Crisis in three acts

First –
How do you let go of anger?
Feel pure, unadulterated rage,
scream into a pillow that barely muffles the sound,
punch a wall until your knuckles bleed.
Do you?

Second –
How do you tap into sadness?
Dive into your soul,
cry into a bucket of Ben & Jerry’s finest,
weep at a fictional death on a Netflix show.
Do you?

Third –
How do you drop the world from your shoulders?
Rid yourself of gravity,
emigrate to a paper town in another land,
push it onto someone else.
Do you?

How do you, for it seems I cannot.

On fait comment

Some days, we are still meant to be
– I fear today is one,
as was yesterday and the day before.
Some days, your voice still echoes in my soul
– I fear today is one,
your song plays forever behind these walls.
Some days, I feel your arm brush against mine
– I fear today is one,
as sharp a memento as it has always been.

Some days, I wonder if your hair falls the same,
if your smile still breaks a hundred hearts,
if your dreams still ignite a thousand worlds.

– I fear today
you might swallow me whole.
On fait comment, you asked once,
pour pas y penser?
– I fear today I finally understand.

I fear today, most of all,
tomorrow.

Fin.

I am a traveller from a tomorrow
that never was.
Today wasn’t the destination
but is where I became stuck.
I have split vision of now,
yet two times nothing
is so much less than zero.

To fall in time is peculiar –
I knew this world long ago,
far away in glorious detail.

I am a traveller from a tomorrow
that won’t have been.
For better or worse,
no, definitely for worse,
this is me, us, now.

It seems falling is easy,
is circumstantial, is ruthless,
is rising in quicksand.

113

Look at us now: splinters on the ground,
we look the same but we’re parts broken
off two different wholes.
A crack in the mirror chips your face,
reminds me of your injured beauty thence:
a porcelain doll with a thousand stories to tell.
Look at us now: you spin me around,
jolt this tired heart, wake this wrecked soul,
and you in perpetuum…
it will always be you I regret.

Postcards From the Edge

Norwegian Church

A group of children run like an improv group unrehearsed
and guide your heart out with candour:
there is a sense of wonder in this dark rye sandwich
in a paper bag on a public square
as you eat it like the last supper, or the first,
while tourists around you breathe the light air,
an old couple walks across without a care.
Hints of anguish still meander
but today you shall not pander.

pin sharp view on something fuzzy (or backwards)

the discolouration of your smile occurred
inconspicuously as if controlled by evil coterie,
altering memories – this bad blurred,
dripped retrospectively on lines of poetry

penned in your name, running down canvases
like oil from a brush, ink from a feather,
eroding the iridescent love of then.

and you,

you vanished and threw off all balances,
left heart and mind no longer strung together.
i tried to hold on to your eyes like they were when

my heart first roistered and my fingers burned.
all i see now is a stranger dance, notably
beyond black and blue as if transferred
to a past now containing only me, hopelessly,

while your mind stopped crying.

ن

Part your ways,
quarantine your compassions away for you will be
regents without mercy, agents of destruction
sent from god to free us all from the terror of
them, they, invaders of our homes,
usurpers of our homeland,
veritably powerful only in weapons but not in heart,
xenogenous and parasitical,
you will annihilate
zion.

א

Before we begin again,
cast the last shadow of
doubt away into the sun, suffer vicariously,
emphatically amd honestly
for all those souls we burned and saved, for all the
gentle spirits we vanquished with our
heads held high
intensely staring into their darkening eyes
just for a few seconds, or a few more,
keeping them silent with one hand
like a lover shushing their loved
martyring all pain.

Threshold

to S & T

You’re a journey with speed bumps in place to appreciate this town,
you’re a Sunday with a reminding hangover not weighing me down,
you’re a multitude of imperfect perfections,
you’re a galaxy of future photographic collections.
Our souls were forged in a collapsing star
billions of years ago, I for you, I for you.
My life, alone, a pastiche that seemed so noir,
our days, together, will always be too few.
To have and to hold, to never forget, to never regret
that January day we met:
six years a fairytale
guiding each other down the trail
to here, now, where I take thee,
and I take thee
on this longest day of the year,
the brightest day of my life,
hovering in a celestial sphere,
to be my husband. To be my wife.

Ivory

I fill my lungs with embers of pain,
scratch you into memories with the might of kings,
interlock my hands in vain.
Days progress as endless fractals,
one after one of immaterial battle:
a trajectory clean as shrapnel.
I saw a world that might provide:
a meaning found, at once highly prised,
a meaning drowned, at once belied.
If I could douse only the times
that truly deserve extinction
——