song for a missed home

Summer, Oregon, Whenever.

Splayed out on the tired porch couch.
The sun peeking out from behind
schizophrenic clouds, for
the first time in months.

We stare up at the trees,
those clouds,
lose ourselves in
gentle rustling, the
the scent of dust.

The music of Liszt
now Debussy
now Schubert
(now some Name
I could not hear clearly...)
drifts out the screen door.

A joint curls
in our fingers,
spicing our lungs,

its smoke rising,
dissipating,
conversing with

our laughter and
faint melodies
(Was it Ravel?)
lost in happenstance glare
and warm breeze.

Breeze which now
beckons the looming trees
to dance.

Soon they will be quiet giants
swaying with Ravel,
unsure of the time.

The Gift of Language

All this talk--
"The pen is mightier than the sword"
"Words cut deep"
is bullshit.
The implication being
language is sleek,
silent, razored, arced.
In other words:
Elegant.
That language is the
sheen of blood seeping out
in the shocked afterglow
of a knifing.
But in my experience
Language is blunt force trauma.
The bloody bludgeoning of hammers,
the splintering, wincing crack
of axes on the skull.
Language is clumsy.
Messy. Confusing.
intents and understandings
stand waving at each other awkwardly
across the street.
And when they do cross paths,
the results are so often
destructive.
Not lilting, dancing, whimsical.
Just devastating:
"We regret to inform"
"Sorry to say"
"I don't love you anymore"
Words leave marks.
Words leave scars.
Words leave wounds.
Language is violence.