Why am I only capable
of admiring the world
for brief moments
at a time?
I’m walking on this path
beautiful plants and flowers.
Some of these look like sunflowers
but they’re smaller
with a crimson core that bleeds
out onto yellow tipped petals.
Some of them are fully blossomed,
outstretched and demanding attention.
There’s other flowers that
also look like sunflowers.
Their petals are completely yellow,
but they’re not sunflowers.
They’re a lot smaller.
I’m sure there was a plaque
or something to say what it is
I’m looking at but I was too
caught up in my own head,
incapable of admiring
the world around me.
Now the only plaque
in front of me reads
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
that’s next to a bunch of small
bike wheels that have been welded
and painted a firehouse red.
The way they’ve been welded
has shaped them
so that collectively
they kind of look like
an onion carriage.
I don’t understand the name.
I don’t understand the sculpture.
I don’t understand art.
There’s birds sitting on top of the sculpture.
There’s bird shit under the sculpture.
I’m glad the birds like it.
Maybe they know something I don’t.
Maybe they know what these flowers are called.
Maybe, just maybe,
they’re capable of admiring the world
better than I can.
Or maybe they just need a place to shit.
There’s a Seat Here if You’d Like
Two men sit beside each other in a café.
The open seat between them is reserved for
someone willing to sacrifice personal space
for some leg rest.
A woman enters the café and orders a latte.
After ordering, she takes the seat in between the two men.
One man crosses his arms,
the other sits up straight.
The one that crosses his arms looks at the woman and
then looks away.
The one who sits up straight looks at the woman and
then looks away.
The woman waits for her latte while her ears ring.
How about this weather?
the crossed armed man asks, unprompted.
The woman responds, knowing the comment
was directed at her without looking over.
The room gets quiet again.
What did you order?
The man who sat up straight asks.
The woman responds, without looking at the man.
The barista yells.
The woman gets up, grabs her drink,
and walks out of the café.
The two men sit in silence again.
They will sit there quietly until
another woman decides her legs are too tired to stand.
We’re Gonna See the World Together
First you meet someone
and then you look them
in the eyes for too
long and start making
promises to each
other about the
world and how much of
it you’ll see together.
They say to you,
I’ve always wanted
to travel and see the seven wonders
and so you say to them,
Wow! Me too! We should
see all of them together!
They agree with you
when you say that.
But conversations become
fewer and further between
you’re so far away
from each other
that no plane, train, or
close the distance.
You are strangers once
again with the whole
world to explore
Whose Hand was That?
Get your fucking head out of the gutter.
A dream, spoken into the air while
you’re awake becomes a fantasy.
So when you had that dream where you and that girl
played with each others fingers before you interlocked
your hands it was best that you
kept that shit in your sleep.
It takes two to tango and that
girl doesn’t want to dance with you.
Keep that shit in your dreams.
Cause while you’ve been awake,
you’ve never held that girls hand.
And the thing is, your brain can’t
make this shit up.
So even in your dream,
it wasn’t her hand you were holding but someone else’s.
Think about that and ask yourself,
Whose hand were you holding last night,
and why don’t you want to let go of it?
Love Letters Don’t Hurt Anymore
Love letters don’t hurt anymore.
Your letters were
Handwritten with a purpose
that was fulfilled years ago.
Your writings are a reminder of that purpose;
A reminder of love.
Your words, carefully inked onto
construction paper, hold
assurances of unconditional loyalty that
weren’t lies but dated truths.
We had conversations like these often.
You’d ask me if I’d love you forever
and I’d say that in that moment,
my answer was yes.
You didn’t like that.
You heard it and recognized it
for what it was:
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
here I am,
caught in the gray space that
To say that I always loved you
is to do no justice to the fact
that I always loved you;
Even when I didn’t.
I got headaches from your demands
for the bare minimum,
Do you love me?
Do you love me??
Do you love me???
I said yes.
Said but never shown,
an absentee lover is useless.
Words are just words;
And to dress up the word
in italics doesn’t make it more than it is.
Inkblots turn one cent pieces of paper into
love letters but they can not turn
indifference into love or
make promises last forever.
One Trick Pony
Determined to not be a one trick pony,
I’m going to write some optimistic
celebration of life that isn’t preceded
by a death in the family.
Who said the time for cliché is behind us,
that waking up and smelling the coffee so you can get out the door to smell the roses is a bad thing?
But remember that rose stems have thorns on them
and will cut the skin on your finger in an
effort to ruin your day.
You’ll start to think that
flowers aren’t for sniffing but for gifting.
You’ll give flowers to your lover
and make love every day while
they slowly go limp and die in a corner of the room
because they were never supposed to be taken out
of the sun in the first place.
Maybe just stop taking things away from
where the world puts them the first time around.
Maybe smell the roses and then keep going about
your day because the day isn’t about smelling flowers,
It’s about everything else you do after you’ve smelled them.
And remember that all the flowers in the world
could be growing out of your asshole and it wouldn’t
matter one bit if you were still looking in
the mirror and hating what you see.
Fuck the mirror
and fuck your asshole Flowers.
No more of the fantasies;
Because you don’t need to live out a fantasy to
feel like you might just be doing things right.