Day 17 – Sick Day

There is nothing that a doctor
could find wrong with me-

so I cannot get a note.
But I’m staying home
anyway.

I’ve got a fever of the mind
I can’t prove,
yet I feel

heavy,
collapsed from the inside,
tense
from holding steady
too long.

There is a seed of grief
I have to tend to
before it grows big,

a sadness which wonders
at all the scuttling,
all the getting by.

“Am I getting lost?”

I know this road too well,
I know the cost,
I know the cure,

and today I’m calling out
to fix myself.

Day 4 – Wake Up

Wake up.

Careful, don’t try to move just yet.

You’ve been lying still a very long time,
your muscles don’t remember.

Listen.

They’ve whispered to you in your abyss,
things you’ve absorbed.

They taught you to belong here,
to lie still,
to sleep,
to dream about letting go.

Don’t be upset.
You’ll need to be patient.
You’ll need to be on your guard.

Soon you’ll be ready
to face them.

Rest up;
tomorrow you’ll walk.

Year 2: Day 125 – The Corporate Sorceress

The corporate sorceress is up and about
stirring her tiny cauldron of brew with a spoon-
what kind of bubbling trouble
can she help you sludge through today?

Frog in the office?
There’s a potion for that.
Medieval boss?
There’s a potion for that.
Deadlines got you under a hex?
Of course, there’s a potion for that.

The corporate sorceress can get you through
with a little dose of magic in the morning
and a few well-portioned drops
throughout the day.

Yes, she’s got you covered
with a smile and a wink-
she’ll get you on your feet
and keep you there.

Year 2: Day 111 – Our Last Day On Earth

We ate acai berries and drank agave nectar
in the branches of the trees when the wind lay still;
we hollowed out flutes and painted our stomachs
and dug ’til our fingers were bleeding.

They asked us what we’d like to do
on our last day on Earth
and I thought it would be fitting
if we could reenact the first,

we braided vines and named the birds
and made up words to call the moon.
I saw an exit,
but we deserved to die.

Day 186 – A Wonky Day

A wonky day starts with a good dream,
a dream which is ill-deserved:

one universe beyond belief
sliding seamlessly into the next
without even the courtesy
of erasing its tracks, its proof,

a cool river running down
a tunnelĀ of warm guts.

It isn’t true
and it isn’t fair.

A zombie stands in the bathroom mirror
mumbling the correspondence
between Tom and Ground Control,
a morning numbed by too much good
which was ill-deserved,
destructive.

A dentist steadily rubs on sugar,
grinds it into cavities and down throats
metering out his punishments
which were ill-deserved
while the radio plays.

Planet Earth is blue,
and there’s nothing I can do…