.

With a click of the phone
my world went dark.
Everything that had ever happened
everything that ever happened before
everything ever ever after that moment:

Commentary.

 Every action, rote, pointless.
Icicles form from my breath
shackles of meaningless guide me
dying to know why.

The Sky is Falling

The meteor shower was fierce and beautiful.
Fiery rocks streaked across sky
Red-gold-orange rainbow, howling
landing somewhere beyond.
There would be ruins in the landing:
Craters, fires, the dead.

 Where we were, miles from the edge
of the city, we gazed up up up
raptured by glitter trails.

Someday, those fierce rocks will land,
devastation will be our death.
But that day was not today
had not been yesterday
and likely would not be tomorrow.

 We stare at the showers of sparkles
listen to the howl shattering pitch
feel the sparks as they rain down
on our hair, cheeks, outstretched hands
a fast, yet gentle sprinkling.

 No, not today, not yesterday, not tomorrow.
But soon, sooner than we can plan for.
We were children, and we were ignorant.