Poems
are
just
outlets

Let’s Make it Real

What if the left
got along with the right?
And the right respected the left?
Imagine if the world were our hands,

to cut off one would make
the life of the other one seem almost
unbearable. They’re used interchangeably,
even when we have a predominant

one. I want to envision
a less polarized world,
a world we love and respect one another,
a world that is kind, that is

understanding and tolerant
of differences. What if we lived
in a place where there was peace,
no fighting or protesting

in the streets? What if we were
as our hands? Open to the idea?
We can make it happen.
Let’s make it real.

I don't think about it any more
I take out the trash
noting
Sticks caught in the crotch of a tree
The wind does what the wind does
breaks weaker branches down
does not care where
it leaves
them
on its invisible way

Days do what the days do
they don't count themselves
worthy as they go
to release
the afternoon
to evening—
an artless
emptying
to a low spot
where tears tend to pool
if I'd let them down

“You know,
in that low spot
out there...?”
Where it's hard to see
Where its hard to care?

They take heart
out
divide it by energy
for sadness—
I haven't got

Watched the clock go round
wipe out my little plans
with relentless hands

...and I never got dressed today

The sun strikes my eyes
As I turn my head, left
To look out
The ***** window.

And it suddenly
Hits me.

Searing my eyes
With pain.

Blinding my mind
With white magical light.

At that moment
I think...

No...
I don't think.

I simply close
My eye lids
And with my mouth
I smile.

The widest smile-
The corners of my lips
Reaching my cheeks.

And I breathe.
Breathe and beam.

Enjoying this moment.

The sun
And me.

Here on planet earth
we’re all
‘B’ Movie Makers
marketing inanity
flirting with insanity
breaking down reality
seeking peas we cannot see
When we search beneath the cup
we find that
only empty space and air
fill it up

"But what if we're wrong?"
It was silent
But her thoughts echoed around in my head as we laid on top of her pickup truck
I swatted at the eighteenth mosquito chewing on my leg
I don't want this to be love

We were tangled up in the acoustic music they play on the radio on Sunday mornings
She was trying to dream up something clever to write about
And I was pretending I could learn to play guitar through osmosis,
As if blending myself in with the harmonies, finding her in every lyric, and sheer willpower would give me wings or at least magic guitar hands

She set the alarm, checked it over and over
She was not going to be late for her first day
I told her I'd be asleep when she got home, she told me she knew
I told her to wake me up

I wasn't looking for perfect
Perfect really only applies in first year physics courses
After that, we learn to fall in love with "rough around the edges" or "unique" or "unfinished"
As if their life is a puzzle that we need to complete
Just so you know, it isn't

She bought me breakfast and dropped me off
She used to tell me she loved me, but I know she didn't
She does now, so she doesn't have to say it anymore
When I said, "love," before, I didn't really mean it
Not like I mean loving the garden on the balcony of her apartment or thunderstorms in May
Even if I was a puzzle that she completed (and I'm not saying that I am), we didn't need any glue to fit perfectly