There is a crack in everything/That’s how the light gets in- Leonard Cohen
Shot and lost in 2016, found in 2019. Taken in Goldsboro, North Carolina, edited in Orlando, Florida.
a single leaf will fall
in each room of your house,
far from the frosted windows,
but close to you, all the same.
the taste is that of
orange moonlight and
youthful circus songs,
-i remember, too often,
the taste of sour bedsheets
and forgotten france.
mathematics spill onto the table
that was once reserved for
geography; paying no attention,
we count the leaves with our toes
and wash the clothes that
smell of the old carolina sunlight.
forever, the cigarette pretending to
be a lover on the beach,
the rain trying on discount suits
before an elaborate mirror,
our faces painted,just like before,
and I remember the water and the
other places the poets refused to walk-
paper turning the headboards into
mist and my grandfather’s face
arguing with the door, tempted, but
not afraid in the sand,
here we are once again, my love, with
a kiss in the downpour and a
thousand words parked on the sides
of streets we have yet to see,
quiet, the songs smelling like memory,
turning roses into dandelions and
back again before someone weeps
and learns about quantum milk and
the dances we’ve never forgotten, the
broom and a happy tear, waiting
for the other side of the morning
to gather its flowers and construct
its pyramids for the goddesses and the saints,
set to help
I recently lost most of my writings from wordpress, many of which I don’t have copies of. I’ve been unable to find a cause for this, all I know is that it has happened, leaving me to put everything back together.
I’m thankful for it. This, along with an inclusion in Barton Smock’s “isacoustic”, have spurred a great deal of new works, and a far more positive outlook on my work, be it the poetry, or my various other pursuits.
As for the name change, I’m returning to my mother’s maiden name. K Taylor is no longer here. Out of necessity, I’m following the words of Bob Dylan: “He not busy being born is busy dying” .
Kristopher Biernatsky is getting busy getting born.
she keeps forgetting about
the sphynx that collects
the dust of bones,
the aged man wearing
a schizophrenic crown
of beautiful rust and milk
–my mother, my father,
the growth of hormones
in the water dressed
as molecules, forgetful
in their sundresses,
she, and all others,
forget, with utter
that they speak