A lost friend is like a black hole,
But maybe they were a black hole to begin with.
There was always a darkness there,
Even when there was the life and light of friendship,
There was a gravity of past crimes and an event horizon where no one really grew or changed.
Frozen, just at the edge of the chasm.
Pulling away is hard, there must be some goodness in the all consuming darkness.
And what is the space around us, but the endless expanse of black?
Objects that stay lose their integrity,
until they become black holes themselves.
There is still memory in the space between us.
Stars die, but old habits die harder.
Time is space and space is time,
The universe may reinvent itself in endless incarnations,
But mistakes repeat themselves,
when everything stays in orbit.
So, I am drifting away now.
I’ve been drifting away for some time
I found my escape velocity
When they shined a light on you.
We’re always making lemons into lemonade
Boiling sun, burning alive, chugging gallons of it
Smiling with a belly of lemons and a stomach ache
One of these days, we’ll move somewhere warmer
Quit that job
Quit that life,
All that lemonade fills the holes inside.
Makes us question if we’re really so unhappy
Or if we forgot to count our citrus flavored blessings.
Lemonade is the Kool-Aid of cult of optimism,
The can-do elixir of capitalism,
If you can’t make it better,
Make the most of it!
And when we die used up, dry, and exhausted,
We can lay our heads on a bed of all those lemon rinds that got
us through the grind
I’d rather read about dinosaurs
than think about relationships.
Both end in extinctions,
but I prefer the one 65 million years ago
To the here, now, or tomorrow.
Of course, birds are the happy ending
to cosmic cataclysm
But, few will grow feathers and fly free.
Instead, we’ll grow heavy and hard,
fossilize in the muck
all around us.
History is made of calcified hopes.
Nothing is permanent,
Just ask the Permians.
Sometimes it pulls apart like Pangaea,
a tsunami of lava,
or hell from the sky.
Sometimes the end is the slow burn of
410 parts per million of atmospheric carbon.
Acidic endings with starved oceans
and polar bear skeletons.
Whether by man or by mother earth,
in the end….everything ends.
The sun is dying
It’s middle aged.
There isn’t time for frivolous extinctions.
Earth lacks the billions of years that passed before us.
Before we unpacked the tombs of carbon fumes
from extinctions long ago.
So, that’s the end of it.
There isn’t time for more and new.
Just early death,
and the sterilizing embrace of a dying star.
Everyone is gone.
They migrated to brighter places.
And I am here,
Caught like a butterfly in winter
or a bat in a tower.
Doomed to die of cold, slow suffocation,
And I am here,
naked as bones,
growing fat and old
in the long night of my complacency.
There might have been more, but I am too worn and slow
to keep up with the crowd.
So I am here.
I am here.
This is the cemetery for those who lost the war against wages,
veterans who raged against the taxation of body and soul-
everything we gave in hours. So many hours.
I am here
in the purgatory of defeat.
They always ask why she stayed.
But, I think you know the math of it.
This is a poem about abortion rights.
I don’t believe in hell,
but I’ve got an idea of what it might be.
Languishing orphans in a Romanian cage,
sitting in urine,
dying of AIDS.
The panopticon gaze on missed menses,
or visitor in the night,
his kindly wife.
Every anomaly is an invitation
Hell is the body
prone and pried open for all to see.
It is emergency room corpses,
sepsis, and secrets.
Deadly exorcisms of rape and incest.
Hell is hot like Alabama
or cold like the hands of a priest,
clutching the wealth of genocide gold
and clasping tradition like a rosary of bones.
Hell is a landscape where a thousand wombs bloom,
sprouting babies, soldiers, and beggars
each doomed to die ravaged and poor
Because life is a weapon
of wealth and