Day 270
I woke up sadder than most days
the sun outside as hot bulbs on my ceiling fan;
somewhere a funeral is taking place as
this train takes me north;
this sadness just as selfish as
yelling at a god or
popping bricks into a cranium
to feel less guilt;
suicide is not a sin –
it’s a yearning
for space to spread a pair of wings
we often times forget about.
Everyone who agrees with me is already gone.
you have become your
desire.
it’s about time
as always, & the
spinning of it
through holidays &
firewalls. a stone
wall. a wall
of energy. water.
a night.
there is a way
in which your hands
become luminous.
have you seen this
happen, have you
looked at the recordings
& seen that light
the deed of change
you take on
felt the sudden
force
of your heart doubling
in your chest.
you are seen to be
at rest; the triumphant
juggernauts of
yesterday quiet & made
of memory.
your face: equal
question & rage
& the love you
become
not only a watcher
of the universe here
you must live
at last.
Jay Besemer’s most recent poetry collections are A New Territory Sought (Moria) and Aster to Daylily (Damask Press). As Jen Besemer, he also authored Telephone (Brooklyn Arts Press), Quiet Vertical Movements (Beard of Bees) and Object with Man’s Face (Rain Taxi Ohm Editions). His work is also included in Troubling the Line: Trans and Genderqueer Poetry and Poetics (Nightboat). Jay is a teaching artist at Chicago’s Spudnik Press Cooperative and tweets @divinetailor.
Elegy
Summer of leafscorch and blight.
Summer of sunspots, the solar corona.
A hand held up to cover the eyes.
A hand waved rhythmically to hypnotize.
Summer of hesitation, cheap vodka, & fake lemonade.
Summer of shooting past the mark, of dry grass and loose shade.
Summer of metonymy.
It doesn’t matter anymore,
you say about everything.
I found paradise in the bottom of a bottle.
I found it in the small of a back bent over.
I began to think of you as six solutions, each worse than the one before.
With math with its problem.
Forty years of drought.
The distance to the moon contracts with breath.
You count the baby’s ten toes.
Taking Measure
What is the measure of a man?
What is it that determines who we are?
Is it the genes we are born with?
Is it the millions of years of ancestral DNA?
Is it the name we are given when we enter this world?
Is it the way we are raised
and the values instilled in us through childhood?
Is it what we are taught in school
through textbooks written by strangers
about a history we were not around for?
Is it the jobs we take for money?
Is it the work we are inspired to do?
Is it the food we eat?
Is it the clothes we drape upon our flesh?
Is it the company we choose to keep?
Is it the way we treat our fellow humans?
Is it the way we handle the circumstances which arise
during the course of life’s ups and downs?
Is it the thoughts that run rampant through our mind?
Is it the words we speak?
Is it the songs we sing?
Is it the actions we perform?
Is it the truth we try and uphold?
Is it the little white lies we tell?
Is it our connection with something greater than self?
Is it the blood which flows through our veins?
Is it the condition of our body?
Is it how we adjust and adapt
as evolution brings trials and tribulations
into our experience to learn from?
Is it the way we relate to the world around us?
Is it how we treat those who are less fortunate?
Is it our fate?
Is it our destiny?
Is it our karma?
Is it the freewill choices we make?
Is it the beliefs we have?
Is it how many years we spend upon the earth?
Is it how we handle the inescapable truth
that a yawning grave awaits us in the end?
Is it the suffering we endure?
Is it the joy we experience?
Is it the places we travel?
Is it the people we meet?
Is it the lovers we share our hearts with?
Is it the loves we lose?
Is it the dreams we have?
Is it the goals we achieve?
Is it the aspirations we can’t quite reach?
Is it the family we start?
Is it the type of children we bring into the world
to take our place when we bow out?
Is it the happiness we spread?
Is it the sadness we feel?
Is it whether or not we reach a state
of perfect peace and enlightenment?
Is it where we lay our bones down at night?
Is it the size of the house we live in?
Is it the type of car we drive?
Is it how many miles we walk?
Is it the height of the mountain we scale?
Is it the depths of the abyss we dive into?
Is it the amount of jewels, trinkets, and baubles we amass?
Is it the simplicity found when we shed
the skin of this mortal flesh?
Is it in the seeking?
Is it the final relinquishment of the search?
Is it in the legacy we leave behind?
Scott Thomas Outlar survived the chaos of both the fire and the flood…barely. Now he spends the hours trying to survive himself. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Dissident Voice, Eunoia Review, Yellow Chair Review, Crack the Spine, and The Haunted Traveler.
Kashmir ki kali hun
I am raised on the streets of this city.
Why my mother cries
I just don’t know.
Each night as the sun sets
My heart starts racing.
The soldiers grip their guns
As they march guarding their
Stately palace.
My mother takes me there,
Dresses me up, prepares my face
My lips with red
Then she cries.
This moment, I own.
All of my desires bloom.
Then, from all around me,
The fingers come like swords.
They catch me and put me
Somewhere, I don’t know.
They tear my clothes, and
One by one they invade me.
From my body, a red scream escapes
Asking everyone:
Kashmir ki kali hun,
This red bud fallen from its cold branch
Who has trampled her underfoot?
Who has stolen this child?
Be good.
Do good.
Promote the good in others.
Love fiercely.
Unconditionally.
Forgive.
Remember.
Trust.
Break your own heart.
Heal.
Do it again.
Learn.
Grow.
Make good food for people you love.
Eat.
Drink.
Be merry.
Express your life.
Read.
Write.
Draw.
Paint.
Sing.
Dance, my God, dance.
Play.
Be ridiculous.
Be you. Unabashedly you.
Though your heart hammers in your chest.
Though it chokes in your throat.
Breathe.
Revel.
In beauty.
In peace.
In the sublime.
In the moment.
It is everything.
It is the only thing.
Be present.
Listen.
Empathize.
Understand.
Learn.
Smile honestly.
Laugh.
Make others laugh.
Make children laugh.
Be authentically you
though people will
judge you
hate you
leave you;
others will stay.
It is those who deserve your magic.
It is those who deserve to warm themselves by your fire.
We are all dust, smoke, flame
flickering light.
Burn bright.
Burn true.
Burn for others to see
how it’s done.
