Raindrops race down cafe windows like playful schoolchildren,
the street beyond fading to a watercolor of blues and greys,
headlights twinkling like stars through the watery veil.
The woman at the counter buys tea that smells of distant memories,
forgotten chess games and a crackling fire.
She pays in exact change, with ancient dollar bills and new pennies,
the coins reflecting copper crescents upon the ceiling as they spin.
Porcelain mugs clink against one another,
their rhythm an ode to someplace else.
And outside this place-
one that exists just outside of time’s trembling grasp-
the rain pours down.
Stars pepper the sky. A solitary lamppost reaches up towards them. It’s a doomed endeavour, for an incandescent bulb is weak, its filament will burn out, the electrons tire. But for now, in the early hours of this Tuesday morning, this lamppost’s light reaches. Up towards the sky.
The lamppost stands on an empty quay. The wind blows against the river, cold and dusty, and the water laps beneath. If anyone were here, they might see the city lights reflected in its ripples. But there is no one here, and the wind moves and the water laps and the light reaches and glistens. The vastness of the dark velvet sky, blurring into black, echoes out the emptiness. It is a lonely time, this two-three-four, but pregnant with possibility. For seeds need space to grow. For music needs silence to matter. For it’s time, not joy, at the heart of growth.
So, here, the in between time, in the space where no one goes, and the ever hopeful, expectant and disappointed lamppost. Here, this empty quay, in time, will watch the sun rise, the water glow pink and gold, and the people come, big and small.
there are certain places that
scare me, I could never figure out why
always the places that are meant for
like parking garages
layers of empty, lifeless concrete
like elevators, metal and miniscule
like sides of a dirt road out
in the middle of nowhere
they are meant for coming
and going, never staying
and that terrifies me
the moment after a sunset starts dying
and fading into black
because they feel like endings
they feel like places for hopelessness
we flee from them without realizing
because no one wants to live in
what is meant to be empty and gone
I fear being stuck in the middle
forgotten and solitary
without moving forward
like an empty car garage
a broken elevator
a waning sunset
the silence between two songs
abandoned apartments with broken windows
the side of a dusty mountain road
the ugly alley behind a formal restaurant
like being alone
end of the year
its raining outside
the patter of the water droplets
hit the roof, the sweet sound
of autumn welcoming our city.
im sitting on my living room floor,
right next to the fire place
the lighting is dim, the main source
coming from the flames in front
of me. the room smells of apple cinnimon
as i refuse to purchase any other
when i look out of the window,
the sky is a soft gray
she isnt mad
she is simply expressing herself
by crying about how harsh
the summer had been to her.
the raindrops on the window
as if who ever reached the window
pane first would be deamed
the winner. i mentally bet on each
raindrop i focused on.
i let my breathe fog the window
my cold finger draws a sad face
but i dont want it to be lonely
like its creator
so i add a happy face close by.
the sun begins her goodbye
promising the moon would replace her
to keep me company.
I’m on a train bound for an
all I know is
this train isn’t stopping
It’s a cross-country journey
I glimpse something
every time I look
out the window
when I can see anything
my view is shrouded
by the murky haze
of a long
Blips of color,
snatches of luminous light
flash by as
the train takes its course
in precious bursts
I’d stop and
look around for a while
if I could,
take a breath of warmth
the cold reality is
I don’t have access
to the brakes
I wonder what life
would be like if
while the graveyard is quiet
i rise to greet the night
jaw loose and swinging
knuckles catching grass between digits
i scrape my way across the
and crawl up to a stone
whose words have been lost.
i think i knew them, once.
my bones ache like they want
to sink six feet down.
but i don't know their name
and i don't know their sound.
they breathe below the earth and
i lay there to share the quiet
until the sky starts to turn pink.
then i say goodbye to the stone,
and the bones buried beneath.
i'll scrape my way reluctantly
across tombstone plots
back to the place from whence i came
jaw loose and swinging
wearing more dirt on my legs.
i'll crawl back into my grave
and wait for the graveyard
to turn quiet again.
for the nights are sacred
and companions, sometimes,
have no need for a name.
it’s hot and miserable out here
an empty suburban playground
the mulch a dusty light brown
bleached by the harsh sun
in fact, everything looks like that
the once vibrant greens and reds
of the slide and swings
are washed away, faded and sickly light
the monky bars are missing two or three bars
the jungle gym is a safety hazard
the swings creek ominously loud,
their foundations shifting with every back and forth
the toys buried deep in the mulch
have long since been replaced and forgotten
the slide has adolescent vandalism
carved into its hard plastic skin
initials in hearts, together forever, harshly crossed out
the grass surrounding the playground
is dead and dry and not grass at all;
an old man used to sit on the rickety bench
he died on that bench
and because no one goes to that ugly dried-out playground
the stench of his body rotting in the angry sun
will remain their forever
the park, once bright and full of life
housed many cookouts and block parties
but now, it is barren
empty and uncomfortably warm
there is no shade in this playground
no trees agreed to grow there
so everything under the sun
burns burns burns