I don't think it's possible,
To be all that sad about the future,
When you're about to die,
If given time to think about it,

I think I'll think of what a rest,
Everything will be,
And how wonderful it will feel,
To lie on the grass of an Irish field.

I think God could spare me that much,
Even if I don't deserve it.


When I hear them talking,
It's like I can see light coming out,
Not in shafts or streams,
But little sparks and stars,
And they don't seem surprised,
But then I don't know if they know,
It's okay that way I think,
It's been okay for years,
And when it builds,
Like a pyramid or a  tidal wave,
I don't really try to respond,
And instead let the rip and throw,
Of how many people there are to love,
Run things for a while.

Secretary Of Pagan Relations

Eyes watched from the fire,
Conversed with it,
Read out stories in,
Blazing, selfish words

With mud on their faces,
Brown and staying wet,
With the sweat of their moving,
They bowed and bent

Crying shrieks

It all comes down so fast,
The fire spoke through him,
Investing in his heart,
Curling herself like a vixen around

His beating heart,
That told him he was alive

Then the upward reach of concrete,
Windows stared back at windows,
Admiring the response time

Of shoes and slacks,
To deadlines and crease marks,
That come down so fast,
Upon the pillars of Prosperity and Future,

In glass high towers,
Drinks were poured at one

Inside they washed against,
The fire that bid him find,
The muddied girl in the alley,
Between Twenty-first and Madison,

Arching and toying,
With trains of thought

At night he took to,
Making love to the apparition,
Furious fits that drained,
Hollowed out the reserves he had put away,

For vacations and old age,
Sleep premature

Days he would spend,
Focused on the stillness of his hand,
The eternal black of her hair,
As she whispered some nights,

And he thought about the life that condensed on his ear,
When she told him about when she was a girl

Running by with our shadows,
Impersonates and tricks us,
As the fire pours out of our eyes,

And the last thing he saw,
You will see,
Burning fast,
That bends and breaks beyond its means.

Which is to say everything.
And the fire left.

In the dark a smile,
Is my final thankful say on this world.


Objections to My Peace

I'm still not convinced

So much rests upon

a red wheel


Mr. Williams.

A Common Mistake

At 82
He turned to the right,
The left.
In the middle of the road
Drops like Pinot Noir stains
Crowding his feet.



I have left,
Hopefully heading up - the artist said,
Bones lie patient in a final marker.

But before I was at breakfast,
And you made a face,
When I mentioned the prime minister,
And I laughed,
For about five seconds,
And I kicked you lightly because I understand.

Thoughts on Hearing Oblivion (performed with modern instruments)

Black then open again,
Earl Grey cooling on the table,
Less heat,
Fingers shift amongst themselves uncertainly,
Or like some childish drum beat,
Then black,
Filling with bits of home,
People faces fires places ridges the sea-
Foam white and blue.

But black,
Not thick,
All of this pulls back,
Was never here with me here,
In a thin film of abandon.

If I still had my ears I would listen for your heartbeat.


We Are Not Fathers

It is winter,
And he falls,
The son who survived,
Crystals hold fast on his brow,

The scavengers,
Make themselves known on the rim,
In silence they watch,
The son who survived,
Crystals holding fast on his brow,

His father,
Comes sharply out of the wood,
Pickax slung over his shoulder,
His eyes look and think of the mines,
But his expression is what holds,
The cold in the lungs,

Only once before,
Only two years old,
Oh he had forgotten,
His father had gladly thrust them up,
Himself who survived and the daughter who did not,
Her hair spinning black,
(Oh that awful color haunts from the back of their eyes always!)
Strong hands gripped them both,
Strong hearts loved them all.

The clouds reminded,
Him who had survived,
Of the beauty in the barren,
And the ability to change,
The snow gradually wrapping,
Forgiveness on the one who survived,
And animals watching,
Feasting on the future in the white.

It is winter, 
And in the dark the women,
Nineteen and filling,

Bend and bounce and
Shake and sound and
Collapse in your arms and

Their muscles are not their own,
Not since their fathers disappeared,
In the cold riches of the earth,
As children the watched,
Pigtailed and playful,
One after another descend,
Pickax propped over their shoulders,
Broad and full of densely packed,
Tendons and solemnity.
So now they dance,
Pigtailed and playful,
Around the fires their fathers didn't start,
(They won't see will they?

In the winter,
We are not the fathers,
We have been given too much,
"The fear of the Lord"
To be taken so lightly,
The warmth of a breast,
To be used so secularly,
The cold a dim reminder,
We flee each other's arms so quickly!
We were each babies ourselves!
Just yesterday Darling!

In the winter,
The cold breathes in and out with you,
Walks around with you,
Assesses your condition.

Warm your children lest they feel alone.


Group Breathing Activity

When I'm quiet,
It's because I want to say,




And I shake keeping it in,
The fissures breaking out in key places,
See my hands? My eyes?

And when I won't look you in the eyes,
It means,




So much I can't bear the thought,
Of you ever being as far away,
As the very next room,

And when I leave unexpectedly,
It means,


Are Absolutely

Impossible to Talk to Right Now

And that could be because you say something stupid,
Or it could be I'm being quiet,
When I'm quiet,

See Above.


I swear I'm not joking,
And I can understand where that would come from,
I do that a lot.

But in this light,
And surrounded in this weather,
I could stay here and stroke your head until we folded in,
To the tree and its roots and its branches,
Bare from the onset of winter.

Everything All At Once, Again

All the way,
From the burning,
Tip of my right ear,
My ear,
Right here.
I'm looking out of me,
Is that still selfish?
I'm feeling the heat,
And the speechtalkspeech,
Of God behind me,
And the streetlight,
And mountains beside me,
And the streetlight,

I'm right here.

So it all begins to elongate,
Stretching forward and my throat,
It catches cataclysmic intent,
And the most honest laugh I've ever had,
Sounds not at all like you'd expect,
But it sounds,
And leg after leg of it takes me,
Where I need to go.

May you grow old and with ancient paper hands grip the one you love as you spin on the dance floor.



It sort of ended like this:

Everything went back,
Everyone reversed,
People that died came back,
And people who were born weren't.
It wasn't like a film in reverse,
Or maybe it was like that for God I don't know,
But for everyone here it just was,
It felt exactly like going forward,
But with a new righteous purpose,
A righting of wrongs we couldn't live with,
But we forgot what it had been,
The first Time we lived.

Still everything changed,
People who went to the carnival didn't,
(They felt like they already had)
Didn't meet their former friends,
Didn't get sick on caramel apples,
Got sick on bad shrimp instead.
Our brains tried to hold on though,
Righteousness is an opiate to them,
Poor things,
So many flashes and firings,
Desperate synapse connections,
Trying so hard to fix something we did.
Or made,
Forever ago.

I was lucky - when I went back,
I ended up right where it started,
And I could feel the forgetting,
Like an ink, dark and secret-kept,
Secreting from my senses,
But before it draped over me,
I was lucky - I just said "Hey."
She just said "Hey." with disinterest seeping,
Turning back around.
As we kept walking,
I was caught up in the sunrise assailing the ivied building,
And I felt everything getting better,
My heart began to shake,
So much I didn't know how much longer I would live,
But I'd already done it once,
So that was less of a threat,
And when I ended up living again,
I forgot everything I did,
But held on to that one morning,
When I fixed it,
When my brain rested while my body walked,
It sort of began like this:


Do you see?



In my dream,
I can see every word she speaks,
Roll off her lips like a syrup.

In my dream,
When something inside breaks,
Everyone knows and claps,
Because you're closer then.

In my dream,
I'm laced at the shoulder,
And we're one, brothers in sway,
And we're One against Many,
As the clouds roll in.

In my dream,
I don't have a bubble,
And everything flows,
So much I can't move.

