Dreams of Steel
About the second whiskey in
my guards depart on midnight trains,
and fell the station of refrain,
wherein, wherein, wherein
I start to clamber back to tracks,
where sleepers step with railed regret,
and for a moment I forget
the lack, the lack, the lack
of fastened steel that’s tried and true;
it courses in pursuit of bends
that buckle at the force you send
into, into, into
my wheels-for-feet that grip the turn,
knock loose the rusted threads and heads,
chase down the straights for those who fled;
Return! Return! Return!
Through a gap in the trees
Some nights when the air was warm and calm
we’d set up chairs, angled to the gap in the trees,
peeking at the bay, the moon, the port, the city,
from the balcony of our Jack London Square apartment;
two transplant wanderers, far from friends, family, and home,
gambling on the good nature of strangers,
and too proud of our independence to consider
that we might actually need each other.
You: packing some exotic tobacco
into an ornate, wooden pipe.
Me: making a mess of the shoulder of a BevMo cigar.
We toasted with scotch, spoke slow, traded wisdoms,
subdued the moment like blowing smoke into bee hives,
and surmised who we would marry.
What you endure
Dabble in the dark, and close
the door.
Fumbling at buttons, and fall
to floors.
Reaching out for faces;
finding more.
Breathing into spaces; bent, she braces
her core.
Clawing walls for switches, to see
the score.
Counting the stitches she must
endure.
—
It’s not often I write a disclaimer, but here it is. I did not know where this poem was going, and it is not based on any life event I’ve witnessed or been told. Sometimes the words just kinda happen. I was hesitant to post, but it made me more nervous to keep it hidden.
Stoop
It dares to be ignited.
It coils and cocks its springs.
It bares, to be united.
It toils and flocks to things
that dare to be divisive,
that coil at thoughts of flings,
that bare themselves, invited,
that toil in souls, and sing
with dares that you incited,
with coils you helped to wring,
with bare intent, requited.
With toil, you stoop to swing.
What does creativity mean to you?
A friend asked this question in an Instagram post.
This was my response.
—
Creativity is therapy,
self-discovery,
a way to reduce your thoughts like a sauce in a pan,
till all you’re left with is a concentrated, thick syrup,
preserved and bottled, but on canvases, notebooks,
and diner napkins.
The greatest effect that creativity has on my life
is not in its existence,
but in its dire absence;
my heart and mind speaks to me in riddles
that only creativity can help decipher,
so without it, I am awash with tangles and short tempers,
until at last the tantrums drive me to write, play, sing,
or simply express aloud,
my volcanic eruption of unsolidified self
careening down my cheeks, leaving scars on my face,
and grey hairs on my head.
Better that I indulge the creativity,
more for what it helps relieve,
than for what it helps provide.
Weighed down
Days pass
like throwing cardboard
in the trash
instead of the recycling.
Nights fade
like beautiful strangers
into crowds;
no name, no number.
Mornings come
like broken promises,
creeping in,
dark glasses and all.
Everything I am
Is it so much to ask
for you to bask and fawn
at what is drawn from deep,
and seek to understand
the man who made it so?
Is it so hard to know
how far the throws may fall
if none at all are caught
or sought to be retrieved
for me, for you, for us?
Is it so dire to lust
for eyes I trust to find
the truths confined in words
they heard whilst listening
to everything I am?