i lay back against the multitudinous
blades of grass and attempt to reconcile
the pressure of my body upon the earth, and
that of the world's weight on me
but isn't it always best to start
at the beginning?

i wonder if we are both not more
than the number that comes after
our fathers' names. are we the
remainder of a fractured equation
(in)correctly calculated in our
mothers' youth? and if god Exists,
does he do so in judgement over us,
red pen in hand?  would he say
THIS ANSWER IS WRONG? either way,
would either of us be born again?

birthed off the cool waters of the atlantic,
there is no large body of water here
to lose myself in, so i lay in the grass
as the wind carries the blades like waves
cresting into the shore that is my body

new beginnings- i open another pack of smokes
and light this, today's 21st cigarette
i inhale, swish the smoke around in my lungs,
and quickly dispose of the cigarette, rubbing
the filter hard into the soft dirt at my side.
i exhale, pondering to myself that maybe these
carcinogens and satisfactions are all just
too much, both too foreign and prone to rejection,
at time one more than the other. which,
you ask? i'll never tell.
i light another cigarette, and blow the smoke
into the clear july air, watching it trail away.
it's just another thing that leaves.

i keep forgetting never to ask you how you are.
every time i inquire as to your well-being
you answer so quietly i can hear your breath
rolling its eyes in your diaphragm, almost as if
to say "how could you ask me a thing like that?"
because i love you, and i find myself
constantly trying to reconcile how much
you'd like me to care for you with all
the reasons i want to, almost as many
as the innumerable leaves of grass beneath me,
supporting me, being crushed by me,

sticking me like needles,  and i'm
scratching like mad. are we
mad? crazy, distraught,
are these the reasons we destroy ourselves?
not brick by brick, but we've become
these fixer-upper kind of men in
desperate need of rehab, still not as desperate
as the need for keeping up appearances:
fresh coats of paint, neatly trimmed lawns,
windows blown out and shattered, still the
curtains are always tightly drawn.
what would the neighbors say?
locked doors never let anyone inside.

and
did i just fall asleep?
it's evening, and i try
to account for the time that's passed,
for all the thoughts in my head,
the fleeting remnants of a dream
to which my mind's fingers are outstretched
like those of a child's and the
string of a balloon about to slip through
i'm trying to hold on
please don't leave

i dreamt of us two, kindergartners
in the schoolyard at recess, and i'm
pushing you. am i a bully? no,
my hands are to your back, there's the metal
squeaking of a swing set, and your voice-
"higher! higher!" i do as you ask,
and i wait for you to come back down.

night falls, and the dew of the grass
kisses gently at my neck and feet, and
isn't it the little things that keep us going?
i hurry to write it all down- the dream,
the reconciliation of this day against the others,
the words between the bee stings and the honey,
the spider, its poisonous venom,
its stunningly intricate web,
the basking in the midday sun, the
inter-connectivity of the sun's warmth
and sunburn, between the stink of life's
shit and the growth it propagates
i struggle to write it all down
beginning to end,
this, and all of the things coming to,
and going away from me
in the grass
in the cool,
cool grass.

1 responses total.

Nice one, Robert.

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