thunderstorm

perennial

it was this time yesterday that I
swiveled in my tan leather chair and
looked at my curled worn brown leather
belt on the rug. I moved my eyes to
the bathroom door frame, tried the
belt on, way above obvious usage. swung
the tail end over top of white door, closed
and tugged through an inch of apartment
repaint tension squeak rub to find that
it would stay put. ultimately

unloosened it all and
went
to bed.

a line of thunderstorms had recently
passed through, burst of cold
air rushed between greenery, erasing
a few days of oppressive heat. I
stood out on balcony, as the sky
became like gentle hand to a
sorrowful stalk; a cotton
candy pink swathed above a
sherbet orange. and in teary
serendipity,
a text buzzed, a picture from my
sister, three year old
niece in toothy smile, her hair
braided like
her favorite mermaid. I

became
a rolling lavender field, stretching
towards the warmth;

again perennial.

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past vessel travel

when I catch myself drifting
into an inanimate object, I’ll
snap out of it, kinda like when
you’re driving and all of a
sudden don’t remember the last
ten miles.

in these times of lost time, I
like to think that I have traveled
to a previous memory,or, more grand,
turning up in my anterior vessel,
always younger, thicker hair and
most assuredly an idealist.

back in: driving the wind up laurel
canyon, the wind brushing by both
warm and cool. weave up that
hill, the lights of the valley
flickering and calm. the verdugos, a
shadowy cut-out reaching and
painted above burbank. a right
onto mulholland, the cliffs tumbling
down on both sides, the sun beaten
hustle of the day now a soft hum.

back in: eyes searching the atlantic
ocean, the surf glancing your
shoes, groups of bubbles disappearing
into the sand. the lighthouse moon,
creating that angelic and sparkling
tunnel that goes out to everything and
all that is. head drifts up to
hurried clouds, heading out to a ship’s
lone light and a thunderstorm far
off over open water, rhythmically
flashing from top to bottom, seemingly
never ceasing, like your youth.

back in: stomach getting warm at
the sight of heather, your eighth
grade crush. jealous of the wind
twirling her long dark brown hair
about at the bus stop. excited about
the moments before sleep so you can
create stories about how and where
you’ll kiss her the first time.

when I snap myself out of it, the
lost time spent in a tabletop
pattern or a plant on the desk- I
like to think that I went back for
the briefest of moments, to when
everything was pure and
providential.