Poetry I wrote you some flowers

are italians cursed to live a half life, bound for neither heaven nor hell?
are they simply beyond our classifications?
 
law and order special victims unit aged like gangrene
(probably the worst glow-up in television history).
whereas law and order is a great damn show,
special victims unit is a nightmare to watch.
the offhanded transphobia is just the tip;
the iceberg of poor quality is gigantic.
the show is about terrible sex crime
but reads like bad, cheap smut.
i'd talk about the legal side
but it's just as inaccurate
as their LGBT stories.
it's full of bad cops
(a big tautology)
and bad acting
and dumb
garbage.
 
so much depends
upon a black jacket
with red stripes
and my name on it
who has held my head
and dried my tears
and kept me warm.
 
There’s a pair
with smile-wrinkled noses
at age 20.
They laugh
and watch movies
til 4 AM
and I sleep on the couch
(wondering what they think of me).
I wonder if this is what it’s like
to have a family
but always remember
(I can never be a part of it).
 
I don’t have the time to think of a poetic way to say it
but I was thinking about falling asleep next to you
and signing the lease with you
and it was so strangely heartbreaking to hear I wasn’t in your dream
 
I want to go back to Ireland
and keep you across the sea
so I can listen to the wind
and pretend it’s you singing to me
 
They make me feel so good
(but good feels so strange)
and I can’t get them out of my mind
(but they’re a thought I’m okay with keeping).
 
I find God in the touch of a woman
who changes name
and gender
and soul.
I hear Her songs in her voice
in the music which speaks
the words that only
silence may speak.
 
Happiness feels like a loaded gun
aimed right between my eyes
(and it takes all my courage
to admit that I want it).
 
It’s hard for me to be with you
because the voices go silent
and the world is still
and I’m not afraid
and I didn’t know what that was like before.
 
In the morning after
the temple was closed
and I sit in a diner
drinking down the regret with a shitty cup of coffee.
 
There's a man with gentle hands
who loves flowers more than anything
but he's afraid to touch them
and so forgets to water them.
 
The ghosts of Columbian Park
sing as lightly as the falling leaf
and they dance as slowly as the tree.

I dreamed a dream that was your name
and never did I dream of waking--
walking down the path,
holding your hand,
and listening to
the silence
of death
and of
love.

The ghosts of Columbian Park
sing the colors of the falling leaf
and they dance as proudly as the tree.

I took a walk down to the river
to see if it remembered
our nights on its bank
and it sang to me
in your voice
old songs
of water
and of
love.

The ghosts of Columbian Park
cry tears of golden falling leaves
but they dance as surely as the tree.

I don't know why you went away
but I know that you didn't
because you're always
in songs of ghosts
and memory
and silence
of death
of love
of me.
 
Skipping work
getting drunk alone on a Wednesday night
listening to mariachi
because I’d rather dance than cry.
 
from my mother's sadness, which was,
to me, unbearable, until,
it felt to me
not like what I thought it felt like
to her, and so felt inside myself—like death,
like dying, which I would almost
have rather done, though adding to her sadness
would rather die than do—
but, by sitting still, like what, in fact, it was—
a form of gratitude
which when last it came
drifted like a meadow lit by torches
of cardinal flower, one of whose crimson blooms,
when a hummingbird hovered nearby,
I slipped into my mouth
thereby coaxing the bird
to scrawl on my tongue
its heart's frenzy, its fleet
nectar-questing song,
with whom, with you, dear mother,
I now sing along.



- Ross Gay, Ending the Estrangement
 
I live in college housing now
and people always ask me
"are you going home
for the holidays" and I
have to stop and think
and say no because
I'm already home
and it's the first home
I've ever really had.
 
It’s the feeling of walking into a jewelry store
and behind the counter is a monkey in a tie
and nobody else is there.
It’s the feeling of wondering what the monkey will do
(Are they civilized?)
(Did they choose to wear the tie?)
since nobody else is there.
It’s the feeling of seeing a monkey trying her best
to operate a cash register
to keep an inventory
to run the whole shop
because nobody else is there.
It’s not your shop — you don’t work there
— you’ve never seen this monkey before
— you don’t even know how to run a jewelry store —
so you wonder if the monkey is handling it well
since, after all, nobody else is there.

It’s the feeling of being at a family dinner
when you’ve never had a family
and often didn’t have dinner
but now you have both
and it’s wonderful
because the people you love are there.
 
The White River's song is quiet
and in its tender mildness
the anger melts away
into bitter tears
of learning to
fall in love
with me.
 
I dream of 2017
(before I wrote poetry
but I still had it in me).

I dream of 2017
(when song was sweet
and silence was endless).

I dream of 2017
(when I was going to be married
and didn’t have a funeral suit yet).

I dream of 2017
(that year of you).
 

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