Patience and Surrender

Most things can’t be unsaid,

though in my heart—

under the mess I’ve made—they

can be understood, in time

with patience and surrender.

I’ll always surrender.

I just haven’t got the skin,

I just haven’t got the heart

not to know better.

November 28 2020

Insomnia: A Short Story

The television’s on.

It’s freezing in here.

I should probably be asleep, but I’m not.

It’s 4:53. It’s always 4:53, when, click, the heat turns on.

Now the draft from the window’s competing with the dull heat, which smells like last years dust, pouring through the vent, above the door, which leads to the living room where the TV’s still on.

In about an hour the sun will be up and it will be another morning.

I can’t tell yet whether or not I’ll be excited or scared, but either way, I have to write my grandmother—thanking her for the letter she sent a couple days prior—she used to fill the cards with glitter but doesn’t anymore…

Perhaps there’s a glitter shortage, I don’t know.

I’ve been pulling my beard out again, which I don’t like, but still do. Why? A doctor would probably claim it’s nerves but by this point in life I know better than that.

It’s funny really, thoughts, how they come and go as easily as a hair can be plucked from your chin.

If I had eggs in the fridge I’d probably boil some for breakfast but I don’t have any because yesterday while shopping I’d debated prices in my head for what seemed like too long to be debating prices of eggs, causing an uncomfortable feeling I just couldn’t shake, making me anxious and aware that I’d been standing in the isle for what seemed like eons though was probably only a couple minutes, still, too long to be debating whether or not I wanted to pay 2.39 or 2.99 for a dozen of eggs.

The heat feels good now, while the right side of my face warms up, the left side is still dealing with the draft from the window.

Common sense tells me to close the window though my better judgement says to just let it be. What’s the point, really?

It’s 5:06 now. It’s always 5:06.

The repetitive nature of this statement keeps recurring in my mind as if the idea isn’t fully mine, though I use it anyway.

Perhaps it’s my conscious mind coming back to me? Perhaps it’s programming I just don’t have the strength to deny, either way…whatever.

It’s 8:08 on the East Coast. My mother’s probably pouring coffee, reading the morning news. My brother’s probably already dragged himself from bed and into work. My nephew’s to school. My sister-in-law to her studio where she makes jewelry from metal and her imagination.

Their routine gives me comfort because right now I don’t have one.

This pandemic has us all in a pretty weird state of affairs, though, my affairs have always been pretty weird now that I think about it.

At least I’m writing again. That’s good.

Everything is pretty all right right now—knock on wood.

And what if this is as good as it gets? Hog wash.

At least it’s warm in here, closing the window, watching the sun rise.

My nail beds are long. I’ve always been told that. “You’ve got piano hands,” they said once, go figure, I don’t play—if I did this would probably make for a better story though, well, you know.

Turning off the TV seems irrational as it’ll just get turned on again tonight, unless, unplugging the TV—Ah! That’s better.

Insomnia, it’s the breakfast of champions.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the letter.

A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.

Today the time ran out

just as it had begun—

Hot water fills the tub

you swore you’d never become—

It’s warm and shallow now

cut servings for only one—

The echo down the hall, well

that’s just yesterdays love—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

Today the moon refused

to trade place with the sun—

Sidewalks full of people

but still you know only one—

It’s an impossible force

that drags you from yourself—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

I try, you know I do, to balance

fault lines and faith, the surgeons

steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—

It’s a symphony of simple things

that will seem eclipsed by the sun—

Cause it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

California, 2020

Alone, together

Where are we

but forever

Alone, together

in the cosmos

of our love.

Austin’s Iced, 2020

The boy who cried gently to the wolf.

You can sense it you know,

yourself shutting down—again

with the change of scenery, again

with the change of heart.

It’s like trying to stop a freight train

running yourself empty, till

all there is is but to explode.

It’s a very empty place to be living.

It’s a very empty place to be born.

It’s a beautiful fall day, though, isn’t it?

Isn’t it beautiful, this

in depth exhibition of yourself—

without the guts, with all the answers

and nothing all that good say.

Again, another Fall. 2020

Victims

But there are no victims here,

just prisoners of choice,

who wear recycled smiles,

and boil inside.

Somewhere between 2011-2013

You just have to live.

Being sober’s

as overrated

as being drunk—

nobody wins.

You just have to live.

The Devil to one is God to another.

The Devil to one

is God to another.

It’s a cycle continued

that is, until

we stop looking to the sky,

stop burying our trauma,

and look our neighbor

dead in the eye,

without retaliation or judgement

and listen, to one another’s heart

which beats to the same rhythm

as a newborn babe

that is, until

birth begins

its earthly decay.

Consciousness

If you’re not sure

then pause, wait

and listen to the sounds

of conscious—nothing—ness.

Muse

The volume of the moon

I was never ready

but always willing,

unable to refuse

the volume of the moon.

Morning. Key West. 2020