5.26

Found an unlikely friend today. He's been standing on the same corner for fifty years, waiting for his heart to give out. I didn't want to tell him about mine.
What good would it do him, to learn what wars rage inside me? How could I help his situation by adding ballast to an old patchwork balloon? He's been trying to reach the stars, stretching up his fingers and scraping heaven with his thoughts, but all this time he hasn't grown a single inch closer. I tried to listen to his stories, tried to reason with his thoughts, but couldn't make him out above the explosive silence of the place he stood.
I take solace in this fact: when his core wood finally does collapse and suddenly his heart then snaps and the noise brings what his corpse attracts, he'll have accomplished exactly what he's worked for all these years. While he patiently stretched up to the sky or waited for it to come to him, he's stood among the reflected heavens all this time.

5.25

"I guess it's the anniversary in six days," he said. I could only make out his silhouette in the dark room. Beyond him, the weak candle strained against the inveterate night. I could hear the sharp whine of his sigh over the sound of the wind on the glass. "With her gone, I don't think there's any reason to celebrate." I wanted to say Don't be like that or But the past doesn't own you or There will be next year, but I wasn't sure any of them were true. Not for him.
He turned to me and I couldn't see anything of his face, but I knew the eyes were dark and deep-set behind furious brows. I imagined his pain written across his features. It was horrible to look at, that aching face in the blackness. "What will I do without her?" Go on, I screamed, but I said nothing. Live your life. Just because you lost something, you can't let go of the rest. He thrust his hand deep into his pocket and drew out a small something, which he held to the light. I couldn't see it--had never seen it--but I knew what it was. He didn't trust me that way, didn't trust many people at all, really. But it was no secret that he still kept a small memory of her with him wherever he went.

5.21

The thing I was I am no more. I must reinvent myself as phoenix: to die and be reborn in flame and wonder. I am afraid, though, I will aim for the sun and reach only the aether above me, no higher than I can reach with fingers unassisted. Instead of phoenix, I will be stork.

5.17

Lost pinnacle of common man, the stone bones creep from the earth as a failing reminder of more languorous days.

I turn and run at reminders that my self marches on apace, a short flicker of power to the brief bulb of my life, blinking on and failing again in the selfsame moment, filling the room with a transitory amber before again fading to black. This edifice serves as a stark contrast to a personal time-locked insignificance. Yet--when I look at the old maps, this slow-motion excavation seems stately slow as a landslide--this rejoinder of the pioneers didn't exist with those men. The map even of 1870 contains no such stricture of river, no such violence of relief as this heavenward thrust of stone. Maybe the good old days were made (produced created) for me.
Someday, this geologic invitation to introspection will be worn down to nothing, and someday even memory will not suffice to complete its height. On that day, may the children of tomorrow look back and fear my days as good, and turn from the reminder that all life seems shorter when viewed from behind.

5.11

To hold up the sky, we built a tower of weeds. It was our hearts we used as counterfeit seeds: they, over-anxious, well-shaped, grew.

My tendrils are coronary, my shoots are veins. The pulse of life in me is flame: all-consuming, all-defeating (binary, opposite, confederate pain). Two states of matter together obscene, a destruction complete by inveterate green-growth more abundant than anyone's need. Harken yourself to the turbulent sky. That's the sound of a worldy sigh. It creaks a melody, sings fear, keens. How can you claim to know what it means? Elaborate towers of herbicent fuel, exceeding destruction and winning the duel, a thousand-year fire purposely cruel, stripping the edifice exposing a fool: I am the man who stokes and who grows. It is my soul, friend, that you'll never know: I, enchanted, scar-studded, grow.

Edit 1 Oct 2017:
I noticed a violent typo in the last line that I don't understand. I have written this poem in a book, on shoes, repeated it a hundred times. How did I not notice it until now? It loses the slapping punch at the end, without.
Before:
"I, enchanted, scar-studded, slow."

5.10

I cursed, loud, in the car when I saw the sunset cloudbank last week. The clouds as canvas let the sun paint a heavenly picture: biting blue sky meets orange mountain range of cumulus, deepens to royal blue as the clouds sink to the ground. I battled with myself: should I turn around to find a place just to look? I was late, of course, habitually nowdays, and I couldn't spare the time to stop moving.
But, then?
I yelled: "Live in the moment, idiot!" My car tires screeched and I threw the wheel left. I turned around and drove to Curtis' parents house and just ran to their backyard to absorb the wonder of something I didn't expect, something God would never replicate, something new and old and wonderful.

5.5

Single Dad Garage Sale [A found poem]
220 Wallika Lane
3-6 Friday, 8-7 Sunday

Weed eater,
fishing poles,
bird houses,
6 1/2ft x 9ft insulated garage door,
tv stand (like new),
engine stand,
floor jack,
tricycle,
bicycle,
S-10 truck parts,
tools,
toys,
new shop lights,
new dvd player,
lawn mower (runs great),
wedding supplies,
girls clothes size 6-12 months,
maternity clothes,
plus size women's clothes,
women's scrubs,
dvd's,
cd's,
and video games.
Lots of misc items.

Priced to sale.

5.4

I was falling asleep and I suddenly felt like the sound a marble makes as it rolls across wood. I could hold in my head all the vast expanse of space that surrounded me, and I was alone, inconsolate. I hate that no one made me feel this way; my brain just decided I must.