My desk is never clean.
pipes and wads of paper
broken pencils and half full glasses of water
a mostly finished bottle of wine.
the cork is lying around here somewhere
my wax melter spilled little candles
and there is a thin layer of kief under my mat.
I do everything here
with a rolling chair I found
I'm not sure where anymore
draped coat arms dance when I spin around
in the chair, swinging up to say hello
to me, pen in hand,
a fresh glass of water to soon join the others
and a lamp that is too bright for my eyes
tonight I am
bound to howl.
this moon, risen
to unearth this
beast from within,
who's laid claim
to its throne
in the darkness
of stars, suns
blinking forever away
in that place
I once loved,
a place I
should never return.
You lean into these curves
like we were going faster
down these one lane back-roads.
My dog, Moon, curled on some coats
beside me in the back.
My window cracked, cold, keen air
sweeps my hair, a breeze of
kisses like a natural
mother spreading aloe
on my sunburns. We blaze on,
winding through twists and turns.
The road is out there. Trust me.
The surface of the water at Garrett Lake
is a ballroom floor, the bluest of hardwoods.
Hiding itself within its leafy forest green walls, which
if looked upon closely, one would swear you can see the woods.
We blazed a trail past a fallen trunk,
presumably lightning struck
whose roots had twisted
into the shape of a moose
fallen to sleep or endure breathe no more,
past the row of trees split
by the trail. One side
Life, the other death.
We found our way to an elder pine
who wanted to be a pier
and dove down so we could
sit upon him, no longer on land,
legs dangling like a chandelier above the ballroom.
We float this concrete river
as trees go about their day around us
Visitors, we are just passing through
to nowhere in particular.
What we seek we may never find
or even recognize.
Still, we paddle on,
subconscious cartographers exploring
every fork we come across
finding our way home.
We are the guilty, who didn't act.
Those who sat and didn't fight.
Those who hid or followed orders.
We let our parents die.
We, who inherited the revolution,
Silent children, veiled in shadows
Lying in our graves, ready for our shot.
The other night as I swept round a fire
I noticed the cruel end,
That abandoned mane of straw
With no handle on it
Tossed, deserted, ablaze under the unrelenting roof of sticks
Lit to burn these fallen limbs and warm my cold self.
Ignited, I can see
That all things end and live
Again like my mother does
Her arms outstretched, chasing me through the kitchen
To pull into her warm embrace
A young boy, pretending to help.