POETRY

may mourning

Contemplation

Image by Jakub Kriz

On this morning in may when everything seems fake— the birdsong coming from your computer, the flutter-byes on the screen, gayle king and nate burleson laughing on the screen, you in your pink synthetic pajamas trying to feel something besides the burn of hot Ethiopian coffee working its way down your throat

The associated press telling you how bobby wants to cut off your serotonin and you swallow the heat of the liquid the only thing not curated, a bitter trail of despair against the polyester morning where even the cold blue light feels like it’s being streamed from somewhere else

on this morning in may you keep searching for one thing alive enough to bleed out

and you find it there in the moody gloom of may a light holding on to all hope there — the Alpha, the Omega, the beginning, the end.

I wrote this after reading two essays on morning pages, something I never do and probably never will. Kudos to all of you who have this ritual.

My mornings are usually less The Artist’s Way and more caffeine, dogs jumping on me as I scan the headlines, trying to locate some small flicker of meaning before the coffee kicks in.

This is an edited version of the morning page ritual, a purposefully disjointed, prayer cracking open onto the blue glow of another synthetic day. Originally written in all caps, this is meant to be in lowercase except for the Alpha and Omega to maintain the poem's contemplation on what is real.

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