In my dream,
The dark women dance,
With eyes that pull and dare,
Deep tanned calves slope and lead,
Both hands in the fire in the back of my head.

In my dream,
The bullet wound yells through my fingers,
And the sky finally answers when I look,
Unleashing a smile to beat everything you ever saw.

In my dream,
The mountains are almost here,
In the front window of our quiet car,
Everyone else asleep,
They whisper secrets I catch and keep,
In the dashboard compartment.

In my dream,
It's very black,
It's very thick,
But I'm very wrapped and warm,
And Benevolence pushes back,
Bringing the sleep of the innocent.

In my dream,
You're reading on the couch,
But I know you've just taken a shower,
Because you never dry your hair on weekends,
And the ways it feels just now,
Is why we're married.

In my dream,
It's an explosion,
And we're all firing through,
Always new and always more,
No one can really complain about anything,
We just laugh and laugh and laugh.

In my dream,
I can't spell,
I can't count,
I am of no use,
And someone picks me up,
And spins me around,
And I know love.



The rich brown of arms,
Dark Grecian hair,
Dark spiritual eyes.

Ra walked through the garden,
Children played at her feet,
Sensual calmness braided her hair,
Like a ladder towards heaven.



Before the bomb hit the shelter,
Before everything was white,
Before everything was screaming,
Twelve years old he wrote,
In frantic unschooled hand,
And thought of the blonde girl he met,
In the brickyard behind the schoolhouse,
They played hide and seek,
He hid in the butcher's shop,
And watched with heart pounding as she passed by,
Cupping her hands to her eyes to see in,
He remembered her eyes then,
How he had forsook hiding to stare directly into them,
And how grey and full and knowing they had been,
Before the bomb hit he unknowingly wrote:

I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.

Then the white asked him how he felt,
And he told her of the grey eyes and the blonde girl he'd met,
And she listened.

Houses with Lights

Dominique shuffled down 4th street. Or up 4th street, or across 4th street. He hadn't been in the city for over a week yet and figured that was good enough reason not to know what direction he was currently walking. He just knew it was towards home. A house that would have lights on over the stoop and a lock that his key slid nicely into. He'd stopped making his foster parents uncomfortable by calling it a house rather than a home, and seeing the color drain out of their faces as their eyes dropped to the floor. They really were caring people, and who had that other kind of home anyway? It was just a thing some kids came up with because it made them sound rebellious and the girls who still regularly attended class were into that. The ones that put out anyway (followed by howling laughter from the rest of the boys, like jackals around the corner). Dominique went through that phase, and felt he'd come out pretty intact. He scaled the five wet red brick steps of the stoop in two bounds, fished the key out of his sweatshirt pocket and unlocked the door. While the lights outside were on, the rest of the house slept quietly on, welcoming and empty at the same time. He quietly maneuvered through the creaky floorboards as quietly as he could until he reached the plain white door leading to his room. He collapsed on the twin bed and tried not to think. He tried to first block out the past day, then the past week, then the whole past month. He pictured a miniature Dominique going through endless file cabinets in his brain, carefully examining each folder before tossing it onto the floor. Pretty soon he was dreaming, and it was no longer a miniature Dominique tossing out the files, but his hands and eyes thumbing through the tabs and looking at the labels. He found the file detailing his birth, and how the absence of a father was distinctly noted in thick red pen. He saw a note at the bottom of the file, referencing another file in another cabinet. Eventually he found the cabinet and file, and flipped through everything about his father he'd wanted to know, and one by one his fears came true. 
He was never wanted.
His father didn't even know he existed, didn't even remember his mother's name.
He was just there, product of biology and nature and cold scientific fact.
The ink began to run off the pages of the file, which seemed to grow thicker with every page he threw out. It ran up his forearms and under his shirt sleeves, tattooing him with the knowledge. He began to scream as the rest of the drawers began to slide free one by one, the files opening like hungry mouths...

Dominique woke up in a film of sweat. For a moment he hated his father, hated everything about him, but recognized that hot, dark feeling in his heart and quickly subdued it, falling back onto his bed. There wasn't a point. It didn't matter. He thought of Queen, and how nothing really mattered.


Jordan caught herself staring out the window above the kitchen sink at the sunset just about to really take on it's last gleam. She shook her head and finished with the dishes, then made some instant lemonade and went back out onto the whitewashed porch. 
The Lakeside Retirement Home was one of the better in Maine, one of the few that no one mistook for a modified detention center, and Jordan actually enjoyed her job. Most of the patients were nice enough, there were always the bitter ones but she figured she saw less here than Sheila did working night shifts at Denny's. It also gave her ample time and stimulus to think about the big things. She could almost here the existentialist conversations buzzing around in everyone's individual mind in the common room, and seemed to breathe it in until it buzzed inside her too.
As she carried the tray outside she caught sight of Mr. Avery and sighed. There were also tedious parts of the job that never really stopped being tedious. His sunglasses (the black plastic bigger-than-aviator kind they got shipped in bulk) had fallen off again and were resting on his lap. Resting defiantly, Jordan mused (after all, she was going to school to be an english major, it was only right to put a little flavor on her thoughts). Mr. Avery was more or less catatonic, less because all the doctors said it was by choice. He could very well respond if he wanted to, they said. Since coming to work at Lakeside Jordan felt the sorriest for Mr. Avery. He had no background other than what she could draw from his features. She guessed he had had some troubles as a young man, and made some choices that didn't mesh with the modern world and her unforgiving methodology. Sometimes she occupied herself coming up with pasts for Mr. Avery, though she never told him what they were. 
She gave the lemonade to the rest of the men and women sitting outside, and with two glasses left proceeded towards Mr. Avery at the end of the porch. She sat the tray on the banister, and reached down to grab the sunglasses. Jordan absentmindedly put the glasses back on Mr. Avery's eyes, already being drawn in again by the particularly magnificent sunset. What did finally bring her back was when Mr. Avery slapped the glasses off his face, sending them clattering across the porch and off the side of the house.
Tears poured down the edges of Mr. Avery's fully dilated eyes. His lips trembled and his hands shook against the arms of the rocking chair. Jordan quickly looked down the line of empty chairs and past the front door, but only fellow retirees moved passively back and forth. She felt the call for help rising in her throat when she realized his eyes were focused on her, his lips still trembling.
"Are you God?" he whispered.
In her head she told him to calm down. In her head she knew exactly what medicine to administer and what therapy to consider post-event. Her lips remained closed. Mr. Avery continued:
"I...had a son" he said passively, no longer looking more through her than at her now. "Maybe...He was beautiful. Was my son beautiful?"
"Yes." Jordan answered, having no idea who Mr. Avery's son was, and wondering if she should start taking medication. Still she felt something like that buzz in the commons room, some irresistible force coming from Mr. Avery and whatever he was seeing. 
"Are you God?"
His hand reached out (shaking, no tremoring) and grasped her smooth wrist. Jordan reached behind her with her free hand, and taking a glass of lemonade brought it around and offered it to Mr. Avery. He relaxed a bit, his other hand holding the glass without spilling a drop. He brought the purple bendy straw to his lips, and his hand slid from around her wrist. Jordan let out a sigh, grabbed the other glass and collapsed in the chair next to his. 
"I would've named him Stephen. I was scared," he said, tears still flowing.
Ignoring all the texts she had ever read, Jordan asked, "Is this the end, Mr. Avery?" He turned to her, a faint smile tracing his tired face.
"May just be, gotta ride it out though. So much."
"What do you feel?"
"It's leaving my legs, my hands now," he looked down. His hands lay motionless against the wood.
Jordan sipped at her lemonade and watched the sunset.
Eventually Mr. Avery looked out and asked, "Are you God?"

It was an easy burial. There was no family to notify.

