how broken

(written 26 december 2022, 4:20 am et.)

 
it confounds me that somehow, sometimes,
the past finds its way to the present.

is it reality? or just the wine-coloured glasses through which i view it?

does it matter?

am i not broken enough, or too broken,

for the words to find me?

i wish to drop the carefully

(though unintentionally)

stitched veneer,

like dropping a silk gown

(worn commando)

in a fell swoop.

(i want it to be sexy.)

do any of the constructs hold up?

or is it a brave new world

that i'm simply not brave enough for?

(a friend told me ending sentences in prepositions

is not the crime i thought it was.

maybe that's the answer to undo all my questions.

nothing i ever thought ever mattered.)

Laugh (Listen)

(Written 26 December 2022, 4:00 AM ET.)

Something significant happened. 
The people were uncomfortable, and they squirmed. 
They may have turned,
But they (mostly) stayed. 

They may have prayed (through nervous laughter),
But they listened. 

Were you Christened?
Were you given a name
To carry the blame
Of who you are and will become?
When the spotlight’s on you to stay,
Will you have something to say,
Or will you err and umm?

Breathe, will you?
Take a moment. 
Recall
That fall
You took as a child
That you were sure would kill you. 
Also recall
That despite it all
You lived
And you’re here. 

Many aren’t. They didn’t make it. 

So say the things they can’t 
And the things you want to. 

And, for the sake of all the brittle,
Little,
Dying,
Crying,
Lying,
Lost pieces of us all,
Stall
For a blink
Your righteous stink. 
And listen, not with your gore
Or your sore or their lore,
But with your hideous core,
Through the grotesque door to so much more.
You may find a smile, even a laugh,
In a paragraph
Of grating foreignness.

You are more than most of us want you to know

(for our own selfish greed).
Be the water, be the sun,
And when you think you can’t,
Be, also, the seed.