Reflection in Phases
How unremarkable we were
in our little unities
and stubborn alliances
How little we were
in our shadowed complaints
and broken pencils
And home was the roof
where we blew smoke up to the gods we never knew
Home was the roof
where we whispered morning out of night
and asked for more
for something
And I won’t be able to tell my kids
where the time goes
But I’ll tell them it chases the sunsets
and crippled laughs
I’ll tell them it chases the comfortable stares
and the honest poems
Home was the car
Where your spirit screamed through the tunnel
and dared to let us out the other side
Where I found paradise
underneath a puddle of blankets
and that smile
How unremarkable we were
in our flushed away fish
and shoeless sprints
How painful we were
with our hopeless money
and shallow graves
Home was by the ocean
Daring my brown eyed god
to send me to whatever hell
the tide couldn’t reach
I wish I could tell my kids
where the time goes
But I think I’ll tell them about my mistimed laughs
Or her broken silence
I think I’ll tell them about all the unremarkable things
we call Home
I’ll tell them about all the remarkable things
time will never catch
Agony in order
He told me about the bullshit
of his new film program
and all the purpose we find
in all our repurposing and second looks
I want to say the better man
will stand at the finish line
with a ribbon and four stories underneath his golden feet
but I’ve seen too many beautiful
broken down cars
There’s an order in failure
in the randomness of our lazy pens
and washed out afternoons
I never wanted to know what I could do
and you never wanted to see what I couldn’t
I don’t want to write another happy poem
Because our sewers wash away all the dirt
we carefully step over
So don’t tell me about my better days
Because I’ll tell you about our
multiple choice life
And our hand crafted kids
And hollow reactions
I’ll tell you about our invisible races
And papier-mâché smiles
I’ll tell you how tight my shirt is at Christmas dinner
I’ll tell you about customs
And cancer
And everything that died on your plate
I don’t want another example
of all our examples
I don’t want a better day
Sunday Whining
And then there was the laundry
The unspoken reminder that what is dirty
can be cleaned
I sit and pity the detergent
Running through my vomit and unfaithfulness
Why do some people make a mess and some people clean?
The whites never come out just right
but what’s bad about a couple stains?
They all fold the same way anyways
The machine whines and pouts
about its odd place as the middleman
I whine and pout
about my odd place as the middleman
Maybe I can learn something
about the terribly refreshing cycle
of good to bad and back again
But for now,
I wait for my laundry to be clean