Here I Am, Awkward
Born after the death of history,
unburdened by what had burned before
Swinging like a swollen tongue
and swallowing the night whole.
Our circumstances aren’t always pretty,
but goddamn, you wear em well.
Mine kinda fit like a stranger’s hand-me-downs.
It’s not always safe here
There’s a ghost town erected
behind that smile.
Tumbleweeds stagger across a screen
against the window of the saloon
Another drink.
We’ll unearth that out of time capsule where
stories play chicken with their shadows
If you tilt your head just right and squint,
you just might catch a glimpse of the happy medium.
Atonements scrawled on pages,
divvying up the day to our demons.
Hesitation in that cracked window
where you
second-guess your reflection.
Ya’ gotta stiffen your stance
Ya’ know, you don’t wear wavering well
It doesn’t match your eyes.
Rage against the dream
with tooth and nail, fire spit and brimstone
sharpened battleaxe, knuckles bloody-
Lord, your arms are at your sides.
Here I am, awkward.
But with the potential of a purposeful fist thrown
breaking through reams of right now
begging “make an instrument of me.”
Off key, confused, out of tune,
makeshift music I may be
Let it play
Let us dance the day
this crooked rhythm
cackling drip of loose pipes
in my kitchen sink.
We are slow dancing shootouts
Romance on rooftops
Lady Luck kissing clouds
Sunsets on the rearview
The moon hangs hopeful above,
A promise well kept
beside riots in the sky
and the forbidden fruit suspended.
Frozen freefalls collide with the
handmade flight of flames
We are pumping poison
from hiccupping heartbeats humming
the art of thorns
truest parts pierced,
full bellies burst, showers of buried treasures
shared secrets
wearing prayers like poetry.
Like a stranger
on a Tuesday wears their
halfway through happy hour
thick, war ready skin,
mismatched belief systems,
a nervous laugh hinting
at a history I want to search
through with bare hands.
Burn the notes we’ve scribbled
books we’ve filled with our essence
we wear our stories
written on our skin.
Our survivals look good on us.
I like the way your frayed
edges blow in the wind.
Hold them
sacred
fragile
infinite
open apologies
scarlet scripture
still picking at wounds,
some from friendly fire.
I don’t know the name
of the god you pray to
and I don’t care.
Whatever stuttering star burst birthed us
restless vessels on search for a purpose-
right now
in the confusion
we can pick apart
each pixel in
the prism, the picture
twists in the distance
bouncing light off the mirrors
and on the backside of the night.
The new day flails
arms outstretched
hands grasping
looking to hold
close something steady.
But the images shift.
Just like us
Begging “Make a message of me
This patched up patchwork of
love notes, slurred survival,
prayers, promises,
open apologies, rallying cries,
unanswered questions.
Here I am, awkward.
Make use of me.
Make it honest.”