On my father’s house
three slaves and six horses
died when the old stable blazed
a  century and a half ago,
and three union and
two confederate soldiers
slayed each other
in a forgotten skirmish
a few years later.
Their skeletons were found
two years after the war
under an uprooted white pine.
The county let the field return to forest,
except for the old stable.

My father, a nonresident,
cut a dirt road through
the upper quarter,
built a cottage house
over the old stable,
a gate house fifty yards leeward
with a pond in back
and a large windowed manor
that cut a wing between
earth and sky
just beyond
at the edge
of the rocky wrack line to the bay.

Until the houses settled in,
the earth screeched its pain
and revealed its ossified sorrows.
After years this plot
finally  accepted his tranquility.  

My father died and was cremated
far away from this adopted place,
He  returned only because
his will demanded
his celebration of life
take place here.

Except for the family,
who undutifully held
onto their allotted share
of his ashes, the attending
mutes, sobers, wailers and criers
faithfully flung
his cremains in the breeze.
They watched, cried,
bemoaned and wailed
as every speck
refused to settle
and blew out to the bay.

from East to West a pain without name, something inescapable, like the girdle of caskets, like a corpse. we struggle with what seems to be mostly an idea - the dimensions of the body, with the memory of the skin, with the history of contracting our bellies and puking our dreams. this world covered by layers, textiles, invisible armours, self-imposed absences. tears crushed by violence, by laughter, after all it was not that bad, they say. we carry so many tears that we are heavier than air, lighter than our tormentors, sillier than our dreams
crushed words, crushed voices, empty meanings for the unraveled selves. i write only a chronicle of this time devouring its fragments

𝙰𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕
𝚂𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝
𝙳𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢
𝚂𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑

𝙰𝚝 youth 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕
𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜
𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝙰𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢
𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎
𝙶𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖
𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝙰𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢
𝙴𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙
𝙰𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕
𝚂𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍

𝙰𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕
𝚂𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝
𝙳𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢
𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑

I was in 4th grade at
Hubble Elementary.
Eddie Van Patten was
in 6th grade.
He was a big kid, even
for a 12-year-old.
He had a bowl cut,
and freckles.
Eddie was a  
troublemaker,
but he never  
bothered me.

One bitter cold
January afternoon,
he slipped on a  
patch of ice,
hit the back of
his head and died.
Mr. Maguire, the
gym coach said,
It was the occipital bone.
We were all told
to feel the back of  
our heads.
The coaches' eyes
didn't have that
sparkle anymore.

He said,
“You have to  
learn how to
fall, always protect
the back of your head.
If you don’t land right,
It can **** you.”

For the next
week, we practiced
tumbling and
learning to fall the
right way.
I was sad for
Eddie, but I wanted
to play dodgeball.

Emerald jealous eyes, over the dominion of the clock;
Unshackled by the chains of authority, for who can
Predict the beginning of time or the path it shall traverse?
Time, the ultimate liberator of existence, flows like water,
Shapeless yet potent, wielding an influence that touches
Every soul.

Time, the most cunning of thieves, robs any idea
Of having more time. It slips through fingers
Like sand, giving short nights; relentless demands
Of an overbearing master, giving us longer days.