Kenyatta JP Garcia: March 2016 Poet of the Month
It takes two to despair. So, what do you say, let’s get this ship wrecked. God knows we can’t escape our own fate. We exist to desist.
It’s not so much bad as sad mojo.
Pterodactyls were probably marooned here after being lost at sea, in the light, in thought, in a dream. Wings spread over a world so unlike the sky, space, heaven. An earth more definite than air and dependent upon the good graces of its gravity not to drag down its own demise.
I wrote a letter. A word. A stanza. A poem.
You read a poem. A stanza. A word. A letter.
We never said anything about it.
I was doing one thing.
You wrote to tell me you were doing something else.
We had issues.
We were a volume chronicling disjoints.
I scattered the ashes from the cigarettes you left into the toilet.
You buried your memories of me into your boxes with those books you’ll never read again.
We were a forest without trees. Trees without leaves. Looseleaf pages given away at the beginning of class in junior high school days recalled in college for an essay. A narrative of some sort. Half lies. Half hope.
I took back your reservations. You saved me a place in yesterday. We erected twin cities so we could see each other at a decent distance but never dwell with one another.
the skyline fell asleep having become so worn out from so many eyes.
let’s take it slow
the daydreamers were in so deep they were mistaken but it was too late to pull out.
maybe this is as fast as it goes
feelings came on as quick as a first glance stolen from the horizon for a face. emotions once saved for dolls transferred well to a human.
it is better to have
than to have lost
possession is for the birds backing into skies after carrion mornings burn into evenings.
transubstantiation is the pressing matter
of the day
it’ll take a miracle and leave what in its place? an appetite? what placeholders can fill a place vacated by blessings?
duality has two chances to do us in
the flower became an avalanche of petals when thorns got too attached.
been on the wire too long
to fall now
been on the horn for an hour –
been in the pits
lived on sand
for a month
while putting plans
uneven bars creep into gymnast dreams. burgers flip on the grill.
nobody said yes
but no isn’t too far
from getting here either
let’s say everything up to till now’s been a suicide note. let’s wait for the bus. see where we can go one last time together and nobody’ll be none the wiser while dropping coins in the slot that –
over is not over
and below is where
not over it all
gone is going. there’s always somewhere else to be. don’t let death get you down.
but where there are burrows
above has its ways
of getting in
the skyline doesn’t know much for sure but it remembers when treetops were just acorns and electrics lights were but a dream.
Kenyatta JP Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education, ROBOT and Playing Dead. They have a degree in linguistics and a decade of experience as a cook. Currently, they spend nights putting boxes on shelves but by day, they write, read too many comics and are an assistant editor Horse Less Press. They also post poems at kjpgarcia.wordpress.com.