when you get to the bottom of a big, tricky hill
and you have no idea
how the fuck you’re getting over it
take a deep breath
look it in the eye
and say, “eat my entire ass!”
then start climbing
because that’s the only way to get to the other side
reach
reach out like you always have
stretch and wiggle your fingers as you search
feel the muscles in your arm become taut as you struggle
pushing with your shoulder, you try harder
and your muscles start to scream as you force them
to keep reaching, stretching further
to continue going forward, until
even your fingertips
vibrate with the strain
you reach out like you always have
but now, what you search for isn’t there
and no matter how much effort you expend
and no matter how many times you try
there is nothing
and you remain
empty
a stupid little poem
sometimes I think that poetry has to be big
that it needs to be existential or ground breaking
that it should be about one of the Big L’s:
life, liberty, love, loss
and that my dumb little poems aren’t poetry at all
but then I remember that in the end, everything’s fucking made up
from words to history to modern society
so I wrinkle my nose and write another stupid little poem
just because it makes me happy
in the wake of Jack Frost
it’s a glittering, slushy mess out there
white winter sunlight melts snow mounds into endless puddles
and snowmen into shapeless piles
it glimmers across snow packed by hundreds of feet
and sparkles through ice covered branches
the crowds shuffle silently
and the birds are all asleep
even the frigid winds have stopped whistling
but the quiet of this chilly morning
is broken
by the drip, drip, drip of dirty icicles
a fucking poem
f u c k
ready
there’s this itch
I feel it in my fingers and my toes,
reverberating with every heartbeat
the urge to get up and go, to drive without destination,
to wander crumbling sidewalks until you’re so turned around you don’t know which way is up,
to visit friends and places we miss so deeply we can feel the ache in our bones;
this insatiable itch isn’t just in my body anymore,
it’s in the air, now, too
infiltrating our waking thoughts and sleeping dreams
until it is vibrating within us-
For now, we can do nothing but sit around
trying to convince our feet to stay still a little longer
as we wait
for the world to change
poison
every time I sit down to write
the words come out angry and sad
like all the poison in my heart and my head
is leaking out of my fingertips
staining everything it touches
and I feel like nothing will be clean again
the things that we carry
I’ve been lugging around a ton of rocks.
The boulders settle solidly in my stomach and my heart,
the smaller stones weigh down my cheeks
making it impossible to smile,
and pebbles grind together under my eyes,
blocking tears that are desperate to fall;
All I can think to do
is tear myself apart
digging with cracked fingernails
through muscle and organs and sinew
until the last offensive chip of stone
lies in a bloody puddle on the floor
and I am wholly bared, naked and free.
Joni Mitchell was right
I wanted to write something nice about Christmas
but this year was stranger and sadder than any I can remember
and despite bright decorations and cheery holiday music
it doesn’t feel merry at all
and I wish I had a river, too
to skate far, far away on,
to try and find some of that peace and joy all the songs speak of.
Perhaps next year
will be brighter.
the politics of 2020
tighten your purse strings again and again
pull those velvet cords until they bruise the necks of those beneath you
choking the life out of your unwanted poor
and then find yourself standing atop a mountain of blood money
with no one left to pour your seven dollar iced coffee.
