In a former church
With friends
After a boozey train ride
A transient slide into
A magnificent side show
Of another's life
She want you to look into
The family bond
Of the performance
The beauty
Of the
Respondence
The glide on the way home

there’ll always be chaos inside of my life
I’m just being honest, I’m speaking my plight
I know that my body has suffered a lot
and my mental health tries to stick to the plot

the truth is, I’m broken in ways you don’t know
in languages foreign and places you’ll go
but I’ve seen the people, I’ve heard what they say
and made it a point that I won’t live that way

that chaos is painful, I already know
I’ll pick up my feet and I’ll go it alone
and if it gets heavy, I’ll let it all out
I’ll go back to nothing, and build me a house

Green is the color of the steps in shangril-a ,
The hue of peace in a troubled mind ..
The carpet of the valley floor and the rugged-
divide ..
The weeping willows of childhood fantasy
Tall grass bordering the waterway ,
Definitions along the walkways that lead me home ...

I remember it, you
not so much. No. 10 staples,
unused, I’ve brought them.
The store is still there. You said,
regularly, you didn’t want
to sell stationery your whole life.
Pencils end up lost, pens run out,
like a lot of things. The inevitability
of it smacks you like a migraine, I got it.

Soon we became stapled, painlessly,
together. The mossy green jumper,
mine, you wore it. Your knitted-by-grandmother
scarf, sunflowers, I wore
sometimes. Routines we made
ourselves, the right shade of tea,
word puzzles before bed.
All falling into place, a quiet click,
seamless.

Then, restless. Fidgety. A classic
different directions situation. Thankfully,
amicable. Just as seamlessly, clicked
apart. Now here, the staples, leftover
silvered remnants. Still boxed. Use them?
I could, but couldn’t. What was reduced
to stationery. Runs out like a lot of things.
Inevitable, I guess, I got it.

The novelty of this is
exquisite.
In my adult life, I've never gone this long without allowing another human to touch me.
A new concept
the next time it happens, it will mean something.

When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M