Good Morning; A Process Document Re: Life by CL Bledsoe


Good Morning


You text me good morning at midnight. When I wake,

I write all the ways to tear down

the world with you, holding hands

as we walk away from the flames.


I want to say something about the emerald pools

of your eyes, the way your smile explodes

the room.


I dreamed the snakes in the grass all wanted

my autograph, but none of them had a pen.

You dreamed there were bomb-

sniffing dogs at the movie theater.


Don’t you know?

They were there for you.

You are a quiet explosion that obliterates the gray.

You deafen the noise of wasted days.



A Process Document Re: Life


No one, here, is happy with their choice

of places to die. One woman wishes

for the ocean. Another woman aches

to smell Paris. A man misses his lover’s

bed, though it’s been filled by

another. Across the street, a young

man is begging for change outside

a Starbucks. He is their best customer.

Someday, soon, he’ll be our CEO.

The ocean woman shifts in her seat,

asks if the fiscal year numbers are ready.

The breath she sighs is what beauty

warns its children about. I tell her

that every cruise, there’s a decent

chance someone’s being kept fresh

in the walk-in. It’s enough to distract

her from the report I have no intention

of finishing today. When our team

lead comes about the process document

he expected days ago, I tell him

it’s in the sewer. We pry a lid off,

together, and all of Paris hits him square

in the nose. I leave him to reminisce.

I’m wanted on a panel, upstairs, about

urinal water consumption. None of us

is willing to demonstrate, so it’s all

abstraction. I’ve prepared a slide

on ruffled bedsheets, arms gone blood-

less under sleeping heads. There

is warmth in the clean quiet,

the still air of singular existence.

All of these things are the truth and also,

of course, lies. My 2-minute talk on

roomy couches has them all in tears.

By the end of the day, it’s all smiles.

I haven’t done a thing. I don’t plan to,

tomorrow.