Tagged: policy

every third hour, there

every third hour, there
is a slow sliding into
contentment, or an

okayness with the world, being
alive is a navigation

there is an old, new

there is an old, new
paralysis – a hitchhiker
on the most bearable
days, a parasite on
the worst – that pins
down a hand, an
arm, a leg, a morsel
of every hour, crushing
the cells and membranes
of day. we feel
sick about it all
the time, emerge
from the stupor
spasmodically to ask
one another for best and
worst case scenarios,
readjust our negativity
bias for a version
of survival

on days when i have to

on days when i have to
keep my chin up, i do
it, like one of those
chinstrap penguins,
climbing out of the
antarctic, ready to find
anything that resembles
a foothold on those steep
slopes. you are never
ready to hear this, i know
it, by the way you smile
so innocently, try out
jokes to conduct the most
favorable light. i make
the decision for you,
yes, sorry, just like that,
you are not allowed
to comfort me, i keep
my chin up, helmet on, look
for the next solid step

awareness is not

awareness is not
action – this morning,
over the toilet bowl,
recognizing that the
body will eventually
act, revolt,
when administered
enough poison

we made a pact,

we made a pact,
twenty days
into the new year,
that we would keep
our resolutions
simple – just
stay alive
it’s quite
we’ve never
had to make
resolutions before

it turns out that our

it turns out that our
arms cannot keep one
another’s dragons
at bay. the evenings
are the hardest, as we
climb into bed, carrying
this new weight. the
mornings are the hardest,
as we wake up most
vulnerable, bracing
for a bruising day.
the hours in between
are the hardest, as we
try out every combination
of love and resistance,
endeavoring not to harm
each other in every way

to relent to

to relent to
this better
safe than sorry

foreign policy
is to realize
how far
we have strayed
from serving the
and how
easily greatness
can be redefined

in this part of the

in this part of the
country, the sun
a heated
wet blanket, an
oshibori of sorts,
as a gesture of
summer’s arrival.
there is, however,
little courtesy
involved, and
the only thing
that feels
wrung are our
withering bodies