It’s been ages since we talked, and yet
my attempt to forget you always fails.
Your memory has me caught in its net.
I think of you when I chew my nails––
you know, I picked up that habit from you.
It’s you I think of when they play that song––
because I know that it made you cry too.
Don’t you agree that it’s been far too long?
I was thinking of you all the long drive,
wondering what the new year would bring on.
And though it was fine, and though I will thrive,
there’s a Great Emptiness now that you’re gone.
How can I believe that you –once my dear friend–
could depart with this awful, wordless end?
On Saturdays, Diana puts on shirts
that go way up to her neck, avoids skirts,
neglects to shave her legs, haunts the Bat Cave.
There, she challenges the bold and the brave
to tests of great skill –button mashing wise.
In every game, she flat-out beats the guys,
though speedster Barry will always blame lag.
Well, Wonder Woman doesn’t like to brag:
she just kicks ass once more for good measure.
Heroes must seize such rare days of leisure––
margaritas the best cure for a funk
(plus Clark Kent sings karaoke when drunk).
Sure, Sunday crime-fighting’s rough hung-over,
but justice is served ––and in heels moreover.
Water is the Great Connector–
it’s roughly seventy percent
of us, and the Earth’s surface.
The water you drank today
likely sustained a dinosaur
sixty-six million years ago.
Small wonder if our actions
ripple right through it:
the acid we dump into streams
comes back raining on our heads.
Small wonder if my voice
carries clear across the bay.
Waves are easy to overlook
because they start out small:
maybe we’ll be surprised when
the rising tide over-takes us all.
It is the resurrection and the life.
We talk of Jesus in his eggshell tomb,
and I make some snarky comment
about lost pagan holidays.
We talk about Jesus in an eggshell tomb,
pressing Him into the crook of two branches
remembering those lost pagan days
when the candy hunt was holy.
Pressing himself into the crook of two branches,
the Inventor hides the golden egg.
For this candy hunt is holy–
they must scale beanstalks and be giants.
The Inventor hides the golden egg,
and we scatter the rest to the four winds.
We must scale beanstalks and be giants
and think as craftily as our wisest ancestors.
(All the rest we scatter to the four winds)
Strange to be on this side of the game;
to think as craftily as my wisest ancestor;
to suddenly realize I’m in my twenty-first year.
Strange to be on this side of the game,
To witness this twentieth day, the fourth month;
To suddenly realize I’m in my twenty-first year.
When all I wanted was for magic to be real.
To witness this day and this month,
you must trace me back to a time
when all I wanted was for magic to be real;
when rabbits did lay eggs.
You must trace me back to a time
when I set magic aside.
Because rabbits never did lay eggs.
And friends never did keep promises.
When I set magic aside,
I grew down instead of up.
Friends really do keep promises:
saying something inscrutable.
I grow out instead of up.
The Inventor declaims.
Saying something in Russian,
the Healer laughs at us both.
The Inventor declaims,
and I make some snarky comment.
The Healer laughs at us both.
It is the resurrection and the life.
That tree outside my window
is tapping to get in–
and I don’t blame it.
That tree must be miserable.
Windblown, rained on,
and now unfortunately balding–
the warm glow of my lamp
must seem awfully inviting.
But this is no port-in-the-storm,
and that tree is no wayward ship.
Let it tap away all it wants.
I’m going to sleep.
I walk on ledges,
roaring traffic on one side,
arms outstretched and wobbling,
the cement curb for my guide.
Should I take the road less travelled?
Is it not favored for a reason?
Trample grass or brave the tar–
my coat’s not suited to the season.
I do not follow road signs
(traffic lights be damned!)
If I can’t commit to wandering,
I can ignore what they have planned.
The path ahead is fogged up;
I don’t see what it’s worth.
But I have a magnet in my nose:
I’ll sniff out which way is north.
I’ll walk my ledges
and get where I am going,
for destination is a thing
we have no way of knowing.
After “Dreams” by Langston Hughes
Discontent is coming, frozen with snow:
when dreams go, life’s a field frozen with snow.
We know enough of hate to safely say
Earth’s headed for heat death––frozen with snow.
During these dark times, we take our solace
from company, windows frozen, with snow.
We make guardians of small evergreens
and tall globular men frozen with snow.
Without, there are yet sly demons waiting,
snaring forests and lakes frozen with snow.
Not even the vestal hearth-fire can thaw
Hecate’s still-beating heart, frozen with snow.