A Prayer

I pray for a time when poets are no longer necessary.

Buried Deep

You've been dead for 16 years now
nearly half my life
and I still have one of your shirts
a striped polo 
buried amongst clothes in my closet 
that are either too small 
or too bulky 
or splattered in paint.

Your shirt has seen
paint, mortar, sawdust
and my sweat
but somehow 
it's still your shirt.

Now the collar has become itchy
and makes my neck and mind burn
with thoughts of your death:

your car parked
on the side of a deserted
tree-lined highway
your head flooding
with love and betrayal
as you fumble blindly 
for the shotgun in your trunk.

When we heard the news
your sister and I walked for hours
and then sat on a curb
eating homemade vanilla cupcakes with sprinkles 
that our friend's mother always
had stockpiled in the freezer.

Your shirt 
with its itchy hot collar
still lays folded
on a shelf in my closet
buried deep.

Summer

Summers are for living.

Sidewalks are warm.

Trees are lush.

Moments are too bright and fast for words.

Poetry Lives

I don't remember 
meeting you 
the first time
but this time
you brought a poem 
for my mom
on her birthday.

You both sat quietly
while I stood there
bowed head
paper in hand
eyes recognizing words
that could be my own.

When I looked up 
(my eyes swirling
with hope and wonder and love)
you smiled and said,
"I made that copy for you."

Every Other Today

Today I remembered to forget you.
Memories of you once whole, now erased.
Forever.

Today I denounced should.
Fantasies of obligation shrugged away.
Forever.

Today I stepped outside of time.
Impressions of now made loose and present.
Forever.

*********************************************

Today I felt a numb haziness.
Something beyond the powers of caffeine.

Today I felt sedated and compulsive.
The sum of boredom and madness.

Today I felt warm and lonely.
An estimation of humanity and distance.

*********************************************

Today there will be no whispering.

Today there will be no sidelong glances.

Today all judgements will be withheld.

Today all thoughts will be dispelled.

Today and every other today will quake

And rise like a phoenix in your outstretched hands.

*********************************************

Wood Paneling Makes Me Sentimental

Memories return in strange snippets:

The industrial buckle and zipper from my childhood ski boots, stuffed nylon bodies of cabbage patch kid dolls, the web-toed girl at the sleepover party, American strawberry soda and individually wrapped fruit-filled pies, algae-filled ponds and giant cones of ice cream, thrashing about in muddy creeks, mismatched socks, inner tubes speeding down snow-covered hills…

Dreams flood back in similar ways:

Lost skeleton keys in shag carpeting, rickety suspension bridges, black rabid dogs with sleek shiny fur, ghosts of dead grandparents, over-sized above ground pools, barrels of guns, washroom stalls, siblings I never had…

I like the stuff that dreams and memories are made of –

Real and unreal,

Floating in the ether of consciousness,

Making us whole, making us human.

Alphabetical Recommendations: Music (II)

Air
Blonde Redhead
Coltrane (Alice & John)
Dead Meadow
Elevator
Fucked Up
Girls
Hope Sandoval & the Warm Inventions
Iron & Wine
Julie Doiron
Kid Koala
LCD Soundsystem
Marine Girls
Neutral Milk Hotel
Organ (The)
Pavement
Queen
Raveonettes (The)
Suicide
Tobacco
Unknown Mortal Orchestra
Vanilla Fudge
Washed Out
XX (The)
Youth Lagoon
Zombies (The)