I feel the need to preface this moment of honesty with a comment to ground you. The writings you'll read are born from my brain but not entirely representative of it. Some narrators are myself. Others are extensions of myself. Others are people born in the excerpt. I ask that you skim the surface of the poem and dive only deep enough to understand the message. Not deep enough to create headcannons about me. I'm simply the writer, and this is my writing. I'm simply a person, and these are my offspring. I serve them to you on a paper plate, and they stop being mine. If you see your reflection in them, make them yours. Tread lightly, with care.

- Julio

Groundhog

This hall is far too long

and narrow for picture frames to ever hang.

There’s not enough space to step back and sit,

not enough to get to know the pieces well. Instead,

doors fill the blank spaces,

all wooden. Sturdy, thick, the kind that muffles a bark.

Those I tried to open were stuck closed,

but not locked

like the paint job dried against the doorframe,

like silicone stuck to itself.

I walk, knocking on whichever slab shows promise,

pressing my body against some, hoping for a nudge.

But I don’t try too hard. The right door opens at the right time

Maybe right now isn’t that time, so I continue walking far

and farther down.

My stepping’s casual-- a mental stasis

helped by the cushioned runner.

I’m a candy bag on a conveyor belt waiting to drop or

get pushed or gripped and placed in a box made for my sisters and me.

I want to let whatever happens happen,

to relinquish control, to minimize the pressure.

But I want to be opened.

To feel fingers at my seams

spread and gape and spill me. To take me in and be consumed.

To be tasted.

I want to coat teeth in sucrose, catalyze a cavity, or tear a new one

and burrow in it. To dig and dig and dig and

come out on the flipside, see my shadow, and

hope for spring. But,

to get there, I can't stand still.

Good King

I thought myself a good king, my love.

A well-kept dining hall centerpiece, a quinceañera party favor

theirs for the taking, and

i gave them. Oh, how I gave them, my love,

you were there. How fortunate was I to share our everything with them,

our populace,

beneficiaries or benefactors. It’s hard to tell these days who got the best of whom.

We were equals, yes.

My crown was theirs to give,

Put it on, work starts.

I was their worker bee as they were mine

Outside the colony walls, I forked the pigshit sometimes.

When it was my turn. We took turns

one day per year per man,

Better than one man’s life confined ‘til death to the task.

Whoever wanted pulled pork got it, turned the skin to rinds

and thanked it for its life before that. It lived happily-- well.

The best we could give it,

forever rest. Mine comes too, soon.

Once ago i would’ve said someday.

Now i nestle in a quilt some of them made. I picture them on rocking chairs, out on a porch where birds sing close enough for old ears. They each work on one square, stitching in unison. In a willing unison

void of necessity.

Unison in desire

making out of kindness.

A gift.

Did I give enough, my love? My witness,

you remember, you saw. Please,

say I did enough. And,

if I didn’t, please tell me. Reassure me

that I did my best. convince me.

Oh.

I did.

I gave them all my all.

Helped the carpenter hit nails when his grip strength weakened,

the milkmaid haul a pale,

helped to heat the steel.

Boil, churn, bake, hoe the ground and

take the children to the field

to give them a sunset.

Please, give them a sunrise and

hope they picture me, sometimes, in the twilights.

Tell them I did good if they forget.

Good deeds

with you with me, time to time.

Remember me well. Talk through my fade-out the whole time. Tell me everything as well as you recall it. Skip the bad parts, if any. I don’t care to recall how bad kings get remembered.

Pastimes

In the future, I was seaglass

and a clocksmith.

The knob on a pinball machine.

A spring.

Baby rabbit or rosebud

far too early in the year

Decades hang on the clothesline and

a newborn storm wets it again

I wait, make busy.

Time is time.

Sometimes it’s a net loss.

It was to the poet I was

pinching her skin for ideas

sweat pooling where it creased

an accordion or comb

A graying soul,

she called herself--

a proper name.

The tail-end of nascent.

The gap from n to t is one life, and

only one life-- this life.

Next life looks better.

But this life I’ll have to make better.

For the better,

I’m each passenger on the train.

I walk the length from t and n to reach the engine

Conductor-in-the-making seeks to meet mature conductor for networking, friends, and

fun in the long tunnel.

Like water moving up a straw

light at one end, vacuuming it all up

Pull the horn when you see it.

You see it?

Little moon parallel to my macula

approach in your own time.

Then I can be Spanish moss, or

If I did better

Let me be the wind that moves it.