here I go,
blundering through another day

trying to show up for my end of
the bargain.

I sit here,
with this pen and this notebook,
and the stuff is
supposed to barrel through me.


it's supposed to shake the debris free.

it's supposed to melt the lock.

it's supposed to blast my cemented mind apart.

it's supposed to summon shadows and make them dance.

it's supposed to swim on the surface of the sun.

it's supposed to show me all the rainbows in the darkness.

it's supposed to shine the silver on all my shredded scraps.

it's supposed to reach through all my ******* and show me:

     emeralds and pearls\teeth and knives\
     blood and glass.

it's supposed to twist the blade and spit in the ****.


but this morning,
it's the big bupkis
     -nada

just the weight
of its silence...



that *******
probably
has the
day off
too.

everything breaks
me.

the eyes
the touch
the soft smile
the body
the kiss
the walk
the hair
the slopes
the ****
the folding into

       -all of it.

they draw me
in and
draw me
out.

take me in
then cast
me out.

and
I keep
coming back

because

I love them-
   all of
   them.



I love them
more for
breaking me
than I do
for loving
me.

every swift
crack at
my heart
released
something,

a little bit
more of
me.

the good parts-
   what might become
   the best parts.

and one day,
everything I am
will be
destroyed again

and I will
emerge

again.


I will crawl
forth from
my belly

on skinned
knees
and
bloodied elbows
with a
perfect
smile on my
face.

growing and
laughing
in the
light.

I think about
the veil most
of us
live
under.  

the one
that seeks to
distance us
from
the ugly,

brutal,

severe directness

of the cold scales
of survival.

-we are not so far
removed.

   the 9 to 5
    the supermarkets
     the advertisements
      the entertainment
       the gas stations
        the toilets
         the dinnerware
          the morning talk shows
           the sidewalks
            the right angles
             the hot showers
              the doors
               the locks on the doors
                ...
it all adds
to the illusion
of
exception.

they're all
jumping
monkeys clamoring
to distract
and
avert.

this man-made
cacophony is
a powerful
hypnotic
and we
succumb
to our own
enchantments
quite easily.


                                                     I lost
                                                sight of  the
                                            sun below the  h
                                             orizon.   I had t
                                               oo many que
stions to ask before the earth came between us.  and now the night
                                reminds me that she never left.
                                            mute         music
                                            magic       mother
                                                          ­I
                                                        see
   ­                                                    you

you are a fisherman's
net.  

you stretched
out
as soon
as you left my hands
to catch all the
fish you
could



and



i'm sure you did -



schools
of them.

you're very good

at catching
lots
of
fish

but



you're not so
good at
catching just

one.

every summer,
there's
dead baby birds
on the
walkway leading
to the
entrance of
my apartment
building.

last summer there
were three, all
pinked skin, just
a few inches
apart
from each other.

the ants
found them
first, scurried all
over them,
devouring
what
they could before
the cat(s) got
to them
at night.

this summer i've
only seen one,
nice and
plump with
plumage. this
morning
it was gone
too though,
nothing but
the pile
of tree seeds
it was on
remains.

they nest there,
in the dryer
exhaust
vents on
each floor.
-drawn there, I
guess, by the
warmth
and lofty protection
from predators.

thing is, they
clog the exhaust
with their nests
and people
complain about
wet clothes.


...warm

and safe from
predators,


but not safe
from one
phone call
to management.

I hear people say severely romantic
things to each other.
I see them believe it as
their eyes swell.
I notice their desperate
hooks finding a mark,
any mark.

they begin to construct
a mythos immediately upon
initial mutual affirmation.
they design
every reason why
this 'other' is the only
'other' that
makes sense, that
could ever make
sense.

they enchant themselves
and each other.
they build
an elaborate simulation
together and
promise/doom themselves
to never leave it.
they swear and curse
to feed the pantheon of
gods they created to
rule over them.

they commit themselves
to the
chains of
a shallow love.

but hey what do I know, right?

I'm just
another fool
waiting to get
what he
deserves.

knock, knock, knock*

I open my door
and am immediately
greeted by
three 19 year old elders.

They want to talk to me
about Jesus and
their version of
a sacred text and I want
to talk to them about: God,
Philosophy, Religion,
Art, Music, etc.

but I just put a greasy
pan on med-high
heat to cook some
bacon and it's
filling my apartment
with smoke.

Yet, my curiosity of
these creatures at
my door temporarily
supersedes kitchen
safety protocols,
so I start to oblige
them and even
entertain some light
discourse in the
hallway.

I begin to explain my
perspective when
my attention skips back
to the pan
and the hot metal
smell tickling my nose.

-protocols back in place-
I decline their invitation
to visit their temple, now
or any time in the
future, then shake
their hands.

I accept a pamphlet
from the last one,
"The Plan of Salvation",
after he scribbles a
phone number on
the back.

I wish them luck
and close my door
without locking it,
stride over to the skillet
and take it off
the burner.

Good thing I removed
the batteries from
all the smoke
detectors.