~Valentines Day as Cupid

The Ministry of Misplaced Joy

“Only a few people are awake.

And they live in a state of

constant amazement.”

~Joe Versus the Volcano

At some point small moments

can become momentous

so we might dwell in awe.

Letting water erase

the sleep from our faces,

along with

the night’s travails

before they enter the city’s

blood stream

via a trap door

in the floor,

we're flushed like fish

won at a fair

to join forces in

the labyrinthian plumbing below,

interlocked as

Escher’s goldfish gone

in search of the sea.

How else are we

to water ourselves?

Letting go

may be the best way

we know

to ease our pain,

aside from finding

an unexpected miracle

in the mundane.

And so we prepare for the worst

by embracing more beauty.

A cayote sighting in Central Park,

things found where they

don’t belong.

Uncomfortable in our skin

today anyway

having cut so much loose

to stay afloat

all because it can be

so disheartening

to reflect on better times.

How does our

wanting to share

with another

every experience

become a source

of anguish?

If the heart is a utility;

a misplaced Phillips head

in the silverware drawer,

then why not a wish

granted by the God

of lost gadgets

to make better

use of ourselves?

Can we really

compose our joys?

Finding the cat

the epitome

of selfishness,

we may realize

we've been

a dog person

all along.

After all,

we know our place,

we like to please,

and live for

self mastery.

So, from now on

here’s what we can do:

Dwell in awe.

Press our ear

to the mouth

of a flower.

Listen to a tree.

Honor our sadness.

Celebrate someone.

Be grateful for everything

and everyone.

Engage in random kindnesses.

You never know

when or where

the darkness will alight.

2/2/24

Restless

The thread of Michigan leads back through its stones,

while beneath the Gazan rubble rests God’s weary bones.

Me, I fret the sturm and drang that rattles at my panes;

glass, such a translucent partition for keeping out the rain.

Gray light pours its shadow, the color of cement,

dumping its counterfeit canopy over 43rd & 10th.

I fear an airborne flowerpot shattering upon the hour,

any pretense of protection gone out with the power.

How can I make better use of life wiling in-between

the stupefying effect of my monotonous routine?

How fast the weeks whizz by while I duly loiter

a man feigning thirst beside a plenitude of water.

With weekdays a compartmentalized pill box,

perfect barometer for the daily mise en scéne,

my past perceptibly growing more beautiful

by remaining sight unseen.

Monday the scrawny cat needs milking.

Tuesday’s for trimming hair with shears.

Wednesday’s for leaving a book unfinished.

Thursday’s for staring into anonymous mirrors.

Friday, I swallow the house with my vacuum.

Saturday, I spit the world back out whole.

Sunday, I mistake the flour for talcum.

While daily trying to regain my soul.

01/16/24