writing about technology, and vice-versa.
Sorting through boxes of old stuff
triggered a moment of self-loathing
or rather, loathing for the old selves
who came out and tried to smother me.
My junior high school poetry.
My 16-year-old self’s car keys
and cork bulletin board
covered with movie tickets.
My 24-year-old self’s attempts
at balancing a checkbook.
All the meanness,
all the family tension.
And a garage I can’t park in yet.
You’ll be coming off three days on the night shift
when you realize there was no sugar
in the bottom of the cup, no bottom
of the cup for that matter. Sometime
after your last 12-step meeting
you’ll know you’ll always walk wounded,
limp home. Those wounds in your hands
won’t heal; they’ll be a sign to all,
especially you. You’ll walk around clean,
feeling the hole in your own side,
wondering if this was the glorious
resurrection promised.
published around 2005 in the now defunct web journal, The New Pantagruel
The evening falls hard at five o’clock,
Twelve hours after waking up in darkness.
I’ve spent the week too busy to work on time,
or understanding how it falls on me.
Only today have I seen the pink dawn
on the last red rose in her neglected garden.
poetrytech 