the daily onslaught of bad news
permeates our hardened skin
it settles into our hearts
and makes the ache inescapable
on occasion there is a good thing,
a nice thing,
a ray of light
that diffuses the pain
but can’t take it away
some days we get through just fine
but other days
our best
is not enough.
the stink hanging in the air-
the pervasive rut of sadness that crawls
into your knees and hangs in your shins
like stones-
the toxic wave of anxiety
that creeps into your muscles
like an ache you were fucking born with-
the stink of helplessness,
the stink happiness left rotting in its shadow,
that fucking stink-
this rain needs to wash that shit away
because we
are suffocating
Like water through a sieve
your thoughts trickle out,
leaving nothing as the hot summer heat
fills your head and your mouth.
Sweat drips down your back,
slack faced-
eyes glassed over-
stuck in place-
the world almost goes black,
then the tight whine of a mosquito rings in your ear,
the present snaps into focus,
raucous cicadas and oppressive heat,
the day’s beginning
at your feet.
in one, two, three
out one, two, three
your fingers itch for a cigarette
that ancient comfort
still tugging at your heart and lungs
in one, two, three
out one, two, three
your feet itch to get moving
but there’s nowhere to go
all you can do is wait and breathe
in one, two, three
out one, two, three
steady yourself
and remember
that the world
will keep on turning
Have you ever plucked out your own heart
and felt it still beating
and taken a bite?
As your own blood cascades from your lips
you realize that despite this
you are still living.
It’s a pocket of sunlight
through an old, weathered window,
dappling warm and inviting on the bedspread,
an easy place to spend a waking dream.
It’s a storm at night,
rumbling thunder singing low and captivating,
as the pitter patter of the rain
echoes in the dancing shadows on the wall.
It’s a warm winter morning
with glittering snow between the trees,
the dusting of white lustrous and fresh
burying the secrets
of all the days before it.
I was buried.
Trapped in my own darkness,
watching slivers of light come and go,
too disoriented and tired to chase them.
Suddenly,
the dirt fell away from my eyes;
realizations became understanding
and the light didn’t seem so far away.
For the first time,
it was easy to stand up
and reach toward the sun.
The house I grew up in and the swing set in the yard, the lid of the sandbox colored with marker to look like a giant pumpkin
in the town I attended college and the nature preserve behind it, the walking trails bursting with the smell of green life under the light of a full moon
the beach near my apartment in Los Angeles, the smell of sunscreen and salt, and the bluffs of Palos Verdes overlooking a sparkling ocean
the crowded, bustling streets of New York City, decorated with lamplight, no stars in sight, and soft snowfall melting in my hair
on Gramma’s porch, where she would tell me about chickadees and sing A Bushel and a Peck, feeding me chocolate covered graham crackers or popsicles
the theater in LA where I spent hours in rehearsal, selling tickets, and partying until the early hours of the morning, the smells of cigarette smoke and sweat hovering in the doorway
a house my aunt no longer owns, where we had dozens of Thanksgivings and Christmases, carving our names in the foam exterior of the air return in the basement
the house my Pépé built, with its glass doorknobs and pine paneled walls, and late summers picking blueberries from the bushes around the pond
in the heart of a friend I haven’t seen in half a decade, who lives in a city I’ve never been to, without whom life hasn’t been the same-
Pieces of my heart lie in memories and loves, lost feelings and burning hopes,
they are the sum of my scattered soul.
I miss early morning showers, walking through brisk air,
and the first cup of coffee in the office before anyone else gets in.
I miss the hustle of the city, hurrying to catch a train,
laughing with friends while running to get out of an unexpected downpour.
I miss quiet, dirty bars,
with tipsy bartenders and bad karaoke singers in the back.
I miss sunny walks through the park,
seeing endless amounts of dogs and people laying out on blankets.
I miss the city at night,
pools of light on street corners and the soft cooing of sleepy pigeons.
I miss ten minute train delays, waiting too long for an under-baked bagel,
I miss tripping into a puddle and shrieking when my pants get muddy,
I miss the quickening of my heart when I think I’ve lost my metrocard,
I miss the smell of street vendors even though I hate hot dogs,
and I miss the kindness of strangers, the reliance we have on each other.
I miss New York.
I miss my life.
There is something in my house.
They hide in the corners of my eyes
and disappear when I turn my head,
but the open cabinets and missing items
tell me they are real.
So if there is something in your house,
leave out a saucer of milk,
or a cup of honey now and then;
some of them like whiskey, others prefer cookies, some enjoy wine.
If there is something in your house,
even if you can’t see it,
perhaps especially if you can’t,
give them a gift.
These fairies, or goblins, or ghosts
will only return your beloved things
for a price.
