Raindrop Series // No. 002

Courtesy of Tyler Knott Gregson

tylerknott.com

Goal #2: Write it all out.

"Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper."
-Ray Bradbury

Raindrop Series // No. 001

Time wasted; time lost
Time of underestimated cost

The moments dissolve --

My memory has disgraced and obliterated you.

Goal #1: Be present in the present.

Courtesy of Julian Bialowas
http://julianbialowas.com/

Retrieval

Buddy
is the Golden Retriever that lives next door.
I can't be sure
of the length of his life;
only that it has been scarcely walked outside the fence
                        that cages him --
                        --not a white-picket, but rather
a chain-link
in the square of the back yard.

As he passes
just behind metal diamonds
and noses the grass at the base,
as if looking
for a way out --

his thick caramel-and-white seems
    such a waste
         in that thankless space
and the longing on his face --
         familiar.

Like the need to stretch,
or to breathe;
to walk in the open,

unconfined by the constricts of all one has known.

Corduroy Jacket

still, the corduroy jacket gripped in my fingers,

ear pressed to your thumping heart --

slow breathing --

lingering, holding off…

numb and disbelieving

and grasping on to minutes, seconds as they

whisper past us

your guitar case rests against the wall;

a line of passengers filed

it’s almost 1 p.m.

almost time for you to go,

almost time --

but i am clutching the corduroy still.

your heart faintly beating into my

ears full of blood pulsing --

still among the rolling wheels of luggage bags

and automatic doors…

releasing,

i meet your almond eyes with mine

small pools contorting your face

and without words, a kiss

the second-to-last time i will ever feel the softness

you press your whiskered cheek

to one side, then the other

in that French way of yours

but this time, it's the ache of adieu

in the pressure of your lips

you extract from your pocket

a single sheet pressed into sixteenths

and say to me with gentle transfer,

“read this when you get home”

and stepping back,

the space is tangible.

you make a joke as you gather your things;

a single desperate burst of a laugh,

and it is not enough.

suddenly,

it is not enough.

closing the space, i reach;

my fingers delved into your frizzy black curls,

a single stroke of tongue and pillowed closure --

the very last time.

the promise of contact,

the "call me when you arrive home,"

no goodbye.

we do not speak goodbyes,

and still

i cannot speak them.

i see the radiating pulse of reality --

it does not register.

i turn before i comprehend

before i cannot leave at all

and with the song playing over in my head,

promising things unpractical --

“i will see you again,”

walk through the people

with my face beginning its contortions,

briskly and without looking back, there is no other way,

through the automatic doors

into cold kansas city again...

empty and abruptly without you --

So, Easily the World Rotates on Axis

So, easily the world rotates on axis --

still -- as it had before,

and makes its slow revolutions

as dictated by the sun.

      Our frail little existence --

          paltry.

While millions of stars are held in place

and glow from light-years away,

we lie

we laugh

we tire

we die.

And the marrow of life

has yet to be extracted --

      Our bones brittle

      behind counters,

             cubicles and desks.

The man signs another check.

The woman wipes the table

     with a rag soaked in grimy water

so shallow in the bucket,

                   you can see to the bed.

And returning it, she wonders

how full and dark it is

in bodies

outside her little tributary.