nova

window down, my fingers 
tracing circles into 
the wind.

jim croce crackles in AM
sunshine, 
'...never seems to be 
enough time
to do the things 
you want to do 
once you find them.'

my warm face
follows your gaze
out into the road
ahead.

how does a kid 
know
they are a son?
maybe
by the things
they notice
about their dad.

you whistle, i wonder.
when will i be
like you?

coffee would have
to taste good.

leaving early
and returning late
to dinner
laid out
for me 
would be 
a nice change.

and i'd have to know
all of the songs 
on the radio.

if i were mansized,
would I have to
wear a seatbelt?

you said that's why
you don't.
so
i wouldn't either
i guess.

we fly through
the morning
in your orange chevy
bracing over
small hills.

we defy gravity
in moments of
lift off
and
laughter.

could i be 
like you?

someone
that the rules
of physics did
not apply
to?

ocean

we are not good at goodbyes.
perhaps it's because we believe
that nobody can disappear anymore.
with fewer full-stop moments
motion begets mindset belies connection.
like when we force
our parting words
around each other,
each needing to be the last one heard
and first one turning away,
we then pass out of doors
and through space
without much witness.
we used to do better.
our words could armour souls,
illuminate minds,
and buttress courage with hope.
we knew
without being told
that a short voyage away from us
could mean forever
or never coming back.
so we offered ‘god be with you’
or we’d say ‘go with god’
or even ‘with god’
but now
we nod
just above gracelessness,
if we even offer a goodbye.
we used to charge god
with protector and co traveller
as defense against the world's imagination.
but our minds,
like the world,
became filled with concrete things
and it felt strange and oddly mystical
to need blessings
against the unknown of everything,
anymore.
our curated knowledge,
piled up in silo'd spaces,
shielded us from a seismic shift -
no one falls off the edge of
the earth these days
because the rounding horizon always
seems to lead them back to you.
and we rely on that.
everytime we say 'see ya',
a binary star of understated
black matter implodes
around the moment
and what makes us humane
becomes oversimplified,
commodified to the point that
relationships only can exist in plain view.
close a door light goes out.
open a door light goes on.
despite the truth
that the light we see
may have travelled
thousands of years to reach us.
that casual nod
without any ephemeral fog
of the hope
that should so deeply run through our networks,
creates a wide spread
fractured mess of relations.
some people we like,
others we quote,
a handful we actually
hold hands with.
and the trouble we face
is that when language
no longer has union with function,
and it becomes only fashionable
to wear relationships
like red carpet clothing,
and when we offer
vague bookends
to our comings and goings -
then what are we really offering each other?
can i offer a thought?
that this is one possible vanguard of
a world beginning to lose its meaning,
a world that cannot be lived in,
only through.

the eye