A self indulgent missing you poem

I've been wanting to write a "missing you" piece for a while, but kept stopping myself because I wanted to write something more "interesting". Well fuck it, I got good and lonely and wrote this down. Then I felt better.



Let's sit and laugh at me
For me

I don’t seem to want to do much else these days

But laugh for me
At the state I’m in

That’s the state I’m in

In the car I think of imaginary tragedies and cry at stop lights
Checking my eyes in the rearview mirrior
Laughing about weeping over nothing real
And then crying again for the feeling

I miss the hallway to his room
And the way it smells

I miss San Francisco
When the weather turns this way I wish my face were near his face
My skin near his skin
Both of us in jackets and scarves
His jackets and scarves
Because I always forget to dress for colder weather

This kind of missing aches
It leaves whole hours raw
The time consumed filling the void he made and then trying to busy myself
It’s all somehow indicative of Fall

When change is so beautiful
And yet the trees are left bare

story

eyes that smile

jasmine told leila 

what mother use to tell her

when it was dark 

and scary

she would whisper:

i'll tell you a story

a story to keep you safe

a story to keep us safe

a protection story

listen now 

and hush

the words are here

to keep us warm

to keep us together

to keep us safe

hush now and listen little one

as i tell you a story.

god is a black mystic hippie cowgirl

she said

God 

is in the details

the small things

the all things

But

this world has been ripped open and taped back together 

so many times by so many shaky hands

this God

is decaying

and leaking

corrosive hazardous waste

this God

is the church

a flying buttress steadying obscenely high towers 

arrogantly looking down 

over pince-nez glasses

God

is a crusade

of blood soaked fabric and armor

stinking 

of sweat and greed

God

is abortion clinic bombers

fundamentalists with signs that tell women

their only worth

is their ability to act as incubator

God

is carefully rehearsed rhetoric 

spewing out of the corner

of tobacco stained lips

permanently fixed

in a hateful sneer

God

is an imaginary friend 

that talks to you

through a magic book

which you follow with reckless abandon

without question

shedding autonomy and self off

like so many itchy sweaters

God

is Michelangelo's bearded white God

muscled and toned and Zeus-like 

in all of his narrow-minded 

homophobic

misogynistic 

glory

God

is convenient faith

on sunday

and hypocrisy

on monday

But

God

should be a story

God should be magical

and should not be in a bible

or in monotone voices 

singing in apathetic unison

God is a 

That

A She

An Us

A We

Not them

Not one

But all

God

is actually a black mystic hippie cowgirl with a beautiful laugh

driving a blue pick up 

with a beat up guitar and a mountain of books

pouring out the back

She

is a story

Ancient and beautiful

Magical and infinite

Singing with open eyes

about stars and death

love and pain

but always smiling

i have no desire to leave my home
i have no wish to go
the waves crashing here are as beautiful as those on any distant shore
the light at the horizon at midnight
invites a stormy future
and i sit in the cold and stare
this small bay within a bay
that harbors more mysteries in its depths than on all the earth above
home home
she sang the word today and i cried
home home
this quiet graceful life

we drove on

we drove on

the sunset chasing us

into the night

not looking back

and thinking we'd won

the sun smiled

at our silliness

of running

because she knew

the faster we ran into the moon

the sooner she would catch us

laughing

with open eyes

the laugh of immortally beautiful moments

atlas

Atlas

has grown tired

and

longing to rest 

in his bed of stardust

put his weight down

gently laying it

in a cradle of disillusioned dreams

frames

"are you an athlete?"

"yes."

"i thought so. you have that athletic glow."

i stared at her scrubs: light blue with unintentionally jaundiced ducks. chosen, no doubt, with compassion to force a glimmer into her patients' lives. kind eyes. overly eager, but kind.

it's funny

my body

my frame

is strong

the architect used Doric pillars to shape me

to support me

to hold me

simple and strong

to hold the weight of Botticelli curves

but 

where once those Doric pillars stood sound and sure

now lie delicate and beautiful rubble

like the Parthenon

lovely and breathtaking and decayed

their structural integrity compromised by time

funny

because those pillars have withstood 

battles

centuries

history

love

and civilizations 

they are strong

still

despite it all

their beauty still evident

still singing the songs of the past