the moon has died in a poem
overused and forlorn
its avatar is rising
in blazig pixels and scorn

we are at this threshold
one foot in the moon
the subtelty of dying will be
presented on Zoom

Godot isn't coming but
I am waiting too

the fullness of words in your mouth
my trembling hands
a truth cuts deep
into the ribs of morning
it's the big bang of language
when silence has no shadow

Thousands of eyes,
looking at my sleeping body.
After my false awakening,
I saw them,
still trapped in the dream.
They were recording
my every painful breath.

Eyes without eyelids,
dense, dark air.
I became an unexpected glitch
in the imposed system.
They just didn’t know
what to do with me.

The spiders around my bed
were watching over
the meaning of my existence.

I had only a deep need
to find a place
for all elements
of the broken vessel,
the black pupils,
the witnesses
to my faltering walk.

I am not yet a butterfly.
I am the caterpillar
in a long ego tunnel.

Thomas was right.

To heal,
I must keep going
and going
until all becomes
one seamless whole,
ready to transform
into a flying being,
free from the chain of wounds,
sacrificed
on the altar
of broken Ego.

I grew up in Kansas.
I graduated from Phillips Andover.
I matriculated at Colunbia over Yale.
I dropped out of law school because I couldn't sleep.
I spent a year at Menninger's that saved my life.
I wrote a poem to my parents. As my father walked by me,
he said "Go buy a rental property." That was the moment
I gained my independence. I was no longer his
"good little boy." I would no longer be his son to live out
his unconscious dreams through me, dreams of becoming
megawealthy, famous, powerful. I was free to be
my real self. I would write "the intellect sees that all
are different, wisdom that all are one." I came to
understand that wealth is not worth. Love is.
I took my dog, Shepard, to the banks of  the Yampa River
where the two of us lived with the animals and birds,
our friends. I wrote over a thousand poems. I even
wrote a novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH. I was at
one with all around me. I live a bucolic life now.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I feel time running like a wild animal tnrough my body
the air might hide from itself in the frenzy of an embrace
the molecules of emotion create the music of muscles, of spheres
I watch this momentum of life unfolding, rising and decreasing
passion feeds the wind, the waters, the eartquakes, it dances on liminal edges
bound and unbound the pulse of creation, of destruction
I am so very quiet, as quiet as the retina that translates the light
when the light touches you my optic nerves get burned but look
how strange,
I see further away into the clarity of hands

Of all the literary
devices, my favorite
one is living.
There's no substitute.

As poets, we pull back the
curtain to our view of life.
You can shape your craft as
you go.
Metaphors will come all
over the page.
Your imagery will become
pencil-sharp and vivid.
Be patient.

If you don't have to
write, it will be easier if
you choose not to.
There are more enjoyable
activities:
***
Eating a lobster at dawn
Fishing
Swimming
Playing with your dog
or cat
*******
traveling.
Even getting your teeth
pulled can be less frustrating.

But if you must write,
you will.
Try not to ***** when
you are sick to your
stomach.

Paint a picture with
words.
Frame it with phrases.
Shine a light into the
vast darkness of mankind's
soul.
Be the light.