Poetry

“Words are beautiful” Che said “but actions

are meaningful”.

 

Defiant to the end, 

before a bullet broke through his skull.

 

The man of action reduced to such beautiful

last words: 

 

“You cannot kill a revolution!”

Or is that just a myth, 

am I remembering it wrong

as I have done

so many times

(too many times) 

when

we spent those stolen moments together?

Why am I writing poetry

while you are on the other side of the

city,

living a better life without words like 

these:

 

only noise thrown into the void,

another waste waiting

for rejection.

 

Why did I choose words

over actions?

Tell a truth, or tell a lie

I get hammered, forget you exist / there’s no way I’m forgetting this”*

That city turning pink
in the sun’s slow descent;
the night air still vibrant
yet gentle now
                      as if
in its old age the day
had finally found a way to be kind
& calm without losing all passion for
the fire
          of summer; 

your hair, shed like feathers discovered in

my bed,
a mess of tresses untangled
& tangled again. 

Now all only a memory

of a scent & the slope of your shoulders
at 5 a.m in the morning; 

photographs of long lost days

when we still adored each other,
before the decay became
                                       poison: 

the silence, the speech, the years of peace

& warmth
& war
& lies
& tired eyes
& not fucking any more 

& bored

            so bored
of the performativity;
                                another
dancing monkey
out of sync with the organ grinder;
a comedy without laughter,
a tragedy without despair,
only anger.
 
 
 
All this & more now lives below
a gravestone with no
inscription,
 
our dream decaying
beneath the surface.

 

* Scott Huchison

Lost

The reasons why

hide

& you don’t try to find them.

 

Blind

instinct guides

& elides through space & time

until

you no longer know

how it is

that you find yourself

in this

dark forest.

Consequence

The consummation of
                    sorrow & regret
of impulse & blind intent,
the attempt
            to escape
makes the mistake
of believing that things we leave behind
will somehow change
or else disappear completely
when finally we
                        return:

the
    gentle susurration
of bad-faith held
to itself & nothing else,
excuses
running too thin;

the hideous birth
                of conjoined twins,
who want only to be loved,
& are as beautiful
as they are ugly,
                            just like us.

In the sunlight

& then when
I awoke
the morning light made me choke as
I remembered
how the gentle susurration blended
with the birdsong & the light began to
curve like the branches above us
to touch,
briefly,
skin within which poison blends with pollen
& flowers blossom before I pluck them
to place in your hair where
they will wither & die.

The past still lingers in the present,
& refuses to leave with the grace
of living things.

This is what regret means:
never to forget someone
or something;
knowing of all the lives that could have been;

to touch,
briefly,
your skin

for the last time.