Swinging and snapping
In my dream, Bing Crosby
asked if I’d rather be a fish
(the birds were crying “No!”)
and we sort of tap danced
over a plywood hillock
while a paper moon swung
dangerously low.
I felt warm and excited
at the prospect of being part
of a musical number
with the man with the pipe.
He beat me, of course,
and I awoke sweating and snapping
my fingers, wishing for a smoke.
what can we wish for?
a small death
led to a month of plastics
before the wind took over
and called the rain
to herald the most lovely month
(I couldn’t bear it)
the sun bled a little
before sparks made night
as thrilling as the fishing hole
held away the next day
a chill made the trees dreamy
as death grew close again
but we celebrated just the same
sun is beckoning
but I am woefully trapped
and cannot be reached
A June miracle
We saw the same street
with wildly different eyes.
Hers were sharp like an eagle’s
and mine were soft like a foggy day.
She didn’t like how I stood;
she preferred I lay down and take it
like she always had, no matter the man.
I only wanted direction from someone
who knew stars, not just smoke.
She was vaguely aware of miracles
but only as real as cartoons on a cereal box.
I got frustrated at her inability
to acknowledge how rain
washes away the day’s filth.
She would say, “it’ll come back again.”
And I understood because that’s why
I don’t make my bed most days.
When we’ve laughed,
it’s mostly been about how the world
is shit and people are shit
and things break all the time so why not
eat and smoke and take all because
fuck, it’s not going to end well, is it?
When she handed me the June petals,
I was still leaking afterbirth
but there was no embarrassment, only
a memory of a candlelit nave
cradling a stained glass rose.
The Word Rummager 