Author: poetryfest

The doctor said
I’m broken—
and suddenly
I see the broken that’s always been me.

It’s such a relief to finally understand
the misfires, the restless nights,
the ache I couldn’t name—
but also,
a kind of devastating wonder,
how did I live nearly forty years
without knowing?

I imagine the child I might’ve been—
supported, held, soothed—
instead of being told off, again and again,
as though everything inside me—
was wrong.

I don’t dwell here, really,
I don’t turn over these days
in a slow, sad ritual—
but there’s a small part of me
that still wonders.

Time is just a witness—
And patient, I observe.
Even if I flattened its curve,
walked it right to the start—
would I choose to unravel?

Would I trade my loves, my losses,
my failures, my triumphs—
all the messy, luminous chaos
that made me who I am?

No.
I realise I can’t risk erasing them.

So no, I’m not broken.
I’m just…
not whole, either.

In the dark, I search for your light
Wondering why, when I could have it right
If only once, we could ignite
A spark, a flame, a brand new sight

You kept me like a secret, safe and secure
I kept you like a hidden treasure, where only we endure
Through storms and through the sun, we held on tight
You kept me like a secret,
But I kept you like an oath.

From best friends to enemies,
We’re good till your dead to me
You said you’d never go, but here you stand
With a smile, you cut the rope, you understand
The pain you caused, it’s hard to forget

Thought we had forever,
but our forever was far too short
You took the key and locked the front door
No more laughter, no more light
Best friends to enemies, we were good till you turned on me

In the shadows of my room, I dream
Of you, like a ghost, I’m always near
Memories of your smile, so sweet
But now, just a memory, a broken beat

Echoes of unrequited dreams
In the silence of the night, they scream
Longing for what we could have been
But now, just a whisper, a lost scene

Fed my books to
Pissed children.
They said to
Halt my chariot,
Do my bidding,
Order a gathering, &
Recite a lament,
For my bitten forehead.

Hit a tree after I blew
Secrets in its hole.
Written on top of my
Joking blunt knuckles,
The changeless.
Such are the battles I see in the
War that’s coming.

I think a secret for my friend.
See her singing somewhere,
Picking out what she stashed
In her locker, just because she’s
Decided her skins burning, & her
Heart should explode now.

Heaven forbid any bloodied
Clouds are found
Where she’s headed. I wonder
If she thinks about me
Sharpening a blunt
Knife or two, after I hear she’s
Left me lonesome here
For battle.

Slide One
A photograph. A tube of lipstick. A napkin with a faded kiss, smudged and bruised like the one upon my lips.

Slide Two
A broken fingernail. A chunk of thinning hair, greasy and dead, unattended like the child in the back of a van as the mother collapses in the dairy aisle of Walmart. A matchbook with only one unbroken match remaining.

Slide Three
An unsmoked cigarette. A business card with a street address hastily scratched onto the back. A pill without any identifying features, the urge to swallow and determine its psychotropic level almost too difficult to resist.

Slide Four
A set of keys. A crumpled piece of paper with nothing on it but a series of numbers, not enough of them to make a call. A coffee stain where the page was torn.

Slide Five
A knife, rusty by the handle and blade dull, but still sharp enough to break skin. Blood. If this was a collection of evidence in a trial, this might be the murder weapon. They might be testing the blood to see who it belongs to, test the blade to see whose hand committed these atrocities. But there is no question.

The knife, the blood. The lipstick on the tissue, the lost piece of the manicure that cost me more than the shoes on my feet. The pill, its identification forgotten, sitting in the bottom of my purse as I contemplate whether to try it. The keys to my apartment.

One victim, all harmed by the same hand—dry and calloused, in desperate need of the near empty bottle of hand lotion sitting on the gritty counter of the bathroom sink. A series of phases in one person’s life, the blunt blade failing to sever the point where they connect. A cough of ash into porcelain as the last match – now torn from the stem – disappears down the drain.

One last look into the mirror, the crack almost unnoticeable under the level of grime, hiding the imperfections in my marred gaze. The door slams shut behind me as I step into the noisy bustle of the sleepless city to seek yet another means of destruction. There is no question.

Just remember: I was a boy when you left.
If you came to me now, you would find an old man.
If only Daedalus would lend me his wings of audacity,
wings to fly, to soar to you. I have, yes, been designing a flying machine.
To sweep through the Venetian air, cross the Giocondan ramparts– to see you.
Once, once more, Sweetness. Thought you could pack up your Smile, & leave me?
Yet– look there– it remains! With me! Blessing me! Cursing me– with hope: you will return.
Smiling. Ever smiling. Come ba-a-a-a-a-ck to me.
You were cruel, to leave. For I loved you with Everything. All my thoughts. All my Heart.
All my Hope. All my Soul. Each day I awaken, to your eyes. Your eyes welcome me. Your
face guides me. Your mouth teaches me.
So many new maps to navigate this new world– but for my world–
only one, true compass– your face. Your smile.
Your eyes, come to clasp hands with mime.
When I’d press my ear to you, the pounding of my heart would move in rhythm to yours.
Until you’d hear my heart– pounding– inside you.
Pressed so close. This close. Just like this. You kiss. This day.
So many days– seasons– years– We’d work hard. To en-capture your smile.
On this bit of canvas. We invented: new paints. New colors. New brushstrokes.
Layering on your smile. Alchemy became our sorcerer of wizardry. Our genie.
Serving us this primordial cry. This grimace. This Smile. Toil became our wine, our bread,
our sacrament. “Smile for me.” Am left– bereft. Am left –alone.
With just shreds of what you wore. To make you smile. For me. Forever.

