The road to nirvana is paved with dirty dishes
Wet wash cloths and weary minds
Little known the collateral damage of a latte
We are wandering aimlessly towards a cup of coffee
I merely tidy as we go…
–ECW
Month: April 2013
Poem 2 Revised
What Happened in the Tree
High above the reaching hands of a hopeful evening
With limbs and joints tensed about the branches of weathered wisdom
Is the makings of a fairytale, wrapped up with a bit of string.
Untie the bow, but be ready to catch the pieces as they fall, for
Gravity—the enemy of slow progress—pulls grace ground ward.
But fear not the bitter cold or coarse bark, biting at fingers
We are pillow propped, suspended in smoke-puffs of silence,
In a moment, in a heart-beat: I would tell you anything in that tree
Or anywhere you would have me. If only you would have me.
This muddle, where a hand might pull away tough skin, well-worn facades,
and peer through the scattered branches,
Is all falling now.
Falling as you
prepare to leap.
Forgive me.
In an attempt to
save the moment,
catch the pieces
of a splintered
fairytale, our skin
collides. Mistaken…
Shamed. Your voice
is punishment enough.
Just go. Leave me here.
Let the pieces fall.
Let them all fall.
No heart of mine wanted a fairytale.
No great love affair ever took place in a tree.
It was a foolish girl who thought she could climb to the top and find happiness.
With gravity—the enemy of slow progress—pulling at her heels with a bit of string. –ECW
Poem 2 Editing
Poem 1 Revised
I’ll ever write anything to touch you
But I’m willing to try.
I’m willing to drag my fingers
across these sticky keys and
Come up with something stark…
Something true
I want you to know the truth,
That death is a cruel lover…
That her insides are soot-sour and soiled.
That you put too much stock in everyone
We: a room full of strangers
Clawing at your memory,
Strangers who didn’t know you well enough
To see when you broke.
When you were broken.
When you took a bullet
Set in motion the truth.
I’m done fighting truth.
As I move through the calendar,
since you fell from this earth,
I’ve found there are only versions, and no
Truth.
The frame of your face falls
From its perch on occasion
As if from behind the tracing-paper walls
You leap to catch me, to save me
From life’s triviality.
But you gave up your voice, brother.
You handed it to me when you picked up the gun.
Perhaps, it was a fair trade.
All our decisions are bullets.
The real tragedy:
We will survive them.
Poem 1 Editing
Poem A Revised
Poem A Edited
Poem 100
Poem 99
–ECW