On a bus to the city.

They say that in an accident
most of the damage is done
by the slamming of our organs
against the skeleton.
When the velocity inside of us
is too great.
When the very frame meant to hold us in
holds a little too tightly.
I guess thats how I feel now,
in a bus
rolling towards the pieces of me
that I left with people, in places.
In the moments that pulse as a memory.

I feel my skeleton pushing forward
until it catches up with my heart
beating as it pushes its way
back inside.

Live in it.

We're so much more.
we're so much more than
the eight to five.
The rigemented schedule
of nothings until the bell
rings and you are scurried
to the next bout of even less
Nothing.
We are so much more than
answers to questions
on dotted lines
checked, slashed
smart, not so much.
but.
we are so much more than
Complaints.
more than living outside of
where life finds you
we are more than the wishes of
Future.
Then.
If only.
our lives balance on the thread of
a distant reality.
Our bodies sieze at the thought
of what could be ours.
Let our heads rest on our shoulders
Not teeter on the idea of
who we might
Be.
Who we could become.
we are here.
we are now.
let's make it Fabulous.

The poem I didn't want to post.

They saw it there
Spilling
The way their juicebox sometimes would
When the straw poked through
The plastic
No
No
No.
My mothers blood is not
Cheap like juice
It is bitter and stings
As it makes its descent
Too early
Too early
Too early
Your blade does not get
Sharper
With every slice against the skin
Of those who dont deserve it.
The spear contacts one
But a million hearts
Whimper too.

The grey house of Doom.

I wonder if they notice
up there in the grey house of
Doom.
I wonder if they can feel
the rustling of my dress
against my feet,
the prick of dried grass
beneath me.
I wonder if they can hear
the way my heart beats
ten feet away
perched on a hill
in a little grey house of
Doom.
Thud, skip, thud.
The people next door say
leave, run, hide.
But as I sit on the grass
behind the grey house of
Doom. My courage
packaged neatly with a
ribbon that says
survivor...escapee.
I know.
I know.
I know.
But I can still feel my
heart beating twenty feet
away.
In the grey house of doom,
wrapped in tattered cloth
beside you.

The orphan's uncle.

There is a word for
a child who has lost his
parents.
But there is no word for parents
who have lost their child.
I guess the linguists had
too little time
to try to articulate
the cruelties of life.
I guess they realized
there is no room for such
grief in this world.

Questions and answers, in no particular order.

This is a poem inspired by Sarah Kay's "questions and answers in no particular order" from her book - No Matter The Wreckage.

Questions and answers, in no particular order.

Will it snow tomorrow?
The pieces of a jigsaw.
But when will it happen?
Never, always. Sometime in between.
Does it hurt when I press?
A heart beats slower when it's missing a piece.
Do you know the answer?
Pretending is as good as anything.
How was your day?
The leaves fall only to be crunched.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
The clock is shivering.
Do you believe in G-d?
Relentlessly.

Buttertoffees on the bus

It just came over me.
Us on a bus laughing
hysterics over the butter toffees
and the incredible heat
"I can't feel my fingers!
Can you feel my fingers?
What even are fingers?"
Abs seizing with delight as
resolve dissipated and the bag
tears. One, two, three
sweet butter toffees.
We found those moments so funny,
so inexplicably joyful
as our mouths were filled with
words sneaking out between the
Laughter.
and it just came over me.
Today, as I sat and read my book
alone on the couch.
The simple sweetness of those toffees
and our bus seats side by side
how we tried to stop laughing
how we just couldn't.

I hold those moments near me.
because as time creaks further
and further away
and it does what time
is oft to do.
They say time heals all wounds,
I think,
it cures all love too.
But this morning as my feet curled
from the cold outside my window
I couldn’t help but consider.
Those feelings still steal me
when needed.