Wednesday 

~

RK

~

7/12/17

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All the world’s a stage

My mind seems out of sync, you know, like that bit of tape from that scene that was a problem all the way around from the beginning, all the way along until that day you grab the remote hoping for distraction and there it is, the lips are moving and the words are traveling but not in unison. And you don’t know which to follow, the lips or the words, as if it matters. You know? And you flick it off, ashamed that it did matter for a second, albeit an out-of-sync second. My mind seems a bit out of sync, like that, you know? I wonder if that’s how it all starts.

~

RK

~

6/19/17

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Zen Forest Laughter

Unmoored, real estate
ad floats to face marshland trees.

“They call it Billboard.”

~

RK

~

6/15/17

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Posted in Grandvertising, Haiku, Laughter | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Her Pillows

They are as neat and as tidy as can be expected, the ticking clean, clear of blemish or stain, with wee, blue and white flowers, her favourite colours, the two of them sit like that, one atop the other at the head of the bed, high up on the left, as far into the other corner as they can be, as if apologetic for taking up space.

They’ve been there for days now. I keep walking by, wondering if I should keep them, despite the whiskers of tiny, fine feathers poking thru here and there. I think of the down, how soft it is, keep wondering how many nights and generations have rested there, dreamed there, tossed and turned, wrestled with angels there.

I pat and stroke them when I pass by, as if I’m expecting to make up the bed again, as if I can snap the pillowcases and everything to attention before I draw them up, make the bed again, like I’m efficient and together instead of wanting to collapse there and never, ever get up.

Truth be told I’d like to gather them up, one under each arm maybe, and with a huge, long, sharp knife tucked into my belt, I’d climb that hill, the one with the shimmering pond at its feet, and once there, I’d sit with them for a while, cry out the pain there, maybe, I mean other than the lovemaking isn’t that what they’re for, and I’d cry there instead of here with this pen and this book like a madwoman, I’d cry there.

I’d tell them where everything went wrong and how I was always too late or too little to fix any of it, and then when we were all ready, in agreement that I would be like Abraham with his twin Isaacs, only not really, then I’d take the feather pillows, hold them up high, high, take the knife and, howling, cut them from stem to stern, cut the feathers free, flying dancing into the wind laughing and I’d paper the world in down, I’d paper the world with their feathers, for all of us who fall, for all of us who are falling, for all of us who are fallen.

~

RK

~

6/6/17

Posted in Prose, runawaykeyboard | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

May you park in health

This five-day pass is

done. He gives me free exit,

“card as souvenir”.

RK

~

5/16/17

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Sixty Nanoseconds

My ego boosts trucks,

Likes sirens, lights. Everything 

an EMERGENCY.

RK

~

5/16/17

Posted in Poetry, runawaykeyboard | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

“Unwavering”

My desire.

This fantasy.

The thoughts of sooner and later,

of first times and last times,

and every day in between.

The flag of Pollyanna.

~

~

My gratitude.

This warming joy.

The reach of that piece of paper,

its printed promises

and myriad whispered ones.

The dance of Mata Hari.

~

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My regrets.

This hope.

The work mounting up; its clarion call.

The procrastination,

borne of fear, its sick echoes.

The “Who do you think you are?”

~

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Typos.

This memory.

The swell of dementia’s advance.

A seeming refusal

to turn the boat around.

The flow of the river.

~

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Our illness.

This chance for health.

The missing who walk beside us.

The stars that blaze above.

These cosmic universes.

Their invitation to play.

~

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The Manifesto.

This writing of it

on the sleeve of a heart of an

unlikely worm, inching.

None of us knows what it says.

The aroma of java.

~

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My belief in

this surety:

Our meeting face-to-face, skin-to

-skin, when I said too much,

when I didn’t say enough.

And your: “It wasn’t me.”

~

RK

~

2/18/17

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