A.N.- This is a really shortened, rough version of something I've had in my head for a bit but I think it goes into something much longer and bigger, particularly the last scene. Hope this version's acceptable too though, because I have no idea when the other one will come around.

Admittance #46

What it is to feel the same,
The exact same rapid pumping of blood,
In the veins striking out from your neck.

I'm afraid of forgetting.


Some Words to Get You Started

A.N.- I was asked to write something holistically happy and bright. This is what I gots.

See if you agree.

"There's somewhere I'm going to,"
The man said to the sea,
To the wood wide-spacing the pier,
To the white hairs on his head and forearms.
The bright yellow sunshine,
Fell on his unhindered blue eyes,
And the Blue of the ocean answered him,
In quiet sweeps,
A smile carving and running through the wrinkles,
Mapping his brown face.

The Answer,
The Future,
The humming of his mother rocking him to sleep.

His dark, deep pupils ran over,
Growing and expanding,
Taking it all in,
The Blue. the Sun.

The sting in his lungs at the end of the street and ooh it feels good!
His father head-bent at the telescope in their front lawn.

The waves drew back,
An indention forming in the water below the planks.

The velvet smell on her neck,
As she drew away

The Blue received him wholeheartedly back,
The Sun as witness.

In it he heard,
The laugh of a woman carefree in summer,
And he met Love.

And all the words he did not have to speak filled everyone else's heads like a fever. 



My blood's pumping,
That's a good indicator that you're alive right?
Because I feel like I could explode if only,
One thing would set it off,
So don't look at me again,
Do you know what you've got there?
How quick it would be?
Blue eyes set off a galaxy,
A collection of burning stars,
Their own death an assurance,
But their beauty unimaginable,
It was necessary,
To tell it to your face,
To flare up and give you a glimpse,
There in the corner of the moment,
Bathed in red ember light,
That's what you really are,
Now excuse me won't you?
I almost enjoy the cold letdown against my face.

To the Suburbanite Next Door

You know,
It would be nice if maybe,
You could, perhaps,
Leave my head for at least a few days,
So I could get some fucking work done up there.


They pound the street,
The rain and the black men,
In black glasses and cream hats,
They carry the music in their pockets,
In their shoes,
It is on their eyelids when they close,
And it is in the room when they open the door,
Adding its own flavor to the smoke that hovers,
Around the tables and instruments.
Calloused hands,
Trained fingers take hold,
Souls rise above their hosts,
Invisible unless you know the trick:
In the reflections inside the beads of sweat on the dance floor,
The Passions twist and swirl and blaze.
Do you see?


The fiddle,
It brings that sweet nurtured drawl,
That rises from your throat,
And the acoustic bass,
Pulls and releases your hips to sway,
And the words,
Of your great-great-grandfather,
Cause your heart and mind to agree,
And to forget everything else in that unison,
In that spinning faded purple skirt,
Please Divine stay the tides of war,
Lest they find way into these hills,
And may the cider stay crisp and smart,
Off quiet, mindful tongues,
Mouthes with age to their shape and sound,
And may the women always dance like they do today,
While boots and bare feet tap along.

Delilah you were a hurricane blew into town that only I wanted to stay.


They claw,
And the hands they scrape,
Push the dirt and sod up under the nails,
Blackening as they come up from under the earth,
Before they reach the pasture animals,
The farmhands,
The cities,
Cold Night slips a cool finger under their chins,
Bids them come and do her bidding,
And she promises them not the rest they have left,
Though they still seek it,
Not the satisfaction of the life the living hoard,
Though it runs down their lips and neck,
No she--cruel and seductive--yields up only one,
Dark gift they find no pleasure in receiving,
Namely more company to their ranks,
As they amass under her watch and instruction,
And dead eyes look to the sky-if they are really looking,
And the thoughts of the dead are few and simple.

Petty Complaints, Yours Truly

I hope today you,
Walked outside with a true confidence,
Since I'm not there to see you,
In fact I have no idea where I am in relation to you,
But we're still holding out hope,
Like a child over a crowd,
Of pressing immigrants,
Dirty fingers hooked through swinging fences,
I want to,

Believe you're there.

I want to,
With crossed fingers and quick glances,
Something pounding and something processing,
I am foreign,
I am an island in revolt,
Against it's only sacrificial god,
Scouting planes in the cloud cover cannot see,
Oh they do not see the flames begin to rise!

Outside everyone's cheering,
And I can't for the life of me remember anymore how good it is,
To revel in the safety and the element of the communion of saints.

Walking Tower

If it's there,
We're losing the signal,
After broadcasting full-length I'm,
Running dry on mind reserves,
Mental rigour,
Sparing the trigger finger,
Try to make eye contact,
before we cut to


fumbled preachers save your soul-ah

-end of transmission-



"The dust by your side,
Has tried to catch a ride on your pantleg.
Straw hat blocks out the sun,
The meaning of a man,
The calluses on his hands.

We are so little in the shadows,
Of the trees that grow up with us.


A.N.-If we are men, let us be men now.

Hiroshima, August 6, 1945 (Morning)

He turned to her

He drank in his life with her

His love and what not.

Ra Ra Ragamuffin

When they see,
Before anyone else,
What we all were supposed to be waiting for,
The prophets will weakly blow,
Through cracked skin and lips,
Weak and warbling notes,
And we will look up,
And look in the higher places,
The mountains and old trees,
But we foolish,
Will not look into your eyes,
Or feel your body,
Until we can do nothing,
But say we're so so Sorry.


Felis catus

Recently, as part of a pact, albeit a small one, I was assigned to write a rondel. So, naturally, it turned out to be about my cat. The one I don't love. And my family doesn't love. So now I care about her more than ever. 

How Important her last days should be!
My fading cat pads down the hall,
Hard-breathing slow and shivering all,
Wondering when her time will be.

Poor senile feline is ambling towards me!
Me who cares least of all,
How important her last hours should be!
My fading cat pads down the hall.

Fragile head rubs up against my knee,
The dying only want company small,
Familiar and warm, quietly calm,
Over glazed eyes my own ending I see!
How vivid her last minutes must be!



So sorry,
For the funeral,
For the lowercase letters,
For my improper tie.

On the day I die,
Number those born,
Write it on my stone,



Sad. Little. Like a peeled orange on the ground. Citrus Fingers. The squeeze of juice and pulp through teeth. Old hands don't understand. Not supposed to. But could. No sunset. Still ends. Old guard faded navy blue wiped over the skycolor. Black tree silhouettes. Instruments, strings moving silent. Old pictures watch over. Voices through the walls. Voices over distances. Not hate. Age. Repentance fruit. The steady ticking of a bedside alarm clock. Like a timebomb ticktocktick.

Morning. Defeats. All of them.
Morning will hold you. Cradled like newborn calves. And show you the mountainside draped in herself.


I was instructed to write about what I saw:

After many years alone,
After many dinners at restaurants alone,
An old man adopted a little girl,
Loved her like he loved his books,
Shelves and shelves of old spines,
That bent and creaked like his,
They were his brothers.
He would sit beside her bed and read,
Story after StoryafterStory,
Till he was sure she was dreaming.
And when she grew up,
He parceled out all the land he had acquired,
From being so old,
Ten acres given for every year he had a family,
And he separated them with crossing lines,
Of steadfast spruce trees.
In the coattails of youth and the height of beauty,
She began to steal away,
With her own lovers - like his books,
Each with Story after StoryafterStory,
Till she found her Story,
And sold all the acres of the old man's love,
But the one his house was on,
And as the year passed for him to give that away as well,
He tore through the old wooden floor,
And in the center of the room he planted,
The last of the trees he had used as borders.
Their roots sucked deep from his love,
And when the old man passed away,
Everything was left to her and her new family,
But the one spot where the tree grew.
Years added one by one,
Like so many coats of paint,
The old man's house was torn down,
The land used for everything imaginable,
All under the sight of the tree.
It saw a boy's first kiss,
A marriage,
A new condominium
An old condominium,
A seemingly endless strawberry patch,
And then nothing,
But the dew and those driving by,
On the old highway beside,
So in that way,
The old man who had been taken up by the roots,
Had many more families than he had ever imagined,
And he wasn't even sad,
When after too many years for anyone to care,
His last bit of love was torn down,
And used for more books,
Exactly like those he had collected,
And in that way he was full,
And nothing but thankful.


