i knew what it felt like to be a ghost,
or an earthbound flower,
all information, all the time
on these matters: doxing and politics,
when that is all we absorb in our bones.
where the oatmeal ran cold
below contemporary jazz notes
and a vase full of roses.
here were also books in layers
onioned out over our wooden shelves.
and dying temptation had me
money in my pockets–full,
rich like those other in-tune saps,
unwanting and vainglory lame,
found doing the same ways,
for another 8 years with no change.
then i read through it entirely,
a children’s book saved me.
Fox In Socks again, very closely, and smiled,
we don’t do that enough;
it’s lonely at the top,
it’s quiet at the top,
other people hate the top–what hate(?).
humor, the distasteful, slop.
i think about time and how it escapes me,
i think if i could make it stop
and smell the fancied spring flowers
i’d want to make it start again.
i’d know that they were never really there.
modern days of trials and errors
never let you live it down;
beauty never seen, a flower underground.
Thanks for giving.
I am thankful for everyone around.
Cars lined the streets, loved ones meet and greet-this is no funeral.
We live in this small town.
Glasses to blind the light, glasses to cheers, to the night.
Get things right, sit in the seat of that car.
The sun spoke in a confusing way.
She said hello and was gone the next day.
Sharing stories while we ate.
Unseasonably warm, an unseasonable holiday, heat unseasonably late.
Laughing while talking, reminiscing on those who have gone.
They can no longer make it in the flesh.
The herd, stretched tired, rests, then moves on.
God or common sense?
Much respect, but this is the present tense.
Hence, I closed the book before the fiction got me entrenched.
I don’t speak to those of blood on religion and politics.
Whatever I was, I shrug.
What I used to be.
The rest of your life begins right now.
They don’t see me enough, they don’t see me at all.
Food more plentiful, but who will finish what we’ve left when we are full?
I wonder, others?
No place like this on earth, so small, so quaint, we come from the dirt.
Only to be buried in it, all the land covered in snow and frost for months.
Love this lovely bunch.
Daily a memory is lost.
Driving around in my mother’s car listening to Prof, the girls at the store notice and I smile as they wave.
I come back seldom, just enough to make it seem real.
I fly back to where I am a transplant, and life ticks by.
We all wonder, I wonder if we ever wonder why.