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Jars


Clearly labeled resentment,

I open the jar anyway

–since she and I made it–

and I miss her

the old her

and the

then me

we were together once.

 

Ignoring the skull & crossbones,

thoughts twist but

the lid of the jar

is stubborn and stuck in place

–like her—

and it take several more thoughts

of her

–none of them good

and all of them bad—

to get that damn jar to give even a little,

and in those few seconds

. . .

in those thoughts

the current she pops out of that jar

–large and in charge and suddenly and

weirdly unexpectedly, too–

like those stupid gag peanut cans

you give as white elephants,

the coils of hurt and thwart

and righteousness

(we both added)

–spring out

dripping with seething,

and stewing in congealed

bitterness,

smack me in the heart

and leave me breathless

–so hard I cap that jar

doubletime–

screwing bits of its coiled contents

into the threaded top in my haste,

and toss it into

the back of my simmering mind,

wishing it wasn’t in my pantry at all.

 

The next jar is also well-marked,

fancy calligraphic letters against

pastel gradations

spell L-o-v-e,

(and what a spell it was)

and I can’t resist

opening that one, too,

–though the jar is ancient—

since I miss him terribly

–the terribly how he went—

and the us we

were together once.

 

Disregarding the expiration date

–because some things never die—

I test the top on this one,

and it gives easily

–too easily—

like I did myself once,

and the contents of the jar expands through my fingers

and consume me

adding just the right amount of tears to the inside

to grow

like those gagging foam worms

that expand when

you add water to them

and before I know it,

the composition of ingredients

changes

–like the boiling point of any number of elixirs–

or maybe just the contact with fresh air,

and I am lost in overflowing

pain, remorse

and loss

and it’s all I can do to

even locate the lid to that jar

–blinded by my stupid tears–

before the mess we made

causes third-degree drowning,

and once tightened,

I set it carefully back on

the biggest ledge of my shattered heart,

right in the middle of its emptiness

–and wish I thought to stock up

before that jar had been

discontinued.

 

The last jar

that makes a difference

is different,

and is unfailingly labeled you,

and like you it’s

dusty and

it’s BIG

and the label is peeling

–but intact—

and it’s been in there as long as I can remember

(which isn’t saying much these days)

and I think of you,

now and again and

from time to endless time,

and the we

we never got to be

and I miss that hunger

I had for you once.

 

Thoughts spiral

into familiar dreams,

edged with unmixed nightmare,

and the stopper

stops stopping

–a feature?

–a failure?

–a facet?

of this jar I remember to always forget,

and the contents of this jar

surprise

(even now)

in their lack of coalescence

–chunks of longing,

desire and reverence,

float

next to despair,

shame and regret

(nearer the bottom there)

and all of it contained

and fully separated

a nod to its disparity

–and I reach into this jar

for that

which came before,

–to see

if I can sieve

the good remaining

free.

 

 

It’s a Whole Thing


The words she chose

were the old ones

the ones whose definitions were Webster’s

–staid like that–

lacking even a hint

of colloquialism, gradation or banana cream pies
 

creating a background hum

and largely disregarded

as the habit of time

in a watched pot

(nearby)

coils over, slithers and strikes!

(without even one switchback)

Changing everything in an instant

to which it had been building all along

–on the DL

–on the QT

in that pot of watches

whose functions were diminished

by Dick Tracy first

but ultimately Apple

that started the whole thing

–in a garage?

–in a garden?

–in agreement?

it makes no difference

in the end

(of time)

and cessation

(of words)

or downfall

(of man)

even an emoji Jesus

could predict that

–whose 5 slaughtered fishes

lacking the power of expression

–colloquial, gradated or otherwise–

concealed unimagined pain.

Write Angle

 

You have to carpe diem

or fate will pass you by…

since seeing carp

— don’t free ’em —

for that you need to fly *

so don’t wait–

* bait & seize ’em

unless you don’t fish fry…

After A Coupla’ Days. . .

Fish_jumps_4

hey fish

cray fish

Y U waifish?

’cause your claws

R tong-tipped tasty?

No fish

Blow-fish

belts below this

shell fish

Jel’ fish

stung neurosis

who fish?

Blue-fish?

Tinned & Tune’d fish?

No fish

I wish

Finned & Food fish…

say fish

grey fish

try a new dish?

hack fish

blackfish

wants the phat fish…

©Evie

Garden Stones

poesy

starts with

something’s-important seeds.

–tangible or ethereal–

as essential as grey

–to black & white mulch–

 poesy Houdinis explanation,

and beanstalks definition.

 

Sometimes grafted

–always grown–

poesy is hope

vining

–beliefs every meter or so–

its lines

–petals

its blooms

–verse

every sonnet, ode &

scheming rhyme

–an arrangement

with self

–plucked

from spirit’s center

–trailing a heart-shaped

bare patch

where those roots once were

. . .

 

even sad

poesy

is tended by tears

(shed into spoons)

tied into bouquet

(hung upside down)

and dried

(outside)

sad poesy honors loss.

 

poesy

flourishes in poise,

and without it

fades

forget-me-notes

forsaken

–scent bred out,

and sense bred in–

To-do & Ta-da

p’rose

replacing flowers

(missing bulb)

(minus flow)

and even dandelions

even thistle!

disdain

AstroTurf outlooks.

Hi Altitude

You took the

high road

—stranding

in the middle—

 

I passed by

—as I always had—

a startled spirit

and so remixed

 

turning

. . .

a second

too late

—as it always was—

 

to grab for your shadow

there

E Signatures in Cursive

Karen Robiscoe dba CHARRON's CHATTER
didja notice?

they dropped

the “news”

from news feed

–the company formerly

known as facebook—

so now it’s just feed,

and semantics are important!

(says me)

there’s studies on this,

and you auto-check

the data

–god knows meta is

 

the thinly-veiled

miners of minds

–the osso buco of operations—

calls it like they sees it

livestock gobbling

scrolls & scrolls of

adulterated corn

strapped on dawn to dusk

chock fulla the bad stuff–

politics,

religion,

and photoshopped tale

that tastes so good!

and fattens their banks

with Peeping Tom goodness

 

and lessen

we,

locked in those mindset

crates

–fulla filters

and Windows

our own sh*t

and emojis of the same–

have no more room to

turn (it) around

 

–the tide has come in in!

–the stream is a tsunami!

 

we just gnaw at those

bars pressing in

–coded spaces through which we peer—

and

click-click-click

–our worlds

grown smaller

–and larger?

by degrees.

 

 

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