If together our lives are not filled with glamour,
Endless passion,
Greatest sacrifice,
May our love collect like rain,
Refilling stone bird baths,
And may we dunk our heads,
When we need to,
And wash over with devotion,
Like so many childhood baptisms,
Till light fade,
And arms encircle,
Till Rest come.


The running desert,
Calls with its chains and its toils,
To the desperately safe,
To take away pleasures,
And find another mind,
Like the crashing of cymbals,
Cacophonous bliss,
The lizards forking tongue splits open,
All you thought you knew,
The desert,
Mother of discovery,
Will bring you whatever you care to see,
When your bones offer up last,
The life that so strove not to cling.


To lay down,
In burning rain,
Under the deep red,
Rusting porch groans,
Muscles standing out,
Like tight-packed thread,
We're not even trying,
Resting here,
The fat rain falling through the cracks,
Decorating his highrise cheeks,
He who would die in the war,
A war we are to stop,
Or allow,
We are the verdicts,
On your children,
Your loves and futures,
And it feels so light!
Wading through decisions,
That breed tornados,
And we'll laugh until innocence,
Leaves tears where the rain fell,
As we watch from indoors,
The boys splashing in the streets,
With what they are just trying to figure out themselves,
We are just trying to figure it out ourselves.

Gentle Sheets

I love you,
It was whispered,
It was summertime.
They didn't think of cliche,
Or childish or awkward,
But of You and You,
Mixing and not losing,
Until We emerged with the smoke,
From the open flue.
And it wasn't a game,
It sat between them like a strange child,
Big-eyed and Indian-styled,
As their movements came together,
And expressed like adults,
What only children really understand,
As much as we do understand while we're here,
On this wonderful,
Close-eyed Earth.
I love you too.
The sparrows are beautiful.

Night Lights

When sleep comes,
We emit signals,
Out past the streetlights and into the sky,
That bounce off the atmosphere,
And find their way all over the earth,
To everyone else,
And in this way we feel everything,
One a bright red warm,
Another blue serene,
So before I go,
I thinkthinkthink,
So much about you,
So much I hope it threads through,
My whole message,
The secret language of why,
And who I am,
Then when you seefeel,
The threads of yourself in me,
We won't miss a beat.


The red wine,
Brushing against your unpainted lips,
Is my favorite part of the night,
Where we stay in and unplug the phone,
Grab strings and bows and places,
Music pushing out and over the balcony,
Spilling down the building and out the alley,
When our eyes aren't closed and wrapped in,
They meet in long sure vibrations,
Dancing while standing still,
This is why we survived this long,
This is how we were found,
This is meandyou.


The slow curve,
Rises and falls,
Slows and bends,
Like the lightest trace of pencil,
On new sketchpad,
From faint to dark,
The feeling rises as the sentiment solidifies,
And the harmony,
Nothing broken,
Nothing left behind,
It's the love of two,
That draws and shapes,
Flaws and breaks,
Fade away in the bow and embrace,
Of us two.

Ear Test

A silence,
A silence,
Then all the strings at once sound,
Dane and mold and form new,
Waves that curve around and through,
Mothers sisters strangers salamanders,
Over rivers and into caves,
Circling aroudn the ears of elephants,
Emmas Elmers Elizabeths Edwards,
All the time,
We hear all these things,
Like static they join our frame,
Until we pause,
And then euphonious,
Glorias Geralds Harolds Hannahs,
Feel it,
And before silence a bit of the answer shows,
Draped and cloaked and vague,
But sure and certain,
To those who see,
Do you see?

Catching and Letting Go

The sound,
On an early weekday morning,
Of your breath flying out of your mouth,
(Too fast no time)
Yet it's so calm and measured and perfect,
Like the surrounding wind before it storms,
The grey sky and the sunset behind it,
The motionless fleet of cars in driveways,
And it all wants to drive up and stop,
RIght in my face,
The Big Thing it's gonna happen,
And you breath in,
And it all goes back to order.

I'll never get over,
How much you are when you're nothing.

Connecting Transit Lines

The lonely crowded,
Greyhound (trademark) bus line,
Runs down to Topeka,
And I take it between here and home,
Between here and reality,
Jostling right and left and up and left again,
Sleeping against a persistant metal window lining,
Strike up conversations in the day,
Like matches on the side of a Diamond (trademark) box,
To burn down in between the seats,
And smell for hours in the silence,
Every pretty girl that gets on is the right one,
Shaking my head doesn't make me any less caught up,
In hoping that what I see,
Moving in the trees outside,
On the license plates of cars beside,
In the bowl of light above the ticket window,
Isn't long gone here.


Property Value

Roundabout the room the pictures fade in and out.
They go white and dim with the clouds moving outside the windows. A black cat (the neighbors call it Shadow but it isn't theirs) watches through slits cut in it's green marble eyes a bird on the wire outside, then loses interest. Without any witnesses, the dust continues to float suspended above the end tables and gather on the furniture. In the upstairs, through the last door to the left, an old man lays straight on top of a made bed, like it's his deathbed. His hands lay folded on his stomach. His chin hairs begin to grow out from the morning's shaving. You can see them if you catch the slanting of the rays just right, like tiny white threads reacting to the day.
He is breathing.
In. Out.
In. Out.
He is a child at boy scout camp, and he has just seen a golden retriever for the first time, and it's slobber is beginning to dry on his dirty cheeks. He looks back to the parking lot at his father, who is proud. His father who wouldn't come back from the last World War. He remembers this, even though it hasn't happened yet, and buries his face in the yellow fur. 
In. Out.
In. Out.
He is finally out alone with the girl of his dreams. He's been loaned the car for one night only, and is taking her to see the last free concert put on by the state orchestra for the summer. On the way he passes by the black boys and their idling car tucked into a narrow alley so they can only open one side of doors. He knows a few of them, but more than that he knows the look in her eyes when she sees them. He drives faster, gripping the leather on the steering wheel and trying to find in his mind the grip and pull of the tires on the road, trying to outrun what has to happen. Still she looks back, in the side mirror before he turns the corner, and in silence the rest of the night passes, the stars blocked by solid clouds.
In. Out.
In. Out.
He is in church. He is right, closer, happy. He is outside on the steps. He is wrong, absurd, disheveled. He is on his knees in the hallway between the bathroom and the bed. He is crying, his hands rolling over one another like holy waves coming rising and receding from the shore.
In. Out.
In. Out.
They are fighting the night after her graduation. Her ceremonial gown lies irreverently on her bed, while she is out with old friends. She is yelling and his hands constantly throw up into the air, come down and feel through his hair. The hardwood resonates quickly and with precision to his shoes, and sitting on the stairs she looks through the spokes like prison bars. She looks unhappy. He looks down and fumbles the lint in his right pocket.
In. Out.
In. Out.
He uses the last of his retirement bonus to pay for a down-payment on her first house, and most of her marriage. She is going already showing promise as a resident. She is happy, and fulfilled, and full of beautiful mistakes. He doesn't sit with her mother like he thought he would when the day came, but they exchange benevolent tear-welled eyes, and that means something. That's very big. That's a good way to see one another for the last time before seasons displace and put oceans between.
In. Out.
In. Out.
He is walking the new sidewalk outside the grocery store going home, and across the lot in front of the Target is a marine still in desert camouflage. He is asking for money for a bus ticket home, saying he was mugged after returning from the war. People enter and exit the store without making eye contact, even as his voice begins to strain and his fist clutches around discharge papers, like so many losing lottery tickets.
In. Out.
A wife. A daughter. Thank you God.
Downstairs the cat opens one green marble eye halfway.


