Poetry

That May Be, 20 (141.)

Eventually all the swiping
leads to frustration, and I want to type a sarcastic bio
that says something like
“Currently looking for the only woman who doesn’t give a shit
about hikes, wine, or fucking yoga.”
(Yoga fucking, on the other hand … )
Then I stop myself, and I think about
how people call all those things “basic,” as in,
you’re a basic bitch for digging those things,
but in my head my jeering repetition of
“Basic, basic, basic” just sounds childish,
so I give it a second thought. A third thought.
If it’s basic for people to enjoy the outdoors,
to look after their own health and wellness,
and to responsibly drink a glass of wine
(for heart health, you know),
then haven’t we reached some kind of wellness milestone?
Like, shouldn’t it be good that more people are taking time
to appreciate the world, to get to know it better,
and to improve themselves?

There’s a whole other perspective,
of course.
Not everyone can afford
some of the more “outdoorsy” activities,
id est (i.e. ends up meaning “in other words,” I just looked it up)
hunting, kayaking, climbing, shooting, fishing, boating, adventuring,
fuck,
it seems that just going on adventures is expensive nowadays.
Ah, the privilege to wander far into mountains and deserts
in a ruggedly pricey automobile
with all the regalia of that “basic” status.

I’m getting sarcastic again.

It really is a privilege though,
and before you stop to tell me
that all it takes to go on an adventure
is a full set of clothing and the will to meander,
keep in mind that not everyone has the time or energy to do that shit.
It might not be totally safe for everyone to simply wander around outside.
(I realize this is written in the time of COVID, so of course, most of us
are staying inside.)
But in the world not stunted by the pandemic,
it’s a privilege just to walk around safely and comfortably.

I’m rambling now.
Let me try to make a point.
More power to the people who want to go on adventures,
who really enjoy exploring the world and staying healthy –
if you can do this, I’m happy for you.
Perhaps it’s good
that for one part of the populace
all this fervor over health and wellness
has been deemed basic.

Maybe it’s time we work
to make good health, wellness, and happiness
a basic and attainable state of being
for every person.

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Poetry

That May Be, 19 (140.)

I definitely did not mean
to ignore the “Reply All” button
and send my response to just one person,
oh damn, this is supposed to be a team effort.
The work still stands on its own, but
it’s nice when the whole group
knows what each person is doing.
I’ll carry on, in my own bubble,
and when the work is done
I’ll email everyone
so we can marvel at our collective
progress, together.

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Poetry

That May Be, 17 (138.)

Things sometimes slip into places hard to fathom,
the way the light faces away from stars and into shadows
only to be attached irreversibly to a black hole.
The whole mass has added years to our ages,
but it’s nothing a massage cannot fix.
Wherever did all the thoughts go, oh no, they’re
slipping again, to fall onto such pain,
you would never dream a pebble harbored so much animosity.
Little bumps along the roads in our brains, so, feigning
an understanding of the sane, we open too large holes
and let half-formed words dribble out.
This stream so tiny it may be called a creek,
it creaks out of a pink dawn
that I’d like to have on my cheek.
It shouldn’t be necessary to specify which one,
just let your own brain lead you on.
In this vagueness, I like to fool myself
into believing I’ve won,
my own thoughts hard to fathom,
so there is no light shining or reflecting upon them,
and they are, by default, deemed inscrutable
and, therefore,
immeasurable.
The vastness of wisdom and genius
all submerged beneath pretty platitudes,
with a care(less/free) attitude
that lends unearned mystery to all our shuttered drolleries,
why have they been placed in this margin,
the roots of the trees, ergo
the roots of the paper, ergo
the roots of these words
(a webpage is not organic, you fool)
((and what of the ink?! – Still not tangible))
all rotten, it’s all rotten,
a maze of non-creative, uninteresting rambling
that only serves to sound impressive
while saying
nothing.
Perhaps it is difficult to understand
because
there is no substance to take in.

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Poetry

That May Be, 16 (137.)

