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the death of someone
you barely knew;
a strange faraway-ness
they were never really there
and now they’re gone
the death of someone
you barely knew;
an imagined grief
colored and dramatized
by your own private production house
what weird choices
our births and our deaths
what were you thinking,
stranger within?
why did you even bother?
was it fun,
worthwhile,
are you a repeat customer?
or have you blocked
these numbers
and hidden your status,
turned off
desktop notifications?
condolences offered
unmeant words
knowing just this;
these things only happen
to people you barely know
the death of someone
you barely knew;
a strange faraway-ness
they were never really there
and now they’re gone
the death of someone
you barely knew;
an imagined grief
colored and dramatized
by your own private production house
what weird choices
our births and our deaths
what were you thinking,
stranger within?
why did you even bother?
was it fun,
worthwhile,
are you a repeat customer?
or have you blocked
these numbers
and hidden your status,
turned off
desktop notifications?
condolences offered
unmeant words
knowing just this;
these things only happen
to people you barely know
These Days
You asked me for a metaphor
And I told you about the broke down Indica
Outside Gupta Handicrafts;
It’s getting really difficult
To be so cool and all
These days.
You asked me for some tea,
I said I’d make you some;
But in the kitchen I couldn't choose
Between the plastic cups
And steel trays.
I know it’s beautiful,
I know it’s a tree,
But it’s marked for demolition,
Just like you and me
And everything else
These days.
You asked me for a joke,
I said they operated for kidney stones
But he died of intestinal cancer;
Everyone’s jokes are mistimed
And inappropriate
These days.
You asked me for a metaphor
And I told you about the broke down Indica
Outside Gupta Handicrafts;
It’s getting really difficult
To be so cool and all
These days.
You asked me for some tea,
I said I’d make you some;
But in the kitchen I couldn't choose
Between the plastic cups
And steel trays.
I know it’s beautiful,
I know it’s a tree,
But it’s marked for demolition,
Just like you and me
And everything else
These days.
You asked me for a joke,
I said they operated for kidney stones
But he died of intestinal cancer;
Everyone’s jokes are mistimed
And inappropriate
These days.
Iris
it is easy to mistake an iris for a flower,
to think it grows out of the ground,
the caduceus of Electra’s daughter,
in truth it floats about
like a jellyfish,
woodsmoke,
a drop of ink,
not yet dissolved, in water
one morning
it drew me in
giant clouds,
plunging waterfalls,
riverine lines,
ebbing and flowing,
pulling me slowly
into its open maw,
a crested cathedral,
licking me
with its furry yellow tongue
its rhythm remains
gently purring in my breast,
i often check my fingertips for traces of blue
or purple,
will it explode from within me
like Warrant Officer Ripley’s Alien child,
will it write poems
in my name,
wonder if the universe is dying,
go for walks in the moonlight,
will it then be easy to mistake
a man for an iris?
it is easy to mistake an iris for a flower,
to think it grows out of the ground,
the caduceus of Electra’s daughter,
in truth it floats about
like a jellyfish,
woodsmoke,
a drop of ink,
not yet dissolved, in water
one morning
it drew me in
giant clouds,
plunging waterfalls,
riverine lines,
ebbing and flowing,
pulling me slowly
into its open maw,
a crested cathedral,
licking me
with its furry yellow tongue
its rhythm remains
gently purring in my breast,
i often check my fingertips for traces of blue
or purple,
will it explode from within me
like Warrant Officer Ripley’s Alien child,
will it write poems
in my name,
wonder if the universe is dying,
go for walks in the moonlight,
will it then be easy to mistake
a man for an iris?
Meteors and Matchboxes
The morning star in the East arisen,
drives metaphor deep into the heart of my home,
illuminating a candle,
shows me how like a candle’s shadow I am;
taking the shape of what I fall upon,
now crooked, now broken, now winding like a snake,
while my true nature ever like the candle remains;
pure and straight, and dispelling darkness,
if only some meteor were to fly too close to me,
or if some crafty teacher were to distil his philosophy into a matchbox;
I, too, am capable of Light
The morning star in the East arisen,
drives metaphor deep into the heart of my home,
illuminating a candle,
shows me how like a candle’s shadow I am;
taking the shape of what I fall upon,
now crooked, now broken, now winding like a snake,
while my true nature ever like the candle remains;
pure and straight, and dispelling darkness,
if only some meteor were to fly too close to me,
or if some crafty teacher were to distil his philosophy into a matchbox;
I, too, am capable of Light
