People debate free will
and no matter the context,
I pay little attention.
I will go on and watch tree branches
and flowers as the wind pushes them
this way and that.
I will stir a pot of simmering sauce
until it is ready.
I will kiss my love hello and goodbye.
I don’t know if these things are
ordained or a whim
but they’re mine and I’ll hold them
like a beautiful fallen leaf, colorful
and about to disintegrate into winter.

A lazy concrete path
half covered in weeds
leading to a bent stoop
with a loose step
and an old railing
about to let go

The sighing terror of evenings
smelling of mothballs and cigar,
feeling sticky like
an overdue rainstorm
all to the sound of
crackling spam in a pan

The depths of despair
at least a few years away
alongside a stripped mountain
with nothing but ash and beer bottles
and oh cigarette butts everywhere
as they talk about the penny candy store
as if it was utopia

You know without looking
the house has brown shag carpeting
and faux wood paneling
like a spelunker’s purgatory
and all you can do is hope
to find a decent rock to hold onto

One last chili dog
and the town is history
and your history
becomes something you’ve overcome
and not gotten stuck in.

There are some days
where nothing moves,
no wind, no birds, no blooming,
no music. All is still.

Thoughts then become
basic, simple, connecting
breath to a blade of grass,
a dying star.

I cling to the memory
of flight, knowing
there will be days full
of dancing and sun again.

Contemplating waffles
wondering why they’re magical
and what is the ideal:
the weight, the fluffiness, the level
of toastiness, the crevices,
the ratio of syrup to butter
and what makes it ideal for you versus me;
It could be his body
or her mind
or the dream of flight
of course it could be something else
unmentionable, terrible, beautiful
but it could be something small
like the flight of a ladybug
or big like architecture of a castle
and it could just be
a waffle.

They made a mess
inside, in the quiet late night
while outside the window,
rocks held steady, stacked and layered
waiting to let go too.

Years of wind through the valley
have made the tears flow more easily,
rivulets like soft rain.

It’s a night full of hushed stars
and unspoken dreams.