this indian summer.

the vines are turning late this year
& i am smiling

as we have held small
fingers to eager lips for months now–
lips parting to frame
good intentions & local wisdom

we know better, during this indian summer,
what it is to appreciate a season’s lingering

to harvest the awe of what we do not understand.

some will ask if this is the right time, and
what is the right time?

i cannot know of timing
any more than the vineyards
sense the perfect moment
to lose their green

on ceasing fire.

you might not know this, but yesterday was international ceasefire day, or so i am told. it is interesting to imagine weapons rendered obsolete for the day, maybe locked behind barricaded doors…far enough out of reach to overcome temptation. what happened at midnight? was there a mad-dash? did villains everywhere pause in hesitation and silently judge the first to resume normal activity?

whatever the case was, i can look back and realize that the day must have had some kind of subconscious effect…as i was able to shelf my own weapons and attempt to see some difficult people through Christ’s eyes. i know the clock has long since struck 12, but i think i’ll [try to] continue with this theme for a while….or at least this week.

they call it entertainment.

a man is strumming on his guitar
with eyes closed
he is doing it to spite me

the curtains have closed
to hide the magic inside
he makes it look easy

i desperately scan for open eyes
searching for answers to
what does it mean

without giving it away
my complete lack of depth
so i fake it

and blindly sway to the hymn
of the true artist, who cannot help
but peek one eye open at just the right time

what it’s all about.

” i just want to celebrate people’s stories.”

you wanna know how dedicated i am?

i was in bed, under the covers, ready for some much-needed sleep, and then…shit. emerson’s going to KILL me if i don’t write.

ahem.

today, when i was sitting on the couch, sobbing about my work day to my mom, and he knocked at the door with two (count ‘em, TWO) bouquets of sunflowers in hand, i remembered why i am so confidently ready to spend the rest of my life with him. the tears became that much sweeter.

gentlemen, never underestimate the power of a well-timed flower delivery.

goodnight to all.

because i almost forgot.

a dear, dear friend and i made a pact to write every day. it’s 11:07, and here i am coming through on my end of the deal.

despite the chaos,
despite the anger inside,
the questions unanswered,
the silent stirrings of my soul,

i am so thankful for this Love, for the unfamiliar justice that will one day comfort me, for the solid rock upon which i stand.

blue monday (for you, alex)

it had been a weekend to celebrate–
none of us expected Death
to join our triumphant song

but we came ready to work,
because that is what happens on monday mornings.

fluorescent lights led my somber parade
through the halls, amidst the whispers

echoing through the air, sucked dry
of all life and humidity and tears
we didn’t know how to release

i found my way to my desk, tried to make sense of
how to work
how to do
what i always do on monday mornings
how i saw you, just hours before…

but i file those questions in the top drawer of my desk
and let the routine commence:

after the dialing, and hiccup in tone that signals another human voice
i pleasantly say hello, ask how are you?
unready for what is actually, quite normal–

they ask how i am doing

and rather than tell them
“well, my co-worker was stabbed to death this weekend,”
i reply, “doing well, thanks”

because how could they understand
what we cannot understand:

the cold, sterile brutality
the utter unfairness of what has transpired

and when the call is over,
when there is absolutely nothing left to be said,

i find such strange comfort in the dial tone
some ugly, monotonous song
screaming across the distance.

i think, he is unequivocally my favorite.

“Falling” by Patrick Phillips.

The truth is that I fall in love
so easily because
it’s easy.

It happens
a dozen times some days.
I’ve lived whole lives,

had children,
grown old, and died
in the arms of other women

in no more time
than it takes the 2-train
to get from City Hall to Brooklyn,

which brings me back
to you: the only one
I fall in love with

at least once every day–
not because
there are no other

lovely women in the world,
but because each time,
dying in their arms,

I call your name.

chapters 1-3.

hermeneutics aside,
consider him the first poet laureate.

and while i want the title to
slowly roll
off my tongue with the the weight of respect,
it is my eyes that are rolling and

i can’t help but think:
what a lucky bastard,
what an easy job

to throw words at everything in sight
even if the animals could talk,
as it seems, what protests could they offer?

eve never had to feign interest—-
just sit there, naked, in awe
of her [naked] husband’s unprecedented genius

it was not until the serpent spoke
that plagiarism threatened
and indecision hovered in the humid air

and considered him the first
recipient of poetic justice:

flaming swords burning the silence
into his children’s hearts

the spirit of the game.

competition is a funny thing

harnessed for good, in an “american spirit”
kind of way
or
too often, friendly fire
for example, against the man

whose wife is being ravaged
by cancer.

my vision is clouded
by the language of the spirit:

numbers
on sales charts, racing like beasts
toward a finish line that seems to run
at an elusive pace

while the lovely wife is at home—
microscopic cells celebrating
their own devastating triumphs