When I die fill
                       my memory jug with things my mother loved.
Leave out her tears, the shivering in the rain.
                            That heart on the silver cross,
keep it,
the scrap she wrote my future name on,
                                     the ink footprints on my
baptismal certificate. But not the bandage
                     from my first stand and step and fall,
her blowing whispers in my ear to see if I
                                     can hear after the fever,
for those are tears  
and this jug has no room for
                                    oceans of such sadnesses
and grief.  
Make room for the things I’ve seen
                                                 clearly in the dark:
a frame of Mifune with sword,
                          E.T. phoning home with a gold
finger
and a happy heart light that beats right here,
                                           Dances With Wolves,
Gone
in 60 Seconds,
    tickets to hand shadow play and future love.
Line the jug with lead to keep
                                    X-rays revealing  true dark. Stash an LSD tattoo
                                            lest I desire a bad trip
far far away from heaven.
                                                 Place the draft card
torn up
on a broken hearing aid.
Put no cancer recovery card, test strips inside.
                                    I am not just my diseases
and will not cling to their memories.
                                              Be glad I am gone
if that is how you’re  bent.
               Remove that one small thing you think
I stole,
replace with a pinch of dirt or ash
   from the graves or urns of those I loved dear,
a wax
seal for this little jug for you of me
                                                            pr­oclaiming a
Thank You
                 God, Mother, Father for creating me.

The eagle
brushstroked black
talons to beak
broke red blue  
in the white sky
tiny scarlet prey
fought and died
in once soft grasp
matron touch
a child freely
loved plumped fed and feathered
in aerie
tall safe high from
screech and whoop
the drop to the
loops of barbed wire below

Put two copper artifacts
next to each other,
and in time,
they will turn green
from the attraction.

Bronze Disease is what
the conservators call it.
For them,
corrosion is the enemy.

But that is not true,
as poets and most others know:

Corrosion is life,
Rust is love.

Never summon the evil whales forth
lest they hunger for a salt’s ******
or seek to ravage their ship.

They cry out havoc, scream tempest
to the ocean and sky
so the illhveli hear not their name.

Their harpooned blubber
boils neither to heaven nor hell
but vanishes only inside the soul.

They fear only the steypireydurs
the Great Blue Behemoths,
the protectors of sailors and crafts.

The salts’ wives smell the devil in their remnants
and to keep the fury at bay they call
their men honeyed names clothed in peace.

The mates consign this sweetness
to the void, a sea of faceless women
to be left alone in their slumbers.  

At dawn, they  return
to the great wide green ocean
that hungers for their flesh.

They chum cowshed, yarrows, ash,
throw plowshares, axes and pots creating
a sacred din outside the incarnadine circles.

Cat Whales would come forth
with their devil-angel flukes
half in sun and watery dark.

They mewl alongside,
resting in the craft’s wake,
diving when the waters darkened  

And the roar of Bull Whales spouting loudly  
through their blowholes would scare
the distant  cattle to stampede the waters.

The Ox Whales, swimming
faster than hand and mind,
would devour the calves

Leaving only nibbles
for the belugas that trailed
behind in white silence.  

Bottlenose Dolphins after herding
the Ox Whales beyond the spray
would jump straight high

out of the water
exposing the sun and mountains
appearing underneath them.  

In the rest between breaths
a Taumur awaited beneath their crafts
for the opportunity to break them apart.

On the glint of the horizon a Ling Whale
drifting like a mirage of barnacles
waited to maroon them on her hide.

Today, the Great Blue Behemoth
heard their anguish and would gently
guide them back to their sandy, rocky home.  

In their unsteady slumbers
they would hitch a ride
on the back of a Heatherback

And dive with it
to the ocean’s floor until
their last bubbles floated up.

Around them all the dorsal waves
of the Sword Whale splashed them
while she sliced them in two.

Far away, the Narwhale sniffed
their blood in the water and
waited her turn to eat.

I walk from there to there
to paint myself into black pixels,
my shadow following obediently
part of the hobbled sketch.

I draw myself
as a wobbly line,
ill aligned and always
misplaced near the horizon

Above are scrawled illegible words
written in a shaky handwriting,
below exists the gurgle of my bowels
that my imperfect ears can only hear.

I ponder my broken perfection
and hear Jesus whisper his love,
knowing not the direction
from which he speaks to me.

I search Google Sky
and there is a night picture.
Yellow dots top and bottom
in fluttering butterfly waves:
too many to count,
small red and white dots:
20 per square inch,
medium red and blue orbs:
10 per quadrant,
red orbs with devil’s tail:
10 falling down
red, purple, blue orbs with halos:
20 (mainly clustered in the center),
purple orbs with blurry wings, flying up:
5

I search Google Earth
and there is my red brick house
(refresh)
blown down to a u,
a guard rail, metal flashing
in the only green branches
of the sole oak that survived the wind,
(refresh)
the remains of the septic tank
in a crater of weeds
(refresh and expand focus)
a field cleared
(click next)
foundation poured
(scroll down)
frame erected
(scroll down)
roof, shingles attached
(click, open folder: blue prints)
(picture)
construction plan: Oxford
(picture)
Heritage Park Phase I


I google my name.
Six Images of a Costa Rican soccer player:
good looking, but not me,
Linked In Owner Profile
with no pic,
Home/Facebook/Profile (no pic)
(click)
Poet—All Poetry (no pic):
(click)
289 poems, two  books listed-
(The Nacre of Cancer)
(Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen)
259 followers, 11 following,
nice pic but old and I’m fat,
(tap back arrow, scroll down, click more results)
(Not me) Costa Rican soccer player Stats/Profile,
(Not me) Instagram Profile
(Me) Wordpress blog site listing,
(Me and many others)
We found (me)— search public records online
(click)
fill out form,
(click search)
results found:
1 (me), 88 (not me)
(click x, close page, leave browser)

Things not found on Google:
my cancer,
my marriage(s),
my dog(s)

Real me found on Google
2%
real not me found on Google:
98%,
Me never listed:
98%.

Everything
louder

than the
earth

spinning under
you

will make you
doubt

you are
alive.