Stranger at a bus stop
Muttering to herself
“Apparently forever ended yesterday
And we are now in the unknown”
I went to the grocery store
And filled two carts with the staples
I went home and closed the blinds
I hope I can weather the storm
And that I bought enough peanut butter
He had only ever known
The dark side of the moon
Absolute zero his home
A continual state of gloom
He was but a mote
And she a mighty titan
His heart was smote
But how life did brighten
She stole fire from Zeus
A passion’s mighty flame
She became his muse
And He offered her his name
Some things are meant to be
And others are not
She and flame went from he
But smothers naught
For though Promethium left
She certainly left her mark
Love’s half life a premium bereft
Radioactivity’s a deadly spark
Lucky for him he’ll be okay
And wrap himself in love’s putrefaction
Because he’s not afraid of decay
As it’s an exothermic reaction
You think you’re beautiful now
But you were beautiful then
You felt insignificant
A single grain of sand on a beach
I leaned in and tried to count your facets
Step out of the shade and into the light
Squinting I counted them one by one
I gave you my strength which you took
You propped yourself up for another
You imagine he’s made you beautiful
You consider yourself grown because of him
You think yourself the perfect partner
You were always beautiful and perfect
Your growth is a smoothing out of your edges
You’ve covered yourself in paint and pillows
Adept at avoiding the eggshells
He enveloped you, hiding you away
Control is not caring
Love shouldn’t be a labor
When you no longer satisfied his ego
He spit you out and moved on
Take off the pillows, wash off the paint
Bathe in a tub of vinegar
From pearl back to a grain of sand
Take my strength even if for another
I just want to thank you all for bearing with me on this journey. I appreciate every one of you. I celebrate the number only as a milestone of connections of likeminded people…all on a journey of self exploration and sharing the human experience!
Please take a seat and fasten your seatbelt as it’s probably going to be a bumpy ride!
Thanks again!
We are won, when we are one
Second verse, same as the universe
Shared consciousness from a unified source
Sheared from subconscious the rarified voice
Conservation of matter:
recycle, reuse…reduce
Preservation matters:
empathy, sympathy…compassion
Sharing the same mind like the many facets on a beautiful gemstone, that looks like the universe observed from the nil-space beyond.
There should be limits.
He smiled as he placed the 50 count, brown, lunch bags on the checkout conveyor.
Driving through town, on the way to his first day at his new job, he glanced at various shops and restaurants that he had worked at previously.
Everyone always cheered as he entered a former place of employment, and always the question of if he would be coming back to work there came up.
It felt amazing to be missed and wanted and he was known by everyone.
His new job was at a bottle sorting facility, that took in the redemptions and made sure the different types were sorted appropriately.
He drove home from work that night reeking of skunky, rotten alcohol…hoping he wouldn’t get pulled over.
49.
The next day he was completely up to speed and was able to participate in the idle chitchat with the other sorters, but quickly the conversation degraded into the typical misogynistic blathering of the clueless.
Tomorrow his lunch would require 2 bags.
48.
He heard murmurs of his outperforming the other sorters and caught sideways glances, so he kept in pace with the others, but started eating his lunch at a decrepit picnic table that sat under a maple tree.
46.
The best that could be said was that today was Friday and he made a three bag lunch that would take the entire half hour lunch period to eat.
43.
He almost went to the local nature trail over the weekend, just so he could pack a lunch, but had thought better of it.
Monday he put his deep fryer through its paces, making goodies for all his coworkers, making it necessary to double-bag the greasy contents…for a total of 6 bags.
Friends were made. 37.
The next week went by in a blur, as he continued to bring treats in for his coworkers and he inwardly felt himself speeding towards the light at the end of the tunnel…a fresh start.
He walked in Monday loaded for bear, looking to kill what was left of his brown bags throughout the week, already having spent time combing the help wanted ads, and heard the murmurs of a new start going through HR on boarding.
He sat beneath his maple tree, on his rickety picnic table, and just as he was sinking his teeth into his sandwich the new sorter walked over and she took his breath away.
5.
By the end of the week he alienated himself from most coworkers by not bringing in any more deep fried treats, he had taped a bag over the course of a couple days and by Friday he walked in with a bag completely covered, inside and out, with duct tape, but to his surprise when he got to lunch she had brought food for the both of them…and would do so for now on–without limits.
0.
50 words for different kinds of snow
Granular, fine, crusty, blowing…
50 words for love I know
You’ve given to me in the showing
A palette of mixed hues
Crimson to egg shell blues
I use the various colors of paint that you’ve given me
Somewhere between warmth, acceptance and family
I feel the outer surface of the new word ‘love’ but can’t read it
The definition is crystal clear, perhaps it’s meant to precede it
Careful in the birthing of this new word I simply cannot misspell
From my heart it’s bursting, as the word you’ve given me is D-A-N-Y-E-L!
[The picture is of my grandmother, who went from being an adorable, little Mohawk baby to one of the most beautiful, strong, resilient women I have had the honor of knowing.]
Wounds so deep we carry them in our DNA
First Nation babies ripped from their families
Placed in catholic run boarding schools
Beaten for speaking with their mother’s tongue
Raped, murdered and buried in mass graves
Beneath a plot of land that now holds title to my pain
In deed–ownership claimed
These “savage” children of the wild
How can they wholly know what’s right for them?
Without baptism by genocide being the holy rite for them?
I don’t carry the tongue as I am a child of relocation
But I feel the sorrow in my marrow and I cry
I cry at the very sight of my grandmother’s picture
I miss her like I miss being able to speak Mohawk
But I am proud to be her grandson…to carry on
I don’t do rosaries like she did at 6am
I walked away from the church the day she said she was unworthy of the host
If she was unworthy what chance do we all have?
The host! We are the host! This is/was/should be OUR home
I’ll find peace within myself, while you paint your face red for your football game
I’ll find peace within myself, while you run the black snake through tribal lands
I’ll find peace within myself, when the day comes I can hug all my missing cousins and tell them they’re loved. They’re loved. THEY ARE LOVED!
[“Good enough for the Indians,” my grandma would say on many occasions, to mean that we should be happy with what we have, as this is our lot in life.]
Early morning stillness
Sound of coffee brewing
Shafts of light bring the outside in
Breathe in the new day
Breathe out yesterday
Dreams dance at the periphery
Affirmations whispered through cracked lips
You are what you continue to think
Eyes close, finger tracing rim of coffee cup
I…
Am…
A…
Writer…
I am spending $200 on a 1915 No. 5 Underwood typewriter. That’s it. That’s the punchline.
Why? To write the next great American novel on, of course! Why go to this length? Two reasons: 1. I’m pretty sure there’s no internet on it, so no more wormholes of distraction. 2. I’m really hoping it’s haunted by a world class writer’s ghost that will posses me and help me write the novel.
By the way…it’s in perfect working condition and I can order ribbon from Amazon. Crazy? Like a fox!
No, really…do I need help?
erichmichaels 