Blame the Eclipse

Some animals may display nighttime behaviors, so tuck your cats in bed. Sunrise and sunset sit side by side blinding, avoid a direct gaze, but keep an unturned head. The market for special sunglasses is a spike before a crash. Take out your phone, and document in 0s and 1s, if you want your fond memories to last.

I sit in work, and I think of where else I could be: I think where you are. I sit in work, I think I missed my chance to watch something akin to planets actually aligning by your side. I think something akin to planets aligning must have happened to have had you by my side. I wish I had more photographs to help those memories last.

I think about harnessing the power of the eclipse to get back to where I want to be. I think about symbolism and a cosmic shift. I think about nonsense like the future of the past, and how rare and transient it is for paths to cross and for lives to align.

Today, I am here at work and the sun will be blocked out. Today, you are elsewhere and the sun is always blocked out.

individuality

I raise my hand.
I have something to say.
I open my mouth to speak.
Attendance is low.
A shout goes unheard.
The rest are half asleep.
It is criminally crazy.
It borders self-defeat.
It enterains our non-misgivings.
To share in the leftovers.
And claim you’ve naught to eat.
But I’ve been there and done that too.
Confusing cares and growing pains.
Eyes, face, spirit: Bathed in blue.
My own self sought a selflessness.
And found a selfish crying shame.
But who is to blame? Who is to blame!
We each have ten fingers to point.
The I, the You, or the Other Many or
The We lost to Individuality.

we talked about the weather

The forecast is a scattered mess,
and the Cleveland skies are bitter.
I flip the coins held in my hand,
still jet-lagging,
to look for a familiar face.

A weighted series of facts
don’t sum up to what’s deserved.
I blink to clear my murky vision,
but the faces staring past
are still too bleakly blurred.

I took the first extended hand,
and I gripped it far too tightly.
I thought there’d be a shutter
before the final gasp of air.

Compared to what I’m standing for
where I’m sitting’s all the ways away,
and I’m thinking flutter-thoughts of what
I’ll never catch my breath to say.

But I’ve said it all
I’ve said too much
I’ve negotiated with no one
for nothing in particular,
as a heavy-handed optimist
is unwatching hardly waiting
for another steep decline
internally conflicted
by the existential crisis
of learning how
to gratefully complain

No optimists in present tense
just pairs of eyes turned to the ground
My eyes are down and the sky is blue
and there are footsteps stomping overhead.

But I wouldn’t won’t can’t tell them
what choice they ought to instead choose.
Bring marshmallows and your popping corn
We fight fear and hate with firewood.

I want to live a billion years
but I only get a few.
I want to learn a thousands ways
to do what I will never do.
I want to stand my ground and
walk a mile in your shoes.
I want to forget far away and
remember the untruth.

I want what I will never have:
I want the right to choose
from options carefully curated
by those who know
someone always has to lose.

fresh starts

I woke up this morning with a more positive outlook than the one I took to bed with me, and I think I have all that I need. I am going to make some tea and I am going to get a little high and I am going to be 25 and I will not die soon. I woke up this morning to a kitten’s meow directed at a chirping tree and a breeze too chilly for August to remind me that this summer is passing too. I am inspired by my own personal eclipse. I am inspired by time as it is passing: too slowly and all at once. I am inspired by myself as I move on – as I take small steps like leaps and bounds and construct a plan from my last one’s dust. I am a stereotype for myself.

I woke up this morning, and I am ready to move forward. I am growing bolder, and I am ready to let go. I am sitting in a room I am sitting at a desk I am writing – no – I am typing. Typing like I live my life: with a general direction, but as I go. I hit the keys I tap tap tap I forget how to form my letters by hand. I pause. I remember how my mother taught me. I remember when I learned it all. I hit resume. I feel the familiar feeling of marks on ‘f’ and ‘j’ that tell my fingers where they are that help me place my hands – where they dance over words already forming in my head on my tongue – no – on the tips of my fingers, like the backs of my hands. Not known well enough, not well examined. I’ll never know it all. 

I woke up this morning and I went back to work, and I thought about the things I am grateful for. I thought about how I am grateful for the things I have, but too often find myself waiting for too much more. I woke up this morning tired of waiting, and ready to take too much more. Maybe nothing more, but a different current happenstance: I am aiming for direct exchange I am aiming for renewed wide eyes focused on another fresh start. Every time I open my mouth, I am scared I will complain. Every time I open my eyes, I see I have enough, I see I have today.

bystander

those tears in those eyes
they burn worse
– trust me –
salted wounds
in witnessing eyes;
they have nothing to do
with the repercussion stare

that smile burns too
it is an unbroken secret
sworn to silence
speaking volumes

 

everything we ever wanted

well this is all a handwritten message to him if i am being honest and i am not sure why i am doing it other than i want to and yes that likely makes me the kind of person who would do those kinds of things but what else would be true? nothing else would be true. nothing else; it’s in the realm of things i do.

startled

Mussitations mumbles mummers: muttering some somethings felt. Details lost lips flitter flutter: eyelash cover too high a cost.  A passerby is prowling pouncing: a drive by with a subtle smirk. The moment leaving longing lingers: description blotted till obscured. Memory is minced until another moment passes, as concrete figures turn to form a projection shadowpast. A ghost’s still gazing grinning gripping: as time speeds inconsistently and legs regain their strength.