I saw you today,
behind the page of a book you sat
hair tied back in a tight pony,
legs crossed in black leggings
corderoy red dress and bomber jacket.
But I knew better than to say hello.
We’ve been there before, and you
looked like you were doing just fine
sitting alone, reading quietly
commuting to work
or whatever it is you do now.
She examines her shoulders
her breasts, each time
she comes exposed from the
cool chlorinated water.
She’s aged but not old, tan
but not that dirty brown leather type
lifting her arms to slick back her hair,
each gesture is strategically planned
as not to exhibit the slightest idea
of wrinkles or tear of stretched skin.
It’s important for her to feel young, almost essential.
It’s as clear as the ripples of water she leaves behind
as she folds to the comfort of a faded maroon lounger, the
heat of the sun slowly dries the beads of water
which spider like tears upon her olive thighs,
and disappear into the fading afternoon.
It is always evident
that harbored resentment,
like the sharp bite of a cavity
it comes and goes depending,
and like a hole in the tooth
digging deeper, it spreads
into the root like a cancer,
with no more reason than
that shit happens, and happens
and will continue to bloom
like the wakening of Spring
or an Autumn river bed
so isn’t it evident, when
it is time to let that harbored resentment
set sail back into the open vacant sea.
I was holding on to you, not out of fear but rather routine, unaware that I was hurting you more than I.
That’s till I let you go, completely.
And we took off like two hares in a turtle race.
It takes routine maintenance sometimes, to fix the broken parts, and make them work together again.
That’s when you let me go,
completely.
And we finished like two turtles splitting hairs over wine.
I look at his wrist
it reads:
be. here. now.
and for a second dwell,
what a way to be.
Laughing loudly over stranger conversation, we shoot whiskey then wash them down with pickle juice.
Later I gaze at my face in the mirror
it reads:
be. here. now.
but I do not dwell.
Finally, I am here.
the older I get —
the more smiles I see
the more frowns I disregard —
the more I grow
to appreciate
resting bitch face
and the people
I’ve known who’ve sported
it not being their choice
but simply their face —
and all the times I never should have said a thing.
When someone
somewhere
or something
is making you
tired and mean
sluggish or obscene
pale, green, or just
downright dead inside
it’s more than a sign
to seek,
alternative grass
that is in fact
greener
in times like these.
Fill your life
with the people
who will fill your prose
with fire.
I told you once, I tell myself again —
Write.
With.
Fire.
The palm trees sounded like palm trees
and the sun was in his eyes,
there really wasn’t all that much else to say.
So he kept reading his book about nothing
and fiddled with his silly poem’s,
until the sun dipped behind the rooftop.
With sleep in her eyes, she lifted her head, and said,
it was a good day…and he agreed.
It was a good day.
Every thought is vital, so while I find myself
on the verge of another vital breakdown,
at least this time I’m in control,
creatively speaking,
so that’s got to count for something.
If not, I’ll be pushing daisies by morning,
or at least I’ll be a mourning dove, lying in their virtue.
Words Of An Average White Male 