I wish for happiness.
I wish for peace.
I wish for love.
I wish for good health.
I wish for success.
I wish for a raise.
I wish for career.
I wish for school.
I wish for trust.
I wish for marriage.
I wish for children (someday).
I wish for...
the season has begun
and tonight was oh so fun
it was the first dinner of many
we had turkey a plenty
yet there was only one lone
i knew right then and there
and maybe it wasn't fair,
that i had to be the one to break
i had to be the one to make
a wish and hope for it to
so i grabbed one end
and it started to bend,
i couldn't believe my eyes
when in my hand was the bigger size
which means my wish about you
will possibly come true.
I wanted to tell you a story
To spill it out all before you
So you could put it back together
in a way it would all make sense
In the way I know only you can do
I know you, you know me,
How can it be, do you see?
I know you do, it's so true
You speak to my soul, you do.
i breathe out & the world is calm. we are standing waves in the sea. i am a long distance, a collection of lip movements, and all associated aches. you were a fleck of snow i barely even saw, and the ensuing onslaught of winter. plans turn around, often; we stick no closer to 'em than our moralities- i knew what i believed, just some other day: i believed i could roll out of the feeling of wakelessness that i'd thought you endowed upon my eyelids. you were prying them open, though, and i was the one at force. "sleep, my fears and doubts", i would call to myself -round midnight- "sleep and you may escape, or somehow come closer to what you're not sure if you seek".
but my plans, moralities and i, all ambiguous at best, changed. i can't pinpoint why. you said "maybe you can smell my dying, from all that way" i said i hoped not, that i could sense you but you just couldn't tell you were flourishing.
in the heat, i would make out daydreams like dialogue, spread sense like contrails: seemingly cohesive monuments to my bearing, left out to dissipate. snowfields on sunlit afternoons. but you, you you you you you, you stay heavy-stuck to the ground through cycling seasons. variation, only nondecreasing patterns in my everyday thought. inconsistence, only meaningful or meaningless. no pain, just ache all the same.
finally, in month's transitions, i found meaning (or its absence) and realised each was a facet of the other. that all facets were tiny jewels, set into the world, puzzle-piece mirrors set just. right., to reflect the gleaming bright pearl inset upon the other side of our tiny universe, each light another stroke of your portraiture, and i found longing: to find the unknown, through all things ordinary.
and you were, at once, more than a question-mark and the statement of my circles through days. you were the taste of waking, without sharp slice of reality. you were a mirror, hung in front of i, also reflecting; and i saw eternity unfold in us each. you were, and are still, peace on the shoreline. and i was, and am still, drowning, but i can make out sand on the horizonline.
so, i'll just keep afloat, if you can do the same.
so, i just won't go changin',
shine brighter with each passing day.
I always wanted to be
His story that lit the night on fire
While the blood ran from his veins
If only a wish
Then I'd be the one holding the bone
An make his final end
HOW BOUT THEM BONES BABY!!!
nothing more to be born of the ash
nothing more to be born of me
flesh stretching to give and exhale in giving
inhaling smoke and sweetness inhaling
my throat a museum of anniversaries
pain with meaning
revisiting grave sites of people still breathing
breath for screaming
washing the ghosts of your hands
out of my clothing
because loving is leaving
oil of your skin in the water from my eyes
running from feeling
these poisons my body is cleaning
senses left reeling
your touch still so appealing
your face so seldom appearing
What is prayer?
To a wishbone,
Make it snappy,
My dreamfields are nappy,
And lately I've been lacking a comb,
I guess that's okay,
For those who suffered every night and day,
Whatever makes your flowers bloom,
Whatever should sooth those scars and wounds,
I guess I'll never walk those shoes,
But do what you absolutely feel you need to do,
Take the pain and wash them away,
Rub the memories into the sea then run away,
All the torture you store in the genius chambers of your mind,
Will depart as long as you acknowledge that in time,
You are not alone,
Physically and spiritually,
Me and you will never die because our matter matters 'til infinity,
Till the universe expires we are here and always be,
Rubbing out our pain to the depths of the sea,
You ask me what I'd wish for if
I knew it would come true. I knew
it was true: you left me
to sleep out in the cold, dawn
hours and half a globe away.
If it meant I would receive frostbite,
shiver uncontrollably and turn cyanotic,
suffer hypothermia underneath the window
with the blinds closed and you
behind them shedding tears I cannot catch,
I would suffer. I did.
It reminded me of the Thanksgiving
my uncle had me grab the prong of a wishbone,
my best friend on the other side.
We made a wish and the horseshoe of ivory
cracked, and splintered into two pieces.
He got the larger half. I still kept my wish
hidden, hoping, that one day I'd meet you.
I would suckle the sorrow from your fingers,
wipe the tears and mascara with my cheek,
and croon to you I will change. I can change.
But, I must do that; and not for you.
Our love is like that wishbone. Every time
it breaks, we wish but do not work to see it through.
Holding things down
on my end, calibration
the name of the game
purchase gained and lost
longing for your exquisite
the length of this delicate glyph
grace and menace
in equal measure
on display across the bight
floored by your gaze
play of three fingers against
your effortless pinch
my feigned contortions
leavened by a finning
hand to ward off
the snap of lesser wishes.
Thursday night is game night but Hasbro
has never had this one right. Operation is not
a game for ages four and up–maybe four,
multiplied by four, add four, and up.
Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped,
and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table:
I like to start with the Adam's apple–
carve away any trace of my origins
and they will never figure out who I am
because, like my mother used to say to me,
who is Eve without a blameless man.
Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach
flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar
but they cannot be caught, only drowned.
Naturally, the broken heart follows
but the problem with pulling that out is
You know, the absence that predates writer's block–
writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the
(best kept) secret IV of an author.
Is that the price of filling up your bread basket,
going to bed full on recognition and reward
and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize?
Be careful not to trip up on your own ego
or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle
and water on the knee.
I still have to deal with the wishbone,
the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone.
And finally, I have the spare ribs
but I just might leave those there
because we see what happened when God
bothered to remove those the last time.