Should You Ever Want Again

In the grass,
The lushness of your face half-concealed,
A world's worth of joy,
Compacted into two irises,
Of blended blues and greys,
And hands,
Lightly calloused and sunburnt,
The child come from us,
Standing three feet,
Fascinated by the sounds emanating from the bush,
And my watch wound down,
Frozen here,
In my dreams I continue unbounded.


It starts,
It comes up like a gust,
First through the trees,
Then suddenly upon and over everything,
It starts with a closing of the eyes,
And a brief awareness,
Then forgiveness,
And a feeling of everything,
Of every grain of dirt in between your toes,
As they flex and curl,
Cherish this,
Cherish this,
And forget.


As a child I remember,
My grandfather's solid brown boots,
The laces tied with precision,
With time alone in a hotel room,
And his straight buttoned jacket,
The rain running down it the same,
As it did our car windshield,
His face did not betray a love,
That I was told resided within,
And I love him for this,
For the care with which his feelings,
Were guarded from moth and rust,
And even riding away,
In my mother's slick black import,
I could not help but turn,
To him waiting under his umbrella,
Feeling the rain with his outstretched hand.


You're the truest,
Of sorts,
But I'm tired,
And things don't see as clear,
As in the straight daylight,
Passing unfiltered to the eye,
The slight shine of freshly spoken vows,
Like the dews silent on two flowers,
And somewhere deep in the forever green,
They cross and entwine,
And unite in the forever green.

Running Brings Sweat

I'm sitting,
Atop a camper's fire escape,
In red folding lawn chair,
And watching the fish,
Dart around the lures,
And the fog,
Escape through the gaps in the mountains,
Green and still they sit,
I miss home.
Darling I miss home.


The Blacksmith, at His Wife's Headstone

I was careless,
When I loved you,
And I still think that was best.
Our two children are doing well,
And I've kept food on the table.
Sometimes it's real hard,
When I think about being here without you,
So I try to find as much work as possible,
But I just can't go to sleep most nights,
I took the pillow you slept on,
Put it in the chair by my closet,
So it won't lose your smell.
We gave your clothes to your sister,
Like you wanted,
But I kept one of your summer dresses,
The one our daughter always wanted to wear,
I want to give it to her to be married in someday,
If I can't afford a new white gown.
Everyone still loves you down here,
They don't even say mean things in the bars,
Which, truth be told I visited for the first few days,
But you knew I'd do about as much.
I brought you fresh flowers again,
And my love,
You will forever have my love, Kate.


Your dress sweeps against my pant leg,
Like a steady creek over rocks,
Circling in turn,
I take you around the room,
Until your hair loses its focus,
Until cares are flung off,
Like so many statically hung threads,
No matter what light,
Your eyes forever have that spark,
That would draw me across a desert,
And the look of you knowing it,
Until we're both past the brink,
And your curls slide through my fingers,
And the morning greets us,
With todays and yesterdays paper.

On One of the Brightest Days

When we are happiest,
We will cry out as our hearts crack,
Grinding against each other until powder,
Forms on the ground at our feet.
Cars will stop as people clutch their chests,
Tug at the pink ribbon above their breasts,
Plates will break,
And once again like babies,
We will look to the sky,
But this time with the understanding,
That comes best with life,
And we will reach perfect corners,
One hand up, one to the side,
And so will everyone lose everything,
The cars will be empty,
Barren baby carriages carried by gravity into corners,
And you will see,
Why I was laughing just before it happened,
Just before I told you ______.

And That Was When They Started to Run

I was on the couch,
Harmonica in hand.

You were outside the door,
Sunglasses in hand.

There are just times that I can't do without,
And the snow will fall from Heaven,
And I'll think myself back to Scotland,
To the bed I shared with her and early mornings,
And my breath will catch in time and pattern out,
The pitches that she said spoke of weary travels,
Till the room is empty,
The sound of the air conditioning consuming the air.

Your sunglasses fall as you walk down the hallway.


Thoughts Immediately Following

I'll keep it short/sweet (see, I even eliminated the and or "&"). I really don't plan on ever understanding what you all see in me, but today really made an i-dont-want-to-admit-it impact. This is probably the worst of the pangs about leaving my heart's felt yet, and the only thing I can think of is how fresh in my memory all of you will always stay and how often I'll come back here to visit. God bless you in everything, as He has obviously blessed me beyond any measure. 




It was all so different,
And everyone was honestly better,
A radiant broadcast sent out to the rest of space.

"We think we know how to live this life now!
Please send us something new, Beloved, we're getting bored!"

And We All Just Kept Sleeping

In one dream,
I am running towards you,
Until I run clear through you-like a ghost,
And then there are more,
All of us running the same way,
But I am the fastest,
I outrun all the rest and again am all alone,
Everything outside of me is a blur,
But never so clearly,
So acutely have I known,
The wind crashing upon and flowing across my nose,
Through every crack in my skin down to my eyes,
And then over and past my temples.

So intense is this,
Everything fades behind,
Like listening to someone and then the radio's turned up,
Until I am left with two thoughts in the whole world,
The wind, and where you must be,
Even here, letting myself become absorbed,
I cannot wholly separate from you,
I wonder,
So I stay, and am not bitter about that.

And Then a Surprise for You

Little Ophelia,
Perhaps in you I can place my life,
My unkept, tinseled life,
My circus goldfish.
Do you think it was right,
Little Ophelia,
That big God gave life to one such as me?
Oh I can see why He would give it to you!
I can see that very well, and easily.
Playing helicopter with you,
And seeing your eyes when we go on morning walks,
Marveling at all the dew on every blade,
Of our little four-corner lawn,
Makes me happy.

So many things here,
And people too!
Aren't happy.
I'm afraid I may be making them unhappy,
And that sincerely moves me.
So I think of things to buy you,
And candies to get you,
And sometimes I think of moving,
But I'm afraid the new people there will become unhappy too.
Oh, I'll dismiss it for a while again,
You're just too enchanting,
Let's go for a walk.

Sitting at a Table, Rapping Fingers

The snapping of twigs,
Like so many fingers cracking,
Imbedded in the background of my day.
Tiny tickings,
Hollow harbingers of black and white,
And things with emptied meaning,
Sound as if through a vacant yellow hallway,
With scraps of poster still holding,
Desperately to the paint.

I'm thinking of the Hurt,
Glass half full stuff,
Of how efficiently grey the sky has been today,
Not one opening to speak of.
So I've been wanting to ask You,
Do I hurt more than I give?
What do I create? Joy or pain?



To Keep Some Awful Idea at Bay

And just as They approach,
As the devilish idea circles my camp,
I get away by going up,
All the way to you,
So close the water beads from your breath,
On my cheek and chin,
And I know if I'm strong enough,
Not to pass with any colours,
But to come bruised and bleeding,
Across whatever distance leads to you,
Then I'll stop sounding like such a nut,
Mostly to myself,
I keep mostly to myself,
And maybe I'll be able to stave off dying,
Long enough to enjoy being with you,
Which is the thing I want most out of this,
And I'm afraid my words are getting so repetitive I'll jeopardize the whole thing.

Please thing favorably of me,
All I need is for one person to approve,
Please see me for the monster I brought forth and feed,
And if you love me anyway,
All that is dark becomes light.

Oh Just Slap My Hand and Move On

It would be nice,
To get a smooth new jacket,
Stuff your hands in the pockets,
Feeling the fabric stretch and mold,
And walk away from a lot of it,
And you'd be a coward,
And a visionary,
Unfit and remembered as you went,
What exactly would you think about?
That's what really sticks me proper,
And does it still hurt at night,
Even sometimes?
But I don't know who I'm asking,
I don't even know if this is what I'm doing or not.

