plethora

curve balls and wrenches

taken in stride 

I can only laugh

at the fuckery abound

spades full to brimming

I am ready

for the water redeeming 

does anyone here remember Vera Lynn?

I 

I built the wall myself 

out of bones and sinew

washi tape, bubble gum

and a few gallons of spittle:

it’s stacked, controlled chaos

easy to light then run

the wall holds back a flood 

of a to z things I’m to let loose 

II

dad once said, “some of us

we set with death, the dead

the dying” and he did

until he couldn’t

with his boy he broke

I let him…break

III

half a world away 

I’m trying have tried

to sit with you

if you can hang in 

a good while longer 

history repeats itself, way down into the future

five days, Dad 

was in hospital 

I didn’t know

you never called 

too caring by far you 

and I too alike too not 

I wonder when he goes

how long will I keep you close?

that final link of knowing 

I’ll be the last one standing 

what we think we become

I

I struggle bombarded

with polarized hate divisive 

with minute pickings

at threads not frayed

leading to gullies dark

where I cannot follow 

it’s a fine line between 

caring and perpetuating 

II

in the other space 

I retreat at entreaties nastily 

jabbing, “Why do you…”

and ever wonder why “Because

I am not you” is never a retort 

sufficient in the war

of butter on bread before jam

and is it jam or jelly anyway?

III

my dark is deep 

I was born with it

like a shroud it warms 

cold bones and sinew

in the deep recesses 

sheltering from the sun  

that singes, a sun cocooning

a web too tightly shatters 

and the light gets in anyway 

THE LIGHT GETS IN I choose 

to let it, to pry that door open 

wherever you go, there you are

I

yesterday was not a good day

not the worst, just not

optimal yet still

my stillness was mine to own

alone no one to worry 

to judge to make false

assumptions of my quiet 

exhaustion and bile-induced 

by little beans screeching

II

methodic in my madness 

why this day or that day

I cannot say, the Way 

has always been suspect

amused at my guess-tures

III

and so little bites I ate:

squiggles and green things

black speckled tartness to fill

the quota required 

IV

today is a better day

words I consumed confirm

yesterday may simply be

where progression leads

a wet nose that startles

I

I think it was the newness 

of the Other that beckoned 

‘cause what was was not 

working into exhaustion 

living at the speed of light 

II

yet here in the Other 

every day I feel drugged 

down, perseverance 

through the sheer will

of little Caprica

and a wet nose that startles 

III

someday when the river calls 

the ferryman will find me 

any which way I go…