Have painted your face in a blue-green landscape of blue and green, cool tones so they will
outlast the yellowing of time: This landscape of Barren cliffs and roaming waters–
You watched me paint one line outward. Just one, thin bridge where a man might cross.
—To escape from a visit to the Circean wonders of you.
No he can’t. No, I can’t. That face– you see it? Look close– designed by nature?
By God? By me? Or by you, my love– to lure me in?
To Mysterious loving & gradual embracing.
Always taking me in, always welcoming, forever loving, understanding–.
& Comforting. Always possessing with heart and soul, your body, those eyes!
And, that smile. Is it a smile? No one, no one, no one Knows.
Here– with me–I see all my life was– is– all my life IS you.
My life– all I am -the substance of my life– is, you. Where did you go?
To Venice? Or back to the Tuscany of your youth? Why leave? When you went through that
door– you took my life– my world. Now when I lift the window up, or pull the door open–
Only a shadow of you returns.
Through the window; the door: your shadow haunts everything.
I wander searching –imagining you might be– behind the mirror,
or in this pale pale capturing of you. I see you as if in the mirror, the one up there–
the one intended brings in more light, to flush out the darkness why can’t! it! Bring! In! You!
You are not yet dead to me. That, is my curse. I want you back. Till then?
-I live like a Copernicus: Waiting for a comet: hoping to be alive when you return.

So acute is this sharp parting—
an iceberg calves from my heart.

This cold mass does not flee—
it hoe-harrows a steeper scarp.

I am that holy man.
Drifting through the desert,
mud cracks rayed in all directions—
cutting my feet.

I am that anchorite.
Fed through a rusty grate
chained—
in my nesting cell.

In that high house in San Francisco he died:
So lone so soon so young.

Small bread knife parings sour water
all—
grind to ashes in my mouth.

In between the Gaza tents
pitched by refugees many times over
the children and grandchildren of refugees
trying to survive their hunger and thirst
have a thrift store
that carries my belongings

take my things
and love them

my favorite blue shirt
a pair of dusty shoes
my son’s crumpled poetry book
a plastic doll with no arm
they were dug up from the rubble of my home
As we lay crushed under the marble slab
from our kitchen counter
I was cooking a meal for my children
when the Israeli drone entered our home through the window
Its glass blown out long ago
by the bombing.
It hovered over us, its tentacles loud and menacing
buzzing incessantly
before it dropped its bomb
and flew away.

Snow White,
Circling the sky
In search of messengers
To show them the way to newfound
Freedom

I have bacteria growing in my head.
That’s what I call it now—
Bacteria.
Too alive to be imagined,
Too cunning to be mine.

They scanned my skull
After the incident—
Bright white lights,
Machines that hummed like lies.
“Everything looks normal.”
And that—that—
Is what frightens me most of all.

There’s something in there,
Squirming just behind my eyes,
Beneath the bone pulsing
In the quiet, watching.

Are we all just meat puppets,
Flesh vessels
Piloted by parasites
Coded in wet grey?

If my head moves my limbs,
But the thing inside
Is not me—
Then what am I?
Where do I begin?
Where do I live?

Am I the passenger
In this nest of nerves?
Or the parasite itself,
Squatting in a borrowed form?

I stare at my reflection—
Too long.
It looks human.
Almost.
There’s a delay.
A twitch.
A mimic’s stutter.

I tested it.
Skin, thigh—clean.
Arm—nothing.
Shoulder—blank.
But the stomach—
It moved.

It slid.
Slick and warm.
Like seaweed
That thinks.
It dove deeper,
Hiding.
Playing.

It knew I was coming.

Now it curls inside me,
A knot of nerves,
A wet fist of thought,
Threading itself
Through marrow and lung,
Lacing its hunger
Through my spine,
My teeth.

I scream—
But the voice is not mine.
I move—
But something else decides.

I claw
At floors,
At walls,
At the air—
Every plank,
Every surface
It might nest behind.

I will find it.
Tear it from its bone-cage.
Rip the truth from sinew.
Gut this thing
Even if it’s all that’s left.
Even if it’s me.

I will peel myself back
Layer by layer—
Until I see what’s real.
Until there’s nothing left to hide in.
Until I know—

Am I the parasite
Or just the shell it hollowed out?

farewell dragon fly
hovering above a pond
their wings casting wakes