Edison’s last breath is in a jar in Michigan
Caught by his son as he died.
Where will my last breath have been by the time it travels through me?
Will it have been spit it the gutter of Mumbai?
Coughed by a panting Senator?
Was it a small sigh at a child’s amazement of a world just opening in his eye?
Will it have travel to space and back?
Was it farted into an airplane seat
Or laughed with a bit of spittle at some barmaids’ misfortune?
This air, this stuff, that expands and contracts us,
the universe even
doesn’t get the credit the heart does.
This invisible life
a language that travels well untranslated
by the heart or mind.
I know you by our breathes
shared exhalations, bits of us.
Air opens us- all of us- to living
from the Yogi to the thief.
Edison who breathed caught light into a jar
a thing unseen until then
now shines breath back at me from this screen
from all screens.
A chain–un broken
passed between us
exhaled into forever’s jar – our breathes
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
Some ones party balloon
Escaped from a small hand
Clings to a branch
outside
my bedroom
Window
It leaving its party too soon
a shimmering mylar
rodent string tail
caught-
a runaway
panting
in a trap.
I want to
cut it down
and pick up the party
before all life
drains out -
slowly.
I can’t reach
though
like so many
plastic grocery bags
drifting waste
bobbing
above my grasp
artifacts of past
communions
floating by.
The shine of ‘Happy’
collapses time
Upside down
string flaccid
Winter
its only breath-
a shuddering in cold bursts
of grey.
Slowly
Spring green
molds over it
decay
I forget
As it eases into waves of softer air.
buds form
And robins pull worms
In its shade’s
exhausted judgement.
Summer breezes
bounce it’s flaked shine briefly
between
The flickering
Of leaves
“I’m still here”
it winks
Until
the Fall
sheds its cover
leaves float
down in spirals
revealing
shimmer- gone- grey
and dull.
life and air
No longer animate.
Spreading apart into
beautiful
diminishing
frail
shards
Nature takes its turn
small hands fashion
it into a squirrels nest
the moveable Birthday Party – long over.
It’s empty string dangles nothing to lift it.
A boy still searching the sky
to grab
for its return,
Sorry
but,
The squirrels
seem to be
Happy
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
At my father’s grave
I stand on the berm
over his chest
his holes filled with dirt and time
a clear vantage point
for
peering into my holes.
The earth rising-constantly
strata filling
with generations
of fathers and sons.
Soldiers, plumbers, thieves
Estranged, beloved
Sharing
the same moon light on cool etched stone
night after night.
Epitaphs
at my head board:
Loving father,
provider
Dedicated son.
A breeze carries
a warmth
from that lower ground,
it’s a quiet wind,
so I can
sleep –
blanket half shorn
One leg in
one leg out.
The ground rises to meet me
daily
As I fall preparing
a spot
for my son to stand
compacting the dirt
in my holes
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
I can leave a window open tonight
a breeze across the soft fuzz of my cheek.
I never sleep in this position
but on my back
I hear the lullaby:
street noises
a passing car
a train without people
going - somewhere.
A lone dog walker,
a whistler in the dark
a laugh - then gone.
will sleep stop this silent joy in my head?
then let me be.
eyes softly
resting in
the Bogart greys .
a thin cover of
the moon on my body,
my feet
slowly opening
out.
when so few are awake
there seems to be
more world for me to live in
coming through my window
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
Be not afraid of who you are
told to you in your sleep
these myths that keep you
awake
your organs narrative:
the barista with the Rams head
the animal of your ***
the wings
released unafraid
your art.
the unkempt stories of your day
made only bizarre and disjointed
by your fears
and a life that doesn’t
allow you to fly.
at the pillow ascend
into that sweet unconscious story
from the crime of fish
who gave up the swim
and
the jealousy of birds.
pluck from
your day the weak unfinished
prayers.
with closed eyes
they creep out
from the muck of the
apron
desk
hammer
god
anger
hurt,
the animals
of self,
carrying their stories
to the gray artist.
under your burning eyes
closed
the life
you were meant for
in the stillness
of your night
breathe now the book open
the unwritten
living stories of our time
carried in your organs
why: the fish crawled
the Hawk sought
the bone supports
the blood feeds.
who am I?
I ask
in waking hours.
At night
no gravity’s skin,
the organs
stories
released
become
the fish
stepping into the path
every night
out of
the death muck
of a day
into
a dream
of forever
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC