Wednesday, February 22, 2017

sunshine

Sunshine died in January,

the first time i lost something
i was supposed to protect.
the first time this bible of recovery 
failed 
and i sat with my broken religion, 
and tried to make sense of the pieces 
like sea glass that used to fit together, i swear, used to hold 
water. 
she deserved more than it, deserved to be shrouded in daisies not
cigarette cellophane in penn station or grand central or whatever attic
america stores her unneeded things.

the xerox memorial flyer is cheap,
bisected by toner lines and faint. her face turned
contrast against white, i suppose that should hold a metaphor. 
the public library lets you use the copier for free,
i suppose that should also hold a metaphor. 
it is so easy to forget,
this is a person, this is a person, 
there is no Sunshine in January.

winter is allowed to be very long and difficult, 
winter things grow best when it is cold.

tkg

i do not understand the birth of fireflies,

let me pretend to be a recycled poet instagramming chunked typewriter ink,
her smile is like a flower. the rain is gentle fingers,
let me count the ways
i think you're so cool
and i don't understand it, this language feels swollen on my tongue now,
feels stumbled and antique and good.
speaking of tongues,
i wanna show you something.
see, the way you looked back there, all faded freckles and eyelashes,
you seemed like an awfully inviting road to get stuck on.
when i say that i don't understand the birth of fireflies i mean
when do they start to glow?
i wanna make you pancakes
and i wanna make you confused too.

these green roots,
these kickup feelings,
your knuckles covered in ash and somewhere
deep in my chest,
there's a church fire raging.
all the people gather on their front lawns,
they watch with the orange glow cast on their face, silent,
they're watching the flames,
they're holding hands,
they're holding hands.

Monday, February 20, 2017

how can the world 
contain so much
feeling?
how does it not bruise
and soften like a peach.
taste like a peach, 
pick a space on my shoulder blade
decide it is the start
of where i was touched.
decide it is ripe. 

the honeybees under the tablecloth 
stilled and pheromone drunk, all wanting. 
at the wet peak of heaven, i think of your long hair dipped in ink
bleeding into me, 
pick a space on my shoulder blade
decide it is the start. 
also, real quick, 
what science project is this?
are you searching for the carnage?
it's not hidden.

the bathtub is stained blue and

it is spring,
i seem to survive everything.