i first touched a lyra
(in order to play inside)
in 2010
and for six years
i didn’t touch one again
but from January 2016
to March 2020
i never stayed away more than three weeks
it’s been 6 and a half months
it’s been 6 months
two weeks
three days
since i last touched a lyra
(since i last touched any circus apparatus)
(since i last knew what it was like to fly)
and i am not expecting a lot
from tomorrow
i know my muscles have weakened
my flexibility has lessened
my (un)calloused hands can’t hold myself up
nearly as long as
once they did
i am not expecting much
because the world is still uncertain
and a virus is still ‘at loose’
and i know anything, absolutely anything
could happen
but i hope i get to remember what it felt like to fly
to be truly free
truly in the moment
(to enjoy being alive)
and i hope
for one hour
i can fully experience that all
again
and maybe plan for
a next time.
poem
September 29, 2020
and if, in time
i learn how to balance out
the good and the bad
(the blue and the red)
((the happy and the sad))then maybe I’ll understand
what it’s like
to [finally] be
human
September 20, 2020
there is a silence
in the country
in the backwoods
that unnerves me
any creak of the house
or wind in the trees
sends my anxiety rising to levels
far above those rustling leaves
simply because it is outside the norm
in the city, there is a collage of noises every night
and you never know where anything is coming from
and you just learn that it is part of the auditory landscape
and it lulls you to sleep, like a very unique kind of white noise machine
the lullaby of the city
of sirens
harmonizing with three different genres of music
blasting out of un-mufflered cars
and the steady hum of the downstairs bathroom fan
somehow melding into the far away helicopter
distorted by distance
and they all cacophonize
into one quiet whisper
of ‘you’re safe
you’re safe
you’re safe
now go to sleep’
and you sleep better than
you have in weeks
(it feels so good to be home)
September 18, 2020
i had forgotten what it felt like
to fly
September 16, 2020
when trying to turn one’s depression
into art
it is very important to remember
to either take yourself too seriously
or not seriously at all
because this grey area in between doesn’t really get you
anywhere
September 15, 2020
the chill of changing seasons
with only a packed hoodie to protect
can make it difficult to do anything
but re-watch supernatural
and embroider tiny cacti
over thin blue lines
and snuggle under a blanket
and hope tomorrow will be warm enough
to explore
(again)
September 14, 2020
[a letter to Louka the dog]
i hope, Louka, you are enjoying this vacation
and you find it a nice respite
from the loud scary traffic of New York
and i hope, Louka, you won’t be too devastated
when, in five days, we go back home
and no longer have forests to explore
and backyard decks to hang out on
and clean breezes to fill your lungs with.
and mostly, Louka, i hope that you do love us
and in everything are having a better life
than your first six years.
September 13, 2020
when you wear a hoodie
with a skeleton dabbing
above the word ‘depression’
in New York City
no one ever bats an eye
but when you wear a hoodie
with a skeleton dabbing
above the word ‘depression’
in small town Vermont
multiple people ask you if everything’s ok
to which you reply ‘humor is a great coping mechanism!’
and then you quickly dab your way out of the Walgreens.
September 10, 2020
if only the heavy [pitter]patter of the rain falling all around us calmed down my dog as much as it excites my very being i suppose i shall simply be content in the fact that she looks to us for comfort.
September 9, 2020 (part 2)
a mouse in the kitchen
but no chaos in the house
we coax the little guy into
a glass cup
and gently carry him out the door
down the steps
across the yard
to the cover of some brush
all the while i tenderly sing
‘it’s ok, baby, it’s ok, it’s ok.’
and if humanity has the capacity
to reassure creatures who don’t understand our language
can we try to speak a little more kindly to each other?