Logic, My Inhospitable Baroness

If God judges the heart,
But from our heart come our actions,
And we're such different people outside,
Then why shouldn't we get the same verdict,
Either way?

Baffled (Sometimes)

Do you think the whole world keeps spinning on what people don't say,
But really think about each other?

Sometimes when I wish I were less subtle,
I'm not,
Or maybe I could be a bit more accepting,
I'm really not,
Or Heaven help me I should be nicer,
I'm horribly not,
And eventually you come to wondering,
Just what in the world is it?
With all this realism, pessimism, flatulism,
Can it keep going?
Have I ever smiled,
When thinking all that?

Sorry that wasn't much of a poem.


Um. What? Ok!

Like the rise of fluster in the head,
As the night seems never to yield the sun,
Dominion over us again,
And we aren't sure of which we want,
The blurred hum of fluorescents,
Or air so clean and cold it burns our noses,
Moving from one yellow room to the next,
The paint and the people swallowing,
Every last neuron I need to decide right now,
I breathe faster,
Blink slower, more emphatically....

Out on the brick stoop,
I'm waiting to get my bearings,
And you with the same fragile agility,
Sit up on the railing,
And this is the closest I will ever be....

Now standing up,
The breeze carrying down the street,
I am in the middle,
You are watching but not that it matters,
My hands spread wide,
Eyes up, waiting.

'Hello' is all I think in this communion,
As a high drum beat cracks in time and it all moves again.


Scarlett Johansson

Waking up,
Your slender legs possessed,
Of a certain white colour,
Curl up to your chest,
The vigorous light from outside,
Investigates the room,
Your hidden face,
My unclear love,
The pages of a novel,
Long to be finished,
Lie in the corner by the stand alone lamp,
On the perfect carpet,
I am feeling the veins across and between,
My unsettling hands.

Waking up,
I feel so much more a monster,
With no one to tell me why I should.


Sleep Now, Rest Now

Over the mountain climbed,
That Pilgrim,
Devout and humbled,
His ankles flexed against the,
Shifting rock and moss,
As the pack on his back,
Felt ever tighter,

Seizing the top,
Feeling the breeze crash against his brow,
The Pilgrim could not help,
But close his eyes a brief moment,
In the temporal bliss of an earthly triumph,
Like a vapor continuing to rise.

Looking down,
The green valley peaceful,
He imagined the people there,
The weave of the baskets,
They carry from house to house,
The color of the church house,
It's worn attendance strong,
And he began down the slope,
Towards home.

His tears served to speak,
What he could not say as he passed,
Through the long rusted archway,
And saw the children,
Chasing around the fountain.

The few days left passed,
Quickly by tired Pilgrim,
Till he found the strength to forgive,
And lay relaxed on,
The old spring mattress,
Socks worn with holes.

And he imagined he had returned,
As he would that day return,
To the bosom of the Lord above,
A vapor in himself rising,
At peace,
In Joy.


I've Never Been Able to Forget

Your eyes,
So they could be first,
Your confidence,
Made things fall into place,
Where they never could,
An ebb and flow,
Your laughter bowled me over,
And how you always seemed to be going,
Don't ever dwell where we've made a habit of staying,
Messing up and complaining about it,
Keep forward of it,
In a biting new spring wind,
And when you occasionally look back,
I can be just as speechless,
Murmur out some sarcasm,
Hope you like it,
Because I'm an idealist,
A romantic to criticize,
Bring back to earth and out right hate,
For making things that aren't there,
And then trying to live in them,
So I guess that makes me a bastard too,
But in my head,
You who I've never met,
Will do wrongs to me,
I can only see now as wondrous.

Baby Thoughts

It feels like the dew of new birth,
Looking around at all this,
The wonderment of childhood,
I'm looking forward to it again,
When we start over at the end,
I'd be happy just to sit,
In the grass a ways from the tree,
Where all my friends are playing,
And lay back and realize,
That deadlines are extinct,
Expectations abolished,
And even though my eyes are closed,
Something shines.

Time Spent on a Futon

When it gets like this,
And yea,
Eventually it'll turn bad,
If it looks like I'm not listening,
I can only say it's hard,
And in my head I'm swaying,
Sitting cross-legged,
To a lazy beat,
That is nothing like me at the moment,
Because I'm just trying to survive.

"It's hard to remember,
We're alive for the first time."

There may be,
Only a finite amount of happiness in the world,
And that one's joy means another's grief,
And if that's so then I have a very hard time,
Believing in anything,
Except your golden hair that evening,
With fattened clouds above our heads,
And the grass stains like wounds on my jeans.

And it's morning,
And I'm feeling the pain of the sun.

(quotes by Modest Mouse, of course.)


I Play a Mean Cornet

It's a bit longer,
Life than I'd hoped,
Out here running down,
Something I really don't understand,
But I've got a sly smile,
And a way about getting through,
That I may just get out yet,
Around the corner behind the nursery,
There's a group and some music and some talk,
And we think we're on to it,
Probably next Saturday,
We'll throw some heavy clothes on,
And take it somewhere else,
The view doesn't seem to be changing,
Not that our attention is low,
But I don't think you're really hearing me,
The view doesn't seem to be changing.


If you have anything to say,
Ignore me,
Could you point me to the corner?
I think I could use a friend there,
Oh it's not you darling,
Or your darling,
I just feel a bit out of place,
With other talking moving things,
I'm going up and around to bed now,
Where I can swim and fly and brood and die,
Come back and raise a family,
You tilt your glasses back bacchanal,
I'll bring my patience.

What I Took Away from the Reunion

I tried to be there,
I even stepped out of the car,
Felt familiar night air,
Now a bit foreign though,
But easy enough to recognize,
Crowded around the front,
I saw you with your son,
Just as you said he looked,
Cute in a little man's suit,
And the words off your lips,
Something of giving your best,
Living to some paramount,
And passing it on like it wasn't a curse.

I'm sorry I couldn't come inside,
I spent the evening in a heated seat,
Bent over the wheel,
Remembering what we said,
And what we did,
Or better still didn't,
I'm the last person I could imagine to call you out,
But the look in your boy's eyes,
Do you know what you're doing?
I guess we're becoming parents.

I still have a photo of mine,
All bent and torn and like it should be,
I think I'll catch a sooner flight out,
After I get a bit gassed and tell you this,
And then I'll sit him down on my lap,
He's still young enough for that,
Like yours,
And I'll try my best to explain,
Why a lot of people seem like paper,
And don't make much sense,
And that'll probably make me a bad parent.


Every Vision

When you are no longer tender,
Cheeks worn with life,
As you lean against hardened red wood,
I will come to you,
And with coarse,
Old hands I will sweep,
And feel the youth once upon your face,
And your eyes that do not change,
And kiss your brown waves,
In the quiet of a summer day,
Feel your hands in mine,
Peeking smiles,
It all seems to shake,
Every vision,
As we get older and more fragile,
But you the more precious,
At no particular time to mark,
In this corridor we,
With friends outside,
Enjoy our existence.


Blessed Are Those That Don't Blink

I tried to contact,
A mystic,
And ask her to put me through,
Let me see the other side,
A different vision to tide,
Me over past this life and further,
Past all the weeping,
Gnashing of teeth,
And over the praise,
The clapping and embraces of forever,
To get me to that even edge,
Fine mirrored ledge to calm,
My aching nerves for a moment,
To sit and meditate,
Remembering Julia,
Who is over and done,
Like old hands,
Sliding over and under,
We will think,
Of each other so,
Much more than ourselves.



