virtual salt in the wound

 the algorithm

deemed that now

 is the time to remind me of

when you were around

and maybe 

it thinks 

I would giggle and share

make a dumb joke

as though you were there

but instead it brings

a tear to my eye

this perpetual virtual

never-ending heart-rending

goodbye 

caravan

world-weighted and weary

with the scoliosis of Atlas

she grasps hope in gnarled fingers

like roots in parched earth 

as sweat salt paints ocher lines

on burnt sienna skin

before the desert was the sea

before the mirage of a shining beacon

lessons

the thing you thought came easy

stays uneasy

and fucks off hard

the thing hard won

settles in

and becomes furniture

Bryan

you were a phenom

always striving 

more to do, more to be
with love enough 

to fill a sea

braggadocios and yet
full of doubt

the kind of kind
to quench a drought

as weird and wild 

as the tempest
as strange and beautiful 

as bioluminescence

a force to reckon
a heartfelt balm
a raucous laugh
a quiet calm

you were a phenom

fierce and fine

and as for friends...
like so many,

I was so proud 

to call you mine

fountain

ink stained fingers
blotter skinned
I bleed words
and world within
escape through pen
and parted lips
saltwater storms
on cheeky cliffs

Sam

hollow 

is my heart 

as i 

wonder why 

the fucking sky

won't start

to weep 

an admonition at the fates

in somber recognition

of the wretched devastation 

and universal harm

in the loss of such a man;

of such kindness, grace, and charm;

at the emptiness of space

where this gentle giant stood.

on stage and page he towered,

he made the mediocre good

and the good, he made divine

with an eruditely crafted line.

had setbacks, but never soured.

instead he softly chuckled 

at some dirty joke

then took it only as he could

to make an eloquent bon mot.

authentic, real, and raw;

he knew what others did not know.

he saw what others never saw.

he made a symphony of words

and he played it for us all

as we would raptly listen

in adoration and in awe.

i listen for his echos

in the chasms of my grief.

that he is gone 

is so unjust

it beggars belief.

twenty twenty

the world unfocused

tenuous at best we guess at the rest

days pass in spectacle smudge haze
and yet we stumble forward fazed

no time to stop and clean the lens
lest the monster keeping pace behind
creeps closer till its breath upon our necks 
to devour us before our time

so feet serve as sight and set a pace
towards deliverance or desolation

the race begun 
must be run 

soda haiku

bubbles on my lips
the tiny root beer kisses
remind me of you

not equivalent, unequivocal

if all you heard
was shouting

but did not see
the difference
between

standing for
and standing up

versus

"stand back"
and "stand by"

and if somehow
you think that one
is much the same
as the other

then I don't know what
you think

but I do wonder if

a weird hill to die on

to hate all that you see

and fear all you cannot see

must be exhausting

to direct your anger

at a ten inch square

and two elastic loops

to value individualistic obstinacy 

over compassion

over community

why?

your coffin will be 

lonely enough 

Sunrise song

there’s a cacophony
as I rise
pops and cracks
grunts and sighs
from knees and neck
and toes and back
percussion steps forward
as melody steps back
in middle age
morning song
the tympani
is loud and strong

Good advice

drive on,
Crowley,
though your vehicle
is burning
and the whole world
might stop turning-
drive on

for on the far end
your love,
he lies a'waiting
to join you in the saving

together you've survived
the Angels and the Demons
both committing treasons
in Heaven and to Hell
Holy Water and bombshell
you've fought to spend eternity
with each other, you and he

drive on, drive on, Crowley
to your Aziraphale, most holy,
so that yin and yang combine
to create true love divine

May I

once robust

unpotted and placed outside
esteem struggles to survive
valetudinarian in the silty soil the world provides

in urban cocoon we feel her heartbeat
the circadian rhythm of Gaia beneath our feet

overlaid in asphalt and unsung by the birds
in an endless summer - still, we use the words
of an earlier time and call this spring
as though seasons were still a thing
we cling to a clock, to the artificial tick-tock
of a life support beep and those who notice mourn her

and weep

she gave up the ghost quite unwilling
but once relinquished
Hope dead beyond redemption
so put back the paddles/turn off the pump
you cannot resuscitate that which you killed with slow neglect

the long pause

logy and lurching towards cognition  

fumbling past definition in the morning after mood

partitioned by regret and contrition

sleep serene in the exhaustion
on the other side of exquisite anxiety
slumber in the nonpareil of nonchalance
wherein the vault of all your fucks is empty
your bank devoid of cash has crashed

i was never revolutionary
i worked for change but always incrementally
i did not see that those opposed had no such qualms
that they would happily take up arms against the defenseless

so now i
who never dreamt i'd dream of a putsch before we screwed the pooch
do muse upon a coup d'etat as though it were a la-di-dah
sad for what we've lost
sadder still for the cost

valentine