these are days
i stay in bed
dead until near noon
dead until near noon
when the dirty clouds
begin the guilt flurries
begin the guilt flurries
i rise
like a mercenary
like a mercenary
thinking about going home for the holidays
1.
doors and distances
are the measures of life.
doors and distances
are the measures of life.
keys collect like calluses.
traffic lights and yellow lines
divide day from night,
the living from the dead,
the silent from the loud,
visitor from visitor.
traffic lights and yellow lines
divide day from night,
the living from the dead,
the silent from the loud,
visitor from visitor.
2.
as it turns out, the places of interest
aren’t so interesting until a moment of loss
shows us the door to memory.
as it turns out, the places of interest
aren’t so interesting until a moment of loss
shows us the door to memory.
3.
i am mercerized by distances. filled
with them. washed by the innocence
in the space between doors,
between histories.
i am mercerized by distances. filled
with them. washed by the innocence
in the space between doors,
between histories.
4.
there is distance in every poem,
in the margins, breaks, floating
between the characters of the poem,
or heavy on the breath of the poet,
or perfuming the house where the poet hides,
seeping under the doors, separating.
there is distance in every poem,
in the margins, breaks, floating
between the characters of the poem,
or heavy on the breath of the poet,
or perfuming the house where the poet hides,
seeping under the doors, separating.
5.
the world can be
simple like a door.
the world can be
simple like a door.
maybe have a good sandwich. a kiss.
something warm to wrap around. a house
and doors. an oily chipped road where
the porch lights burn like quasars.
something warm to wrap around. a house
and doors. an oily chipped road where
the porch lights burn like quasars.
maybe close your eyes under the sun. sink
into the spiral where distance begins.
where everything grows. or crawls. or loves.
or holds water. a mystery.
into the spiral where distance begins.
where everything grows. or crawls. or loves.
or holds water. a mystery.
Thank you for sharing these with us Mike. I love the line (i rise like a mercenary)
An oily chipped road where the porch lights burn like quasars, I might have to use that one some day. With your permission of course.
AWW