He's somewhere,
The old hermit,
And he's writing books,
You and me,
We're in them,
'Cus he sees all of us,
All as we cannot help,
And the furious pen,
Falling, gliding, marking,
To a furious smile that he turns,
And the one fire that burns,
To keep his paper hands awake,
One dedication,
To line the halls of eternity,
With all the volumes of mankind,
And your heroics will go second,
And your beauty will go first.

The Ending of Cold for Now

Kissing your eyelids, 
As you sleep in today,
Staring from inside,
At the diminishing white,
At the fading smoke,
On my hot breath,
The car doesn't need warming up,
Your joints no longer hurt,
The birds are making that annoying sound again,
And I'm remembering,
How it's all a cycle,
So big and so fantastic,
It's almost a heartbreaker,
Out on the coast here in Norway,
To think it was all,
All for us, 
You in majestic blue,
And me in a worn,
Frayed sweater from my past.

Little Puddles on Smooth Streets

"...Orion, the devil...."
Feeling like a child, Jerome stared at the black streaks across his vision, and the pale background that was his ceiling. He didn't move, but replied, "It's only a group of stars. I doubt they care at all about snatching up human souls."
"No, Orion, your dog. He just pissed all over the kitchen floor."
"Did he get the plant in the corner?"
Silence. Jerome didn't move, imagined he was invisible as long as he stayed frozen in bed, not even moving his eyes. Then the quick patter of delicate feet, the quick run that only a young woman can manage.
The bed sunk deep as Camille came down upon him, so much so he almost lost sight of the outside, after which he was sure he would sink all the way to China. Then his newly awakened body communicated the feeling of her on him, of her soft cheek against his stubble. Using the small push up that the springs tried to manage, Jerome twisted them both to the right, catching hold of both her wrists and raising himself up.
"A complete reversal of fortune, it seems, for now you are the one in the comfy bed, and I have to get ready for work!"
She notched her head to the side, watching him with smirking eyes. He went slack and lay back on his knees. "Shit."
Bursting into laughter, she tried to fight his grip as he bent back down to kiss her and then dismissed the scene in favor of the bathroom. He showered, shaved, brushed, deodorized, sanitized, and emerged with all sorts of clean flavors wafting off his shoulders. Camille was still in the kitchen, and he almost ran into her as he turned the corner, stopping right where carpet meets tile. 
"May I enter?" She said nothing and inserted a dry piece of toast into him mouth. He stood mock-puzzled, shrugged his shoulders, and went for his black peacoat, putting it on in one quick swoop around his shoulders. He opened the door, and looked back to see Camille expecting some sort of goodbye for the day. "Mmm-mm-m-mmm-mm"
"I'm sorry?"
He took a bite and held the remainder of the slice, "You have a sweet ass."
"Love you too, darling."
"You seem to have trouble following my conversations. We'll talk about it in therapy. Bye"
The toast was gone by the time Jerome reached the elevator, and he selfishly spent the entire ride down enjoying his therapy joke. They weren't really in therapy, Camille said that the day they needed it, she would just pay another man two hundred dollars an hour for a divorce instead. She was very fiscal. Outside, he looked back up at their apartment. It has just one ornament visible from the street, a bright yellow fake sunflower twisted around the balcony. He blew the flower a kiss, flipped up his collar, and started down the street. 


He stared at the black streaks across his vision, and the pale background that was his ceiling. Eventually he got up, showered, dressed, looked to see if there was anything of dire importance on the news (it would be horrible to get to work and find out you've missed a natural disaster, wouldn't it?), grabbed his peacoat and headed downstairs. Outside he looked at the surrounding buildings, and felt a pinch somewhere when he thought he saw a fake sunflower, way up high. Squinting, he determined it was actually one of the plastic apparatuses that spin interestingly in the wind. He laughed aloud, catching the eye of the man hidden inside the magazine kiosk. He didn't usually remember dreams that well, but then again, who could forget a Camille? Especially one like that. He let out one of those long, walking sighs that no one can hear outside, and allowed himself only a brief  few seconds to feel the real pain of only having a taste of things, then he walked on. He would name his first kid Noah.

(Sometimes we're just tired, God bless)



The wooden man,
Was built in mild August,
Given life by September,
And assimilated into the town nicely.

He helped everyone,
He carried groceries, painted houses,
Marched in parades as children,
Hung by his arms and sat on his shoulders.

When the storm hit,
And the medicine ran out,
He walked to the next town,
The blizzard did not take with it a soul that year.

As the generations bent forward,
Like a mother towards a crib,
He watched the skin wrinkle,
And marveled at his own steadfastness.

When his creators died,
He attended their funeral,
Stood testament to their genius,
And always kept their graves.

It was only when their grandchildren,
Were just coming of age,
That the first splinter came,
Fluttering off his thick arm.

His two yellow eyes,
Stared for a very long time,
Where the groove came in,
Deep in the forest where he lived.

He began to creak,
But could not find where from,
And the sound became very irritating,
And the children preferred to play inside.

In the forest the animals,
Attended and played the audience,
As the creation came down,
In the silence he was born with.

The yellow eyes began to fade,
As the wooden man sat down,
Slowly rested on the ground,
And felt his broken hinges.

The children found him,
Though these were too young to know,
And played king of the hill,
On a very strange rock.

Time covered him with moss,
White perennials and a gentle shaft of sunlight,
And the wooden man went back,
And he stopped being so sad.

And a Quickening Pace

It gives an infrequent change,
Like the first chord of a new song,
The foggy morning beyond my bed,
And I think how I used to be able to think,
And the smile is so wide.

And even as the heart begins to ache,
The muscles cry and the eyes open,
I am able to move on,
Because it exists somewhere,
Though possibly never for me again,
Somewhere it moves.


Screaming with,
Head pressed against the wall,
Screaming with,
All your friends in their homes,
There for you.

It'll all be better one day,
It just takes time,
Can you sleep?

For You in the Empty Apartment

Calling out,
With eyes so helpless,
No one will see them,
Gone with the closing,
Locking of doors,
Everyone else matters so much,
More-why are you being selfish?
Quit thinking of yourselves.

You beautiful pillars,
Show nothing,
Keep virgin love from their clutches,
And hold fast to your Bibles,
To your pasts and your minds,
For it will only get colder,
So you must be brighter,
You must never lose,
With tears and black clothing,
Free us.


I'm Ruining This For Me

In the dark,
I am ready for you,
Oh Sun,
Rising to wonder my dull eyes,
My unshaven chin,
I cannot uphold this commandment,
I cannot keep Your strength,
I feel cold red wood,
On the empty soles of feet,
I hear it swirling,
Beneath my conscious thought,
What are You doing where we cannot see?
I keep breathing,
Is it mine own?
Slowly, down the hall,
Alone in this wider space,
Bigger than You,
My entire unremarkable state,
If you are ever to read this,
On dried parchment in dusty corridor,
And imagine who I was,
Remember me!
I will have no part in it,
I will know not your tribute,
How many generations do we have left?
No one has told me the answers to anything that matters,
And I have not yet found out myself,
And I cannot make myself cry for the fact of it.

I will forget it all by morning.


You're dead now,
Run from eternity please,
I'm gone in the black desk chair,
I'm done in the wild wild west,
But the deserts persist, 
The dry air calling out my life,
It's a trial I'll have to suffer through,
It's a thing of the past,
My childish awe at everything,

You touched.

I'm Dying to Find Out

If it's nothing we could imagine,
Yet we so desperately seem,
To know what's going on,
The fear to let go rises,
The training to never accept uncertainty,
As it blares in the face of everything you've experienced,
In the educated drunkard the opinion rises,
That it is so much bigger.

I'm crying and ripping apart to meld with you.



She showed up,
To ask for my help,
The white foam suicide,
Against the cold winter rocks,
And me and the lighthouse broken,
All we weakened could do,
Pointed her up coast,
While we two frozen,
With grey clouded eyes,
Watched the ships fight.


