Troublesome Rhyme Schemes

Darkness stabs late afternoon causing the day to bleed out long before supper. Roasted butternut squash, warm brown rice and black beans. One of the problems is that I allow myself to imagine something other than what is. What if I came home from work to warm soup on the stove? What if my garden was in a clearing, along side a small cabin up in the foothills? What if we got high and read Emily Dickinson aloud, laughing at troublesome rhyme schemes? This started out as a poem but quickly fell fully clothed into inky waters of the turtle's manse. There is nothing to fear here but I am more than grateful for a fairly gifted breast stroke.

Christmas feels like a speeding train I am not allowed to deboard. The circus moves from the decorated houses to turmoil in my stomach. Somewhere along the line I have accepted responsibility for the celebration of this Christian event and I don't want it anymore. Everything is loud. Nothing is attached to the earth.

4 a.m. black lace
pressed against
a tired pane –
snowless December
has no secrets

Tepid coffee, cold bare feet, James Baldwin's Giovanni's Room. So we are all One, of one Soul. What then do we do? I stare out at shallow scars in snowless fields. My only longing now is to be alone, to find solitude, to allow the noise and static to run over me.

Newly hatched spiders hang out in the crease where the wall meets the ceiling. What even matters after awareness?