failure and the dark

grow up and listen to the notes you paid to take. book a time to see the doctor. maybe there's more that could explain why I feel the way I do? her eyes are kinder than yours and this is nothing new: she's seen this film before and has her ways to change the end. 

change like the ice on the window overnight. sometimes there are easy fixes. sometimes things are harder. medical monitoring to catch the changes if and when they come. what will make me take the steps to stand and board the train again? am I driven by reward or fear of failure and the dark?

every day a phone call down the emergency escape. never quite hearing you over the steps of my descent. never more than late or out of touch. I still need to book my flights.

mirrors etc.

we make mirrors when the reflection in the pond isn’t clear enough. there was a time before we drew the face. now the feed is full. I know how I look and it matters. were we ever really meant to see so much of ourselves? at least we’re drowning less (for now).

a burning tree

somewhere between sleep and sense: a sun sets on the coals of a birthday I can’t face. from the kitchen sink I watch old ghosts laugh and dance around a burning tree in the garden. I could leave the house and join them but it’s getting dark and I need an early night for school tomorrow. someone runs through the flames for fun. I wave behind the window.

in the morning on the bus I listen to boys I don’t know share excitement for retirement on the way to work. ‘the cushion is going to feel so good when I get there…’ someone’s baby screams like I might have years ago. the boys in suits keep talking til the tunnel spits us out.

I think about water

a couple hundred patrons haunt the city's oldest screen: directorial debut of the vampire ingenue. she's written about childhood and the strings it pulls on how we try to grow. the film is a dagger to the senses: sharp sounds and shadows, glances from scary men to run from. fragments of memories, glimpses of beautiful bodies. blood in the shower and streams to which we always return. I think about water and how it runs in ways the harm and hurt we carry can't. shouting and tears over ashes poured into the sea. I sip the drink I didn't need and listen to the breathing in the dark. is it wrong to join the laughing when we want to fill the silence? how often am I watching someone else's trauma just for something else to do?

the second baby screams with questions I'll never leave alone. all born screaming; why were we ever woken up? the babies cry for answers: we feed pacifiers and hope that soon they'll leave the beast alone. at some point they forget or learn to look around the cloud that can't make sense or be escaped. we do our best to give them less to think about.

I wake to fill another day without screams or a path beyond the tramlines. an aching frame and want to believe in the illusion of chronology. rain on the glass and someone's wedding day. I am nothing more than here and now forever all at once.

does poetry belong?

does poetry belong

when I wake up to the rain?

there are blankets and walls

to keep me still

and warm

(or where I am)

when I fold myself like laundry

or paint another face

to only sell my soul for silence

and a bed before the end

does poetry belong

when I lose you

even in dreaming

because I turned too soon

or you were never more than my reflection

in your eyes?

does poetry belong

when my groceries and breathing fuel the child-ending machine?

the bath runs blood

and I can watch the masses burn all night

and only ever think of you

does poetry belong

if I stop running to or from

and human conscience dies in Vogue

but the livestream isn't on?

exercise

objective: increase energy over time

invest in building social connections. how can we keep this going? consider sustainability. listen to yourself/the body to recharge the battery. you are making conscious choices for the long-term.

sleep. read (a book instead of headlines). less screen before bed. exercise discipline and put the phone away. the choice is for you in the morning. give yourself time (rather than taking).

find the fuel and movement balance. what gives and what takes energy? how much does it really matter?

reduce stress. find new windows for the breeze.

manage tension between productivity and boundaries. reconfigure expectations. close your eyes and start again.

getting cold

when I wake I feel further from him than ever. but the dream continues.

I sit third or fourth pew from the altar with my brother. the priest is a talkshow host and quick with jokes to draw us in and out of scripture with one-liners. I ascend to the lectern and read a passage for the faithful: some prophet's vision of the future when the earth decides to open and the cities all fall in. my brother leads the prayers of intercession between tears that won't stop smudging ink down the pages. I know it's because of the kids and death of human conscience, and take the stairs to hold his hand. groans from the congregation as children lead reluctant parents to leave. we sulk back to our pew and let the priest play his parade to rivers of blood at the door.

the clouds draws me a fool for fun. man of the year riding Sydney road in the rain. clothes on the window to dry into night. all out of questions and smoke to conceal. heavy for a moment long enough. the kettle's getting cold.