There are things
that will never be known,
and fights that will never be thrown
because they won’t even begin.
Time is funny like that,
combined with indecision
to create regrets that sit heavy on the strongest chests.
When is emotion the opposite of motion?
To feel, and not move,
is this the greatest sin?
To think, and not speak,
is this apathy’s peak?
So many wonders will never be,
they won’t have a chance to cease
or increase, or release,
or to inspire a damn thing
because they sat so long
in a heart or a brain
that they became engulfed by the person in question.
We contain multitudes of potential,
whole damn worlds
rotating inside our skulls,
yet we can just
do nothing
while they wither to dust.
Not even the wind may take them
from these impenetrable bone prisons.
Here’s to the next idea
that passes lips –
may its force of genius
part hips and move ships.

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Poetry

That May Be, 15 (136.)

There is a place
where the sun does not follow close upon sleep,
and the wolves do not need to chase tired little sheep,
and all the towers of all the powers-that-be
are lined floor to ceiling with pillow fortresses.

These are the signs of a true civilization,
these are the markers of a home filled with peace.
Blankets fill empty spaces
and dreams run free in every jolly brain crease.

Let us go where the moon hangs low.
Let us walk through a portal with no locks, and no doors.
Let us serenade the jellyfish that swim through space like waves.

In dreaming.
Day dreaming.
Reality is screaming for a makeover.
Maybe even a do-over.

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Poetry

That May Be, 14 (135.)

There may be
reasons for a lack of focus,
but they are hard to find
when one’s eyes are darting back and forth
and one’s brain can’t stop leaping about.
So a slow walk through gray matter pathways
becomes the norm,
with a shrine of peace and clarity
always hiding just around the next bend.
When will this high energy fumbling end?
A dreary, boring matter, this struggle
to think properly.
Yet work demands it.
Planning, clarity, project completion –
these are all attainable, desirable goals.
Fun is only a click, scroll, and a new tab away.
The wolves are howling, consistent in the background
while the moon sails closer and closer
to make a devastating landfall
and send all plans packing.
Run, run, and hope
adaptability is your greatest skill.

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Poetry

That May Be, 13 (134.)

It may be true
that remote work is hard to do,
but music carves a nice path through it.
One cup, two cups, maybe three cups of coffee,
and fingers fly across the keyboard
to destinations and deliverables unknown.
To quantify productivity, ah, the bane
of us all! Hairs will fall
as hours worked must be justified
and home time turns us to contemplative distraction.
“This song slaps” crosses brainways more than once
and violence mingles with violins
in a fucked-up cacophony.
Why are all the positive connotations
connected to destruction?
“You crushed it,” “That’s a banger,” “This riff slays,”
the list of looping verbiage strikes me (ha!)
as too much.
I try to introduce
creative compliments into the mix:
“You’re good at guiding us,” “Thanks for clarifying that,”
“That was illuminating,” light, light,
it’s
a lot of light.
How else will we make it to the future unscathed?
Light a beacon, lead the way, explore
these wonderful wild places
together.

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Poetry

That May Be, 12 (133.)

I really like my desk
but I may need
to invest in a slightly bigger one.
That’s not fair –
I’m trying to set up
my personal tabletop gaming space
while I play Pathfinder remotely,
and most desks
are not
table-sized.
It works so well
until I’ve got the rulebook, my dice, my water bottle, my character sheet,
all these little implements arranged just so
so I may play the game as easily as possible.
You do a great job, desk,
and I appreciate
all the work we do together.

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Poetry

That May Be, 11 (132.)

It may have been a
fluke, a gust of wind stirring a baton,
the soldiers soldiered on
and were taken just like pawns.

One by one they fell,
the plodding war a maw to hell,
and through these skirmishes
a kingdom may have crumbled.

Who remains to see,
and speak of tattered capes?
Who scans the ground,
where bloody bodies are an open grave?

There may yet be books
that tell of these trials,
but they will not know the feelings,
the sighs,
the miles
of marching that forced nervous hands.

The peoples’ soul is in the air now, folks,
and the kings and queens
disband.

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