Sometimes
When the work is done
The evening tucks away the day
Lullabies to the sun
Darkness spreads like a duvet
Over a terrafirma mattress
I say goodnight to my fight
Between the faith and the actress
And the moon is a screen
For the slide projectors
Lying in the dark, in the quiet,
Where there are no protectors
And memories harp on in sharp form
And years burn like papercuts
Nothing negates the good,

But it hurts anyway.

My mother was a purebred feline
Thrown out young
Part refined, part feral
She became a barn cat
Carried a full litter
Nearly alone
She tried to keep them
In her own way
But they were all wild together
Feeding on rodents
And random scraps of generosity
Biting at each other
For their daily necessities
Her barn became her purebred palace
And her litter moved on
But she still brings home rodents
Searching the dark corners
For her missing mews
While the scraps dried up
She moans and calls
To an empty barn
The only place she feels at home

There’s no more tragic story
Than that of a barn cat.

I hold onto these days
These sun-splashed
Joy-soaked, laughter and hugs
And jokes rehashed
Days of unfolding and building
And dancing in the kitchen
Bubbles in the grass, game pieces
Under everything- we’re rich
In every way that matters.

What kind of wild-eyed
Ravenous, wet-toothed certainty
Sinks into someone’s right
To be.
Let those who limp
Take the stand
Point the finger
These designations
Are not in the diagnostic jurisdiction.

Who can help make it function
Through total disassembly?

These roads long unraveled-
My little plastic compass
Picked up before I traveled
Twirls under the needle, twists
Dances into the ever new
Pretty little child’s toy
Who knew how well I could do
With a trinket near-destroyed
From its first day
Now that needle floating
Guides my way
I followed that thing
When the north star fell silent
And my childhood wallpaper peeled
Under the echoes of forgotten violence
I rode the painted lines, the blue steel
Teeth of interstate highways
Midnight miles of introspection
Armed with a toy compass that stays
Pointed in the right direction.

The best things never change.

Sometimes people can only speak
As loudly as they’re comfortable
And I’m late reading their lips.
They ask me to step away
(Which is my best skill set),
And I’m late obliging only
Because I am a slow reader

But eventually I catch up
I’m always glad
To learn before I lean
Where there is no support.

I don’t have any poems tonight.

In the cavernous empty spaces
The days of potentials
Cobwebbed in disrepair
I sit with my siblings
Around an antique metal kitchen table
Painted white with black ornations
Matching the trim.
It wobbles.

We sit in silence
The chairs pulled half from the table
Our legs half-spread,
Half-braced
And we’re half-here
And half a world away
Our eyes shine with galaxies spinning;
The silent testament of the stars.

Inside the quietus of these final days
We pull out the leftovers
Uncovering all the dishes
In a hodge-podge of what has been
Sprawled across the table
But no one fills a plate.
No one takes a bite;
These are the leftovers.

And this is the order of things
That have fallen out of order.

My borders shrink
Citizens become diplomats
Become foreigners
The gates close and there’s
A sentry standing guard
Only merchants carrying their wares
Are granted temporary passage
For a nation to age
It must defend
From threats outside,
And threats within.

Bang the drums!
Oh my spirit repeats-
Feel the marching rythm
As dirt dances in percussive beat
Feel the song, the fife, the drum
Striking the soles of your feet
March onward, Christian soldier,
In your chest resounds so sweet
An advancing hope, an eternal trust-
We will be foreigners to defeat
When the dust settles over all
And the drums, they all fall silently,

As the battles end complete.

I have seen the sun low in the sky,
Casting and refracting lights
I have seen the direction the clouds go by
I have scrutinized the many sights,

And I foresee the storm approaching.