It is difficult
to practice French
when under the influence
of a half-consumed whiskey-and-coke
when the burbon-and-coke
abandoned by your mother
is also now your responsibility to consume.

there's a grammar mistake their somewhere.
I'll fix it when I'm hungover.
maybe.

He is leaving fur
(and sometimes even whiskers)
scattered about the house
as he settles in,
curling and purring
around our limbs
and hearts.

He is leaving chirps
echoing in his wake
as he races to the dinner bowl.

What an adorable cat.

Codeswitching

I can parler
en deux langues
mais tu m'a dit
"no."
Je peux choisir
my life,
my tongue,
my turns of phrase,
but you told me
"stop."
Why?
Pourquoi voulez-vous
me to chose only one?
Pourquoi voulez-vous
m'en prisonner?
Je peux choisir
la melodie de ma vie,
the song with which
I sing.
And this changing of tunes
dans le milieu des phrases,
ce n'est pas parce que je suis unsure;
it's because des propres mots
sont dans un autre langue,
in different song.

As My Mother Requested III

He is a musician,
and perhaps a journeyman
in his craft.

And the sight of him
fills me
with some distasteful mix
of rage and disappointment,
and I cannot refuse
that bitter drink.

Perhaps I could stand this
if I cared to practice,
cared to set aside those thoughts
and replace them with ones
more charitable
and more akin
to the thoughts of those around me.

But I do not care to-
perhaps that is a sin.

Perhaps the mangling
of ancient and treasured hymns
is a worse one.

As My Mother Requested II

I cannot stand the musician
because I value history,
because I value
and adore
the ability to connect to the past,
singing to tunes
words familiar
to saints long gone.

He keeps the words the same,
sure as much as I can tell,
but it feels like
he is celebrating his own creativity
as he turns the simple tunes
into melodies more complex
that lose the congregation
as multiple guitars
and drums
play along to something I don't recognize.

He drowns out
his own vocal partners.
How am I supposed to match him
when the girl next to him can't?

An organ master
knows to play softly as the flock sings,
even though
such a mighty instrument
can fill an chapel without trying.
They leave room in the air
for the voices of the lost-now-found
to feel welcome to sing along.

If you like,
tell me how to look at this differently.
Tell me how to see
these changing of the hymns-
in order to fit the fads of today's music-
as something good,
as I know I could see it
as the re-adaption,
re-interpretation,
of old things in new ways
building on the creativity of the past
with the creativity of now.

But I don't know
how to connect the feel of a concert
with the reverence I feel due to worship.

As My Mother Requested

I should like him,
I suppose,
or at least be able to tolerate him.
After all,
I've seen his growth.

He began as an afro-wearing bobo,
with v-necked tees,
torn jeans,
and an aura too cool for shoes.
His balance was terrible,
using four guitars
when one would have sufficed,
drowning out every singer but him
in a near cacophony of drums
and electric guitar-
the acoustic one just for show,
along with the violin and keyboard.

Now at least he wears shoes
with proper jeans,
and has cut down on the guitars.

i should be dancing.
right now.
but i'm not.
and now i am terrified.
because i used to love it,
to love being on the floor
and twirling about
as i pleased
with men who could not
get enough of me.

i don't know if i love it anymore.
i don't know if
what i attend-
or used to-
during the school year
has killed the joy i once had
in summer.
i don't know if
there's a chemical imbalance
growing and growing,
poisoning my life.

a big symptom of depression
is a lack of interest
in passions,
isn't it?

Icarus III

a mixture
of water, air, and fire
rising to take flight
in a desperate escape
from the earth that
keeps them bound-

fire grows
as fire does.
fire overpowers
what water and earth
kept balanced.

what was solid
turns awry-
from earth
to something akin to
water born of fire
molten wax
slipping across
harvested feathers.

air cannot support alone
what belongs to the earth.

over-grown joy
turns quickly to sorrow
as earth and water
reclaim the wandering son.

a risk taken fails.
a perfectionist loses what matters most.

one soul
falls and falls
without the means
of saving himself.

he would not cry out for help,
in those last moments.
why burden someone
with a request impossible to fulfill?

Quick, quick,
hide the scars
and gaping wounds-
But why?
Why not rip off the mask?
oh yes,
it was glued on
and I'm afraid of what
remains
underneath

Just have confidence,
Just be brave.
Hide the fear
and the doubt
behind smiles.

"things will get better"

Right now though,
I am terrified.

It's easy to cry
and not be noticed.
To hide yourself away
beneath a veneer
for fear of cracks
and dammit-
you were going to write a poem
for a friend's birthday
even though he doesn't deserve it
but fuckit-
you have nothing now.

nothing to give.
nothing to hold.
nothing to comfort.

what good
is this
pride,
this self worth,
in the face of
all your miserable failings
and the ways you don't measure up.

The sun is shining for you,
though I am trapped in grey,
swallowed by shadows
and not enough light-
I'm sorry.
This was supposed to be something joyful,
Something thoughtful
but not depressing.

Maybe there's no joy left.