There are
just
some days
you
cannot
write.

We dryly sweat when she with maiden tongue
Rebukes with haste the wicked ways of men
For all do writhe and feel most tort'rous stung
When from calm lips eschew our mortal sins

Are we not well equipped to follow rules?
When now the forms of long ago return
And look to us who do not come as fools
For time and heart require no subtle burn

But ne'er was one brought down too far from grace
To cry from fear alone with need to flee
For deepest cuts spur us to upward race
And that which does not **** will make us free

When deep within our souls we still believe
That curse of hope is still our best reprieve

I used to think the earth was round,
but now I see it's not:
It's just the flatness of the ground
and greyness of the sky.

Once I thought that I was right.
How wrong I was indeed!
All that's left is one dark night
which echoes quiet by.

And from unseen what matters most?
I do not know or care.
Such abstractions cannot boast
any more than lies.

For some reason, it’s a crime almost these days to care about things
and get emotional
at the state the world is in—it seems that most would have
apathy be a virtue
and would declare that caring
leads only to a Weltschmerz of the most abominable sort.

But I say different.
I say there are some things worth crying for,
and I see rain coming down every day.

I see rain coming down in big & little drops,
hard rain
soft rain
never-ending rain that comes from all directions
it makes puddles and muddles the umbrellaless,
ruining hair and suits

It doesn’t just rain on the just and the unjust
It just rains and rains and rains and rains
It rains fire and it rains blood
It rains bullets and people die and ****
and nobody gives a ****, which is really
a sort of rain itself, you know?

And the water runs in torrents
it forms streams off of mountains
collects in basins
becomes rivers and salvation-lakes
and ponds with Lilly pads where
more than sorrows are drowned.
(It rains in open windows, too.)

And then there are the ******* oceans,
a whole other problem all together

It just rains and rains and rains and rains.

and with all that water pouring down,
it’s worth (from time to time)
a little water
of our own.

scars are love and memory from the world
which (though oft accused of indifference)
does care enough to pierce the skin

not the broken glass
not the rusty nail
not the bedspring from an old mattress
or the handsaw that slipped
or the edge of the coffee table to a wobbly toddler
not the knife
or scissors
too blunt at first - but try, try again

not the careless indifference of others
made manifest in flesh

or the million failures headaches heartaches
sicknesses
tears

no, pain never forgotten is formed
on brain and skin

just like cheeks flushed, heart pounding, sweat-dripping
you make your move and are checkmated by a far
more skilled opponent-- it doesn't take much

feel something if you try
feel alive and awake and know

that somebody loves you, and remembers
just like your skin.

I hide behind soft words that grievous be,
make off unkempt to light the night with soul;
far-flung from here I dream unstoppably,
and ne'er return since seas I roam be gold.

Disparaged art for insight into life,
held polystryrene virtue to the fire,
'til melted and deformed the mass took flight,
and 'fumed the scene as if a toxic pyre.

Jesting at the mere hint that iambs soothe,
flame-lick our arms and tongues with what's outside;
no balm of couplets nor prose peace pursues
peripety awash in orange jibes.

While under hoodies, shaggy hair and pearls,
a futile ******* blunder fickle whirls.

The ground's still cold at the end of May,
And all I want is another day.
Winter will come far too soon,
As middays lapse into afternoons.

Crickets tweet despite the dark,
And I don't run though all dogs bark.
You never know what's past the trees,
As Betelgeuse glimmers too faint to see.

Hacking out verses numbingly hones
That strange sad effort to make here home.