Left Handed
My left hand has
done most of the work
for me, built a thick
callous on my middle
finger where rests
Writing
What I Did That Day
An Ode to My Former Teammates at IBM
Heya, so you know what I did? Took the day off
to think about what was actually happening,
was really going on behind the scenes, behind
the screens and the gaslighting. I mean, I got up
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Opus Number Something – On Gratitude
I was this many years old when I learned what an opus number
means, how chronological order is not always set by composers,
but by scholars, historians, and academics. And having looked
up the word, as I am wont to do, having taken the head-first swan
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**Storyline
You see, after a while, you get tired of telling
the same old story again, the sad one, where you
are the interstitial animal living between grains
of ancient sand, separated from both
land and sea, by some careless hand that said
you were made to be lonely. And while I know
being a writer is solitary (how else will we ever
get these so-many-words out of our salty-sweet
minds?) I do not think anyone was made to be alone.
Dichotomy
I called it “The Dichotomy,”
not because I knew someone
had already used the title
(that was after I wrote what I wrote)
but because I loved the word—
the way it tore itself apart
For My *Thriends
My dearest ones, I want to tell you
what I saw today just from looking outside at the sky: yes, it was grey, and a mist hovered about the window in shadows of condensation. And yes, a heavy fog had been gathering around my heart
On Dreams and Poems
Strange how dreams
and poems work,
how everything mixes
together, and some of
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Heron – a draft
We aren’t much to look at, we poets, unless you look very closely, which most aren’t wont to do. It’s not that they don’t get us. They just don’t have time for us, missing the chance to see the blue feathered heron, one pencil-lead leg fixed in the sludge of the runoff in the morning.
