When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And look down,
I see the big old air conditioner compressor,
Rusty after decades of use
In Michigan’s sometimes-90s summers.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And glance left,
I see the faithful church,
Where I’ve spent almost as much of my life in as this house,
Where I’ve met my best friends.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And view right,
I see the standard size basketball hoop,
That I’ve dribbled under my whole life,
That has seen countless children attempt at its rim.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And overlook the church’s parking lot,
I see the large backyard,
Where I’ve kicked innumerable soccer *****,
And dug limitless snow forts.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And gaze into the past,
I see you and me,
Riding around in that PowerJeep,
And that dent we put in the church.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And contemplate what’s in the present,
I see the crooked basketball hoop,
The steeple that lost its cross,
And the dead tree we don’t have the heart to tear down.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And focus on the future,
I see a million different scenarios
Playing out in my head,
And I don’t even know which one I want.

All I know is nothing’s
Going to get done now,
My future isn’t going to be decided,
My life isn’t going to make itself,
While I’m just gazing out my bedroom window.

/                       some people
           walk dogs at night...

i tend to walk
a can of red stripe,

a passionfruit
              rekorderlig bottle,

and the entire
    turn off the dark
album by
    howie b....

  1997...

   come to 2018 via 2017
(obviously)...
  
           why has it been
a year since camila cabello
released
                     habana?

sure, it would be great to
have a dog,
  but...

        i don't like the idea
of a leash...

          and petting cats...
well: you can almost forget about
them,

            and you:
literally infiltrate petting them
with the addition of,
a leash.

I am Both
I am held together,
I melt away.
I am the voice that speaks for pay
I am at a loss for what to say.
I am the day, I am the night
I am the peace; I am the fight.
I am the love, I am the hate
I am on time, I come in late.

I am the good, I am the bad
I am the real, I am the fad.
I am with you, I am alone
I am the sewer, I am cologne.

I am the rich, I am the poor
I am the nun; I am the *****.
I am the door, I am the wall
I am the big, I am the small.
I am the doubt, I am belief
I am the long, I am the brief.
I am the servant, I am the king
I am the mute, I too can sing.

I am the mansion, I am the shack
I am the plenty; I am the lack.
I am the truth, I am the lies
I am the laugh; I am the cry.

I am the bitter, I am the sweet
I am the win, I am defeat.
I am the up, I am the down
I am the smile; I am the frown.

I am the calm, I am the strife
I am the death; I am the life.

I am the two of all we see,
Both good and bad we come to be.
When the finite's in eternity,
Both good and bad reside in me.

Because I am the fire, I am the snow
I am holding on; I am letting go.
I am satisfied, I am discontent
I am the sender; I am the sent.
I am the foe, I am the friend
I am the start I am the END.

Suggested by a Thought from Temporal Fugue

Because we respect words, we wrestle with them
And because they respect us, they wrestle back;
We shape them in order serviceable 1
And they refuse to be pinned as cliches’

We fling a needful verb against a noun
To make a thought complete, but then adverbs
And adjectives begin cluttering lines
And then we all must take a coffee break

Because we respect words, we wrestle with them
For every scrap of story, verse, or hymn


1 Cf. John Milton, “Hymn on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity”

I am a compilation
Of complications
A station on the radio
My radar too tuned in
Hearing too acutely
My feelings too wild
Chaotic
It's not your fault
But is it mine?

You stand there
Letting me taste you
And
Leaving me
Here
Wanting more
Feverish in my attempts
Stumbling over my
Braindead heart
It's not my fault
But is it yours?

Sweet, yet bitter
So well seasoned
I have to dull
Myself
Too much too soon
Wanting
Impatient in anticipation
Of another coming and
Picking
You
Up
It's not your fault
But is it theirs?

"Ain't no sunshine when she's gone"
But don't fly to frequent
Don't fly to near
Burns will appear
The wanting is toxic
The passion
Too fervent
Fearful
But still there
A constant
Itching
It's not my fault
But it's all I am

Overflowing or bone dry
No in-betweens
Hot or cold
In a lukewarm
Scene
Consisting of consistent
Changes
But unfaltering
In my wanting
To never
Lose

It's not your fault
But I'll blame us both one way
Or another

breathe in.
breathe out.
nothing but the
silence of the
trees
are present.

its deep serenity
trying to take over
your system.

it's knocking on
the door.
you open it,
just to close it back
again.

the subtle wind
whispers into your
ear.
simultaneously caging
you from the outside
world,
but exposing you
to your own.