to wherever crows fly
October ended. November
rushed in with warm embrace.
The autumn world smelled
like spring. Deciduous trees
stood rank against property
lines. What leaves hadn’t yet
fallen were falling. A blanket
of colorful decay covered the
ground in orange, amber, red,
and brown. Only the crows
remained, begging for death
to fall into their laps. And when
nothing fell, they flew away,
to wherever crows fly.
And you, standing alone,
watched white clouds like
smooth river stones
skip across the
expansive
blue sky.
nothing worse
The 7:30am parking lot of
the state psychiatric hospital
is filled with the out of sync
screamed choruses of the
committed. Their clenched
fingers clutch fenced-in
porches that separate them
from the outside world.
You’ve been employed here
for six years, only thirty-two
more to go. Unless of course,
things take an ugly turn and
you end up on the other side
of the nurses station becoming
a patient yourself. And sure,
every clinician jokes about it,
but you’ve seen it happen so
many times before. From this
parking lot you watch the
autumn fog lift, revealing a
bright burning circular orange
sun that rises over treetops,
highlighting dying colors:
red, and amber, and purple,
and brown. And you think
of all the things you think
you’d rather be doing, but
even then you can’t think
of anything. And there’s
nothing worse than that.
halfway through autumn, halfway to winter
after six days, the two feeders
out front remained untouched,
it’s never a good sign when the
birds disappear.
the thermometer on the back
porch reads 73 degrees,
it has for two days.
halfway through autumn,
halfway to winter,
spring returned.
does this happen every year?
is november always like this?
these questions don’t scare you.
not remembering doesn’t scare you.
the thought of snow, that cold wet
white death quietly raining from the
sky upon barren land, scares you.
but for now, there is no snow.
there is only the full feeders,
motionless like retired gallows.
and there is your sorrow, and
your life. all continuing on.
another day, another season,
another year. repeating, again.
and it’s beginning to rain
driving 80mph through the
setting autumn sun,
there’s something
about the way
sinking sunlight
hits power lines on a
deserted county road
that slightly softens
your beating heart,
like a sort of magic,
like seeing the eyes
of the woman you love
after a few days of
being alone.
yet, right now,
this feeling can’t
be enjoyed.
you’re lost in your head again,
seeking answers to questions
that can never be answered,
questions that persist
amongst fading memories
of cold years gone by.
and at home, gazing into black twilight,
there are no shooting stars to wish upon,
no clouds and no moon, just pitch-black,
and it’s beginning to rain.
trading rocks for pinecones
Menacing clouds mixed
with sundowning smiles,
things are not going so
well. I try trading rocks
for pinecones, but kicking
them just doesn’t feel the
same. Where do you go
when the graveyard is
filled and no one
picks up your
call?
simple song
beer foam rising in the bottleneck—
another missed chance to drown
some ants, but in the winter
there are no ants, there is
only you.
springbirds return early to thaw
their wings in the sun, they sing
their songs from wet branches,
they sing their songs for you.
confusion is universal
when the worm dies
on salted concrete,
when you lose
your purpose
to reality.
don’t let this happen.
find love and let it in.