Severe Weather Warning
Droughts are just as dangerous as floods
I’m not an artist I just like holes in my
body
And daydreaming of ink in my veins
Circling in charcoal patterns my father once drew
With strong hands. We shared the old studio.
I’m not emotional I just like the electric color of red eyes
And showering in the dark with someone else’s
Voice echoing my thoughts in the background
Until steam bleeds the ink and fills my lungs to the top.
Evaporate condensate and fall from the sky
My very own breath drenching my body and rolling
Shamefully down my cheeks. But I am formless and
Shapeless and there is only way to empty my mind
Your eyes are my cup my bottle my teapot
I
D
R
I
P
And crash.
But never once touched the ground
Alive
Slow footsteps
You approach the center of a ring
Surrounded by an inflamed crowd
Here he is
The strongest man in the world!
Closed eyes. With one swift movement you
Lift 2,000 pounds above your head
Applause, ladies and gentlemen
A single bead of sweat drips down
Your temple
Noticeable only to those with their pupils
dilating
fixated on you
How steady his hands are! Truly amazing!
Slow footsteps and
Your head is on your pillow
Feet can finally rest alongside
The cinder blocks on your chest
(they need their sleep too)
You insist you are fine but I worry
Sometimes about your breathing
He has broken the world record!
It’s as though the red fern
Grows in your heart
Across the bridge to Terabithia
Applause for our new champion!
You are everyone’s keeper
The fault is in your stars
And I wish I were your feet
Instead of another dumbbell
Or even another fan
Mundane
On Mondays, I pick the seat at the bar where
No one but employees on their break
Sit quietly and chat, thanking the plates in front of them
For breaks in the conversation.
I stand in a long line for tasteless Chinese food that
Is drowned in sauce I hate accompanied by
A stale fortune cookie I feel compelled to take
maybe I am wiser
Than the rest because
where I sit is different
or I constantly narrate my own actions
As one continuous poem
Trying to make sense out of things like
The way I eat my lunch.
it doesn’t matter
everyone else is right
They must be
Despite my fortune
You find beauty in ordinary things.
Appreciate
this
gift.
crunchy bland wisdom under my tongue
my obsessive words spiraling through my mind
Compulsively
I’m not sure why I only write
And never think
I have no reason to be sure
But I have this gift,
or so I’ve been told
let me tell you about ordinary things
like how the mustached man next to me
holds his head in his hands
between bites
and let me tell you
there is nothing ordinary about that at all.