The ship run aground,
We all got out and felt,
The coarse sand falling,
Between dirty fingers,
And running down the,
Beach full of light it,
Started to dawn on us that,
For the most part,
Each of us had drastically changed positions, 
Than previously held.

What Grabbed My Attention

Wrapped in
Red wondering
Your coarse blouse
Against my cheek railing
The slow sleek fan
Drawing on dawn we feel
It may be coming today.
It may be just about time for it today.

Thank God Someone Invented A Word For It.

My life summed up,
Holding our child against the wind,
A deep turquoise blanket wrapped,
Love is about all I could think of.



Words spread through,
Almost every time I want,
Running fingers through hair,
I don't say anything,
And watch it burn,
With careful attention,
Not to harm the arbiter.

The rain on the bells,
A deep purple by the barn.

Everything beats,
Whether I want it to or not,
And you, too,
Try me sometimes,
And I want to manage,
I think I really do,
Paying careful attention,
To touching shoetips together.

The rain on the bells,
A deep purple by the barn.

I can't look at them,
In the streets they scare me,
Faces everywhere running,
It's jumbled and crumbling and wrong,
But if your face be there,
Your eyes-they are safe.

The rain on the bells,
A deep purple by the barn.

The swallow outside,
I can't imagine it would stay for long,
Stay with me today,
Please stay with me here,
It won't be for very long,
But houses are cages to,
So I hear.

The rain on the bells,
A deep purple by the barn.

I don't know,
Hold on,
I love you,
The sounds are gone,
This is what I think.

The rain on the bells,
A deep purple by the barn.

Human touch forgotten,
Perhaps I have lived,
Perhaps this has made me holy?
I am unsure, but they say
Writing this will help:

It's the pounding in my head,
It's the rising raft and so alone,
It's just physics, Love. 


In the velvet seat,
I don't have to talk to you,
My eyes are useless,
But for tears,
As the strings flow up and down,
I almost whisper how little I care,
About the divorce,
In the face of all this,
But for now,
Let me have this love.

In the Morning When Things Come Around

That I have survived a night,
With fireside warmth,
The love of friends,
And a smile on my face,
With all that I have done,
Makes me question the existence of God,
More than anything else.

Patience is a Vice

I feel them,
Behind my shoulders,
Shifting the ice of sidewalks,
They are my approaching wall,
They are what I will meet if I do not,
Never turn back.
I see them,
Through shop windows with painted words,
The fog on their breaths,
My every long winded thought,
In dark coats they wait,
For me.
For me.

Shroomy Was a Good Friend

You asked, 
And I told,
All that I thought of this place,
This night,
These eighteen years,
And the lights outside the hotel window,
(Ground floor)
Were shining steady,
When you asked,
And all I could do was shrug.



It it takes,
Till I am an old man,
With the right music running in circles,
I will get back to,
My Cassandra my
Blazing crown queen,
The fairy home,
Surrounded in fog,
Your scarf trailing behind
My Cassandra my,
Violet menace to my health,
The doctors don't know,
The murmur in my heart,
Is your whisper,
Taken to extremes,
My Cassandra my,
Broken heart story,
Always gets old,
But we always got old,
And we did everything we could to stop it,
My Cassandra My,
We sure did try,
To not let it get us down,
The cold, I mean.


With every turn of your hips,
Pursing of tight lips,
The sweat on the sides of my temples,
Travels down with fire inside.


So if we don't get out,
If one thing goes wrong after another,
If you fold under,
And I pack my favorite shirts,
Then remember what I wrote,
About summer and Holland and everything,
And try to think of that,
Over the sound of an empty garage,
If you must remember.


When we're all molten,
Melted and safe,
My lips will still quiver,
Seconds away from yours,
Smelling the static between,
The lush,
Red apple,
Was too hard for me,
And it dropped to the ground,
The moon saw me down,
And it all went up and away.


So it ran like this,
We all saw it coming so we all let it come,
And it swamped every one of us,
And like flies,
We all came back,
To look at the aftermath,
The wreckage of the final defeat,
But there was Percival,
Old, blind, and small,
Buried under the broken splinters,
Of the Old Town Hall,
And he looked up,
And looking like a mole he said,
Absent of tantrums and fits,
"Happiness like this will be the death of me,
I'm glad to share it all with you."
And he died on that spot,
We all watched him do it,
The audacious prick actually got out.


Taking Another Hit I Most Certainly Deserve

It hurts,
And it's going to get worse,
Because I want it too,
I hope you're all not too tired,
Because you just might drop it if you are,
But it's coming to a peak here,
Another tower of Babel for sure,
And I'm getting on to screaming,
As some of us diverge,
It's a rough wall and you're lucky to get around,
But I'll hold as many hands as I can,
With my own meager faith,
We'll hopefully laugh about it later,
We'll hopefully finally find our heads in all this,
Or maybe I'm just an optimist,
Or maybe you're just too quiet to agree.

Plans...Sort Of.

If I break tonight,
Trust me I'll call you,
It's about the last thing I'd want,
To be trouble,
But truth is you're the only one I'd trust,
With a stupid thing like this,
So hopefully that won't happen,
I mean really that won't happen,
But I'll come to you,
Through all of this snow,
Shivering to make a point,
If you'll open the door,
I'll most likely never leave,
Unless you move.

Kiddy Games

You're running across it,
Suddenly it's the parachute I ran under,
As a child with rainbow colors,
Darting overhead,
I'm ten years again,
And just as unrealized,
But I sleep better,
For a time,
Thinking of the future,
Thinking of you.


On a windowsill,
Leg's bent like mountains,
I'll rest my arm across them,
Flutter fingers,
Imagine the sound of bird wings,
And watch the European day rise,
Over the tall fields,
Almost time,
And listen for the sound of steps,
Across the wooden floor of this place,
It's not yet breakfast,
I have my tea alone here,
Almost time,
I can imagine you here,
See you in the window here,
Never once had I ever dreamed,
Never once did I touch your face,
Almost time,
This place,
The flutter of the birds,
The scent of raspberries,
The shine of the early dawn,
At once,
I'm almost gone now.

Come What May

Try to give it a careful looking,
Over the cliff before you go,
Check with family and the like,
See what you hear about the whole thing,
If you're crazy as hell,
People will let you know,
Surrender to that thought if you want,
But it's all the same,
Till your feet leave the ground,
And you plunge downward,
Come what may,
You fall downward,
Come what may.

Coming Up On It

It's a training ground,
And I can't say we haven't learned anything,
Because you're not stopping me,
And I think I know where my feet go next,
So we sit slicked back,
Lazily amongst blue tableclothed plastic tables,
With plastic cutlery,
And a sort of richness of soul,
That knowing look,
And I can't even see you from where I am,
But we've come here before,
On long nights in the patient dark,
And we've shed nothing,
That was most important,
I know that it's a risk more than yours,
But that's where we are,
And you have been wonderful.

The Wolf

You'll ruin something tonight,
And I'll break another heart,
Or at least severely wound,
With my red wine and your devil's lips,
Swaying across the full carpet in this room,
How many people are we forgetting?
How does the morning come for us,
When we have shut so much out?
Your hair pulled back,
My sleeves up,
We'll strain this till it breaks,
Because it's a violent ritual,
We can't get away from,
And you're biting your lip just as hard as me,
Till it bleeds from the wait and pressure.

Up for a Time

You're pulling me haggard,
You're running me along,
Swept up in white silken,
Night traces,
The curve of your back,
Explained by the darker songs,
Of the English and their losses,
The English love their losses,
Caught up in a side-by-side,
Race for curing ourselves,
You'll cry out when it's time,
And I'll be sure to,
Stand there stark still,
I'm truly a lark in such situations.