no cage, no concrete moat or safety glass
confines me but still this restlessness
drives me in relentless figure eights
each step toward some new distraction is retraced
pacing
pacing
pace yourself
Awaken to the world in flames
Thank the eastern sky for the sun
Stretch to the music of songbirds
Sit still and notice what comes next
A peach tree nears the end of life.
Across decades she has fed lovers
and children, squirrels and crows.
For one final season of abundance
she will give sweet sustenance
until none is left.
The flag’s at half mast again,
who is it for?
I can’t even keep track of this shit anymore
Too many tragedies
Too many refugees
How did we get here?
Where did we go wrong?
strangeness is hope
hope is nonsense
nonsense is truth
and the truth is
there’s no reason
for any of us to be here
but here we are
words fall
from my teeth
words fail
this moment,
your anguish,
our language
Frank Orrall Plays the Chapel
Dear Frank
I’m way too chill* to write a fan letter
but I can write a poem
about a fellow poet
If that’s better
How many times have you walked away at this moment?
How many abandoned projects fill your closets?
Will this latest effort be thrown on the pile?
That thrilling first taste
of a peach, juicy and ripe
how could I forget?
Sail on steel wings to the antipodes
touch down upon the tiny speck so far
from home, tu le connais seulement des histoires
have only heard its extinct birds in stories
(good for most journeys, great and small)
call me sinister
clumsy
seat me at the end of the table
watch me struggle with scissors,
10 years, 10.000 lifetimes. Who’s counting?
Like hungry kittens
these familiar demons
wake you at 4 a.m
demanding your attention.
Identities erased,
replaced.
If there is space to store these relics
there must be room in this life for all of them.
The person who wrote those words
the person who writes these words
What is the cost of silence and free shipping?
Free lunch, free will
illusions both
Who pays?
‘The Answer to the Great Question … of Life, the Universe and Everything … Is … Is … Forty-two,’ said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.”
Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
The dot in the center is right now.
Generous strangers and loved ones have pulled me from more than one
rut.
An ex-poet walks into a cafe
and surveys the familiar faces
of strangers.