Sunday, October 15, 2017

January 20, 2017

Blue Autumn

Ever since then,
it goes like this.

We eat. We sleep.
Sometimes we dream
before getting up
and losing the thread.

We walk the same steps
to the bathroom,
the sink.
We sit down
We rise.
The floorboards creak.

We reach for our phones,


and free fall down holes without any roots.
Ghost walk through mirrors which enlarge and distort.
On rooftops patroled by wolves in wolf clothing,
we sit on adrenaline and wait. some. more.


Why this grief we've invited
that's just within reach?

Trump. Puerto Rico. Mass shooters and "balance."
Nuclear war. The first amendment. Environmental armageddon.

Ire comes early. Shock, then despair.
Because—none of it's as shocking as it was last year.

We put the stone in our pocket,
get ourselves off to work.

Back home, tucked in bed, we dread
what's in store for our children's kids.
Wonder at the blitheness
with which we gifted them life.
Would we change it?
No. But it's a thought.

And yet
the most of us—
we do keep our heads.
We've adjusted—roughly—to
the nightmare we live,
ears barely ringing from the blanket alarms,
eyes blindly scanning for the next savior
or devil.

Denial—oh yeah. But only in spurts.


Oh, Obama. Hope is changed.

For fear's made us children
in our abuser's house
and hope is most dangerous
when the tyrant is scared.

And yet, what I want
on this crisp, Sunday morning
that seems, by all appearance, so ordinary
is for someone to cover
my screen with their hands
and to say:

"I don't know, either,
baby bird, little lamb.

But it's autumn outside.
All the things—they're changing again.

Point your finger out there,
to the ones you can touch.

Take the roof off the sky—
see how high we can jump."

Friday, October 6, 2017


The insects are settling down

Their chatter is losing its vehement sexual edge

that need to be close to one like ourself—
a cry in the night
now squeezed by the throat

Delirious, they asked too much of the summer 
and summer obliged them, sending all her confections 
to the lilies and the valleys they preyed upon 
where everynight was a feast to completion,
a sigh of the sword passing straight through the heart, 
chain metal bursting, like blossoms in heat

You kings and you queens,
you knights and vassals 

Now bats—
the phantom marauders of autumn—
circle the skies overhead

and I watch their ballet

as they pluck the feckless heathens of August 
into their mouths   
without breaking speed

their madness an engine timed out to the minute 
the silence enthralling, 
the hum within  

So the moon, white and fat, 
parts her trees like a bride
in mourning again

So the leaves and I tremble,