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you respond to what wasn’t said, then take my wordsand turn them into weapons, complete with a silencer, hear them without listening, then quickly respond to what you thought was meant, with fast words shotout like bullets in defense of what wasn’t the intent.Words can be clumsy attempts at expressions of feelings; even if we speak the same language,they don’t always clearly deliver the meaningof the message. What we’re certain we have heard, may later be realized as an insight we aimedto defend from revealingto ourself.
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Today, depression feels like Nobody can save me, Only I can save myself, And I can’t save myself.
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to use any words other than those ratified by the media as reasons for what happened to the ear of the ex-president;Violent. Loner. Diabolical. Democrat. Republican. Don’t say sorrowful, wasted, ruined to describe the person, who,at 17, may have donated money to a progressive group on the day a Democratic president was sworn in; don’t ask why their first vote was as a Republican in 2022, don’t point out that they used the same type of assault rifle used in the shootings of schoolchildren to try to take out a candidate for president who supports the NRA. Don’t even think of the word…
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Years later, I can see how the thing that was us would work, but then, I doubted, promised, took the ring, but didn’t work. When you’re very young, the results are predictable, you try hard, but with no support, winging it, doesn’t work. Looking back, a pattern emerges, and one mistake leads to another, tangled on a long string, a piece of work. If only our past mistakes could be unraveled like yarn,we would spend all of our time untangling what did not work. Let go of what might have been, Annie, release your regrets, and live with those here now, opening…
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a living grandfather for my children, a figure more in proportion, curly auburn hair that could grow waist length, an early master’s degree in poetry, a fifth or tenth or twentieth anniversary, a way to eradicate the impact some people had on my body, another chance with you. probably not who you think.
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July 1, 2024 The whole entire fucking neighborhood’s on fire, and I don’t know what I’m going to do…
here We the People go, and it’s not just my house, it’s our house, every house all around is burning,and everyone’s doing something different,no one seems to be in charge,no rescue since the fire department’s on fire too, someone’s shouting not to give up, someone’s standingon their rooftop, someone’s inside watching Netflix, someone’spacked and backing out, someone’s fanning the fire, someone’shaving a barbeque with the flames. We do have some water, the same the police used to blast atcrowds, same the powers used in waterboards in torture, it helps with thetear gas, washes your face clean, all we have are…
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There’s plenty of time, I think, as if I werea youngster of thirty or forty or fifty or sixty,to do whatever’s on my wish list: a visit abroad,work on my book of poems; take a vacation somewhereI haven’t been. Then I stumble across a poem someone’swritten about caring for their dear mom, the fragility,the frequent falling, the failing health. With a mentionof her age; only six years away from my own.My gasping breath, my quickly palpitating heart – I’m snapped back to how little time I may really have left as me. Now, yes, it’s true, age is only a number,…
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at least, according to my cardiologist, who I believe, despite his charming bedside manner,does not really know what to say to me,and so he pats me on the wrist and tells methat I’m doing fine, prescribes a little mobile EKGdevice, which I can use to reassure myself, when my heart starts all that thumping like it’s trying to fly out of me, that this is nothing to be concerned about, it’s just a normal sinus rhythm or maybe some sinus rhythm with supraventricular ectopyor premature ventricular contractions, nothing to be concerned about,it’s fine,I’m fine, and rapid heartbeats in old folks don’t mean a…
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I’m afraid these are the best that I can do, unpublished, they aren’t good enough, so I can never claim to be a poet. Not true, but shared feeling among many poets.
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He wakes to find the ivory towerhe’d sealed himself into some time agonow held him captive, his spouse the prison guard, not the perfect princess she had been. While staring out the window one dark night,he sees a bird across the way singingand calls it with a promise of his love,in return for something he’s not sure of. It should have flown away, instead flew close,agreed to spin the gold he said he’d needto make the long thick braid he’d use to crawldown with, to free himself and run away; instead he locked himself back in and shutthe window, pretending…
Words from Inside My Head 