A careful kind of coward,
we pretend to be calm,
budgeting our secrets
like money or time,
waiting for some weather
or high holy eyes,
to take down the china,
to feast on each other.

fingerprints
on glasses
on water rings
on tables.

i think you
make messes
so i know
that you were
here.

I started rereading
Walt Whitman
to steal
some of his genius.

A couple hours later,
he had eaten
all of mine.

All these clumsy men
don't know what to be
and do even that
much too loud.

Some seam has burst in me,
and now I duel with the universe.

It keeps telling me it's big,
I keep doubting it's enough.

This space in me
eats galaxies,
so I dodge things
of value,
squirrels and news
and nurses,
anything that blinks.

But who ever heard
of a hurricane
that chooses?

Like pianos
or ovens
or puzzles,
some people
see mornings
and know just what to do.

When my father finds
he has the wrong tool,
he mumbles to himself,
shuffles to the workbench,
comes back with something else.

My watermelon thumb
crosses your brown leg,
like a thirsty prince
in a dizzy desert.

I trace bug bites
and stubble,
while you radiate heat.

I feel our whole summer
pouring out of you.

When the sun gets high,
I search for shade.

I click
and click
and click,
mining new words
to mean new things.

Darts in all directions
draw lines directly
back.

The space we make for hate
is space
that we make.

Wrapped for warmth,
my neighbor plans ahead,
glances around.

She sees in future weeks
and ensures
she'll love well there.

She counts all her kids
again and again.

She paints flowers
on their faces
and sings to them
in Spanish.

It must be frightening for her
to see so many colors,
to hear wolves so far away.

Old men like me
stare at maps,
find battlefields
and forests,
start planning
trips.

The Greek, the cowboy,
and the soldier know,
that what we do next
began long ago.

I made the books on my shelves
straighten their posture,
I dusted lamps and practiced jokes.

I bought new things
for you to sit on
and next to.
I wondered which fruits were your favorite.

I suddenly
grew clean
and brave,
because I knew that you were coming.

I love the way you bubble,
but never overflow,
thunder like a fountain
aiming only at yourself.

But I want to break your balance.
I need to make you splash.

Empty boxes bellow
with very violins.

The ones I love whisper,
mostly out of tune.

Being right
is not the sole
of not being
wrong.

Step softer, my friend.
There are people underfoot.

I was born the calm disciple
of a tall templed God,
breathing straight lines,
walking narrow paths.

Now,
in my newer years,
wild things call me by name,
mossy nymphs,
grassy laughing.

I get stirred
curious
boiled
by the trills
of night creatures
and by the snaking lines
of rivers
on maps.

I think I wanna do something scary
in the woods.

Why is Death always scowling?
Does he hate the life he takes,
or the death he gives?

Love turns tragic in Persia,
in Venice,
in China,
in graveyards,
in movies,
in poems.

Love gets deadly
in candles tall as men.

Only after we fail
to bring it back
from where it's gone,
do we ever think
to join it
where it's at.

Barring water,
bathe in wine.

If hearts are scarce,
eat seeds.

Without words,
make any noise.

You came with all you need.

"But sir, I heard
from several birds
of an oracle below."

"Come in, my friend,
I say again,
you passed it on the road."

I've always regretted
the skin I scraped,
left behind in Jersey.

But now I find fondly
moments of asphalt
embedded in my arm.

You fanged at me so proud,
but I only eat poison,
I only kiss snakes.

Someone built this thing I ache in,
someone got paid
long ago.

My friend bakes bread
and wonders about plants.
My friend burns candles
herbs and oils.
My friend gave up movies
to watch kids play games.
My friend counts crayons
and chews her lips.
My friend gets drunk
and cries for strangers.

I think I'll bob a bit between them,
and chart them all
like stars.

Dripping with dirt,
I spent all night
digging up graves,
looking for mine.

When you can't ever
seem to
prune yourself,
then just
grow grow grow.

The stone you strive against
with no success,
becomes the perfect
welcome wall
to rest your head.

I sniff old poems
like ***** clothes
to get me through
the weekend.

I got sixty bucks
and three jokes.

One day all of this
will be yours.

While I while hours
and wonder where to be,
by the time the *** is empty,
I like the view from here.

It's been a minute
since i was
permanent,
was wondering
if you'd
write  a bit on me.

You cannot help but cannonball,
you thick-thumbed thing of trying,
mauling all their myth.

You wear down the wicker
they hoped would hold weight.

You say,
"I'm sorry I said them.
I thought they were jokes,
I thought they were poems."

But it's always honest razors
you haul in your hair.

I asked someone to kiss me
and they did.

Ofcourseofcourseofcourse.

When I saw her again,
I learned she named
all her pets
after exotic spices,
like cardamon
and sweet flag,
flavor she found,
life she had earned.

Give a penny,
take a penny,
spend the rest on stickers.

My neighbors find me strange
but grow to know me
as another friendly stray,
pacing and glancing,
smiling at my feet,
slumped and
overslept.

When you find the shape,
the dirt,
the light
you need,
you'll want
to give
the same
to something
else.

Like a miner,
or a lama,
I spiral
deeper,
getting
quiet,
lighting
candles,
to read the backs of books.

Just outside your soul
lies a gentle breeze.
So gently move your soul
toward anything.

I want to shave you
'as iron unto iron.'

Let'***** each other
just enough
to scrape new skin,
get real sharp.

In tiny sips,
you make me
bubble
burn
and lick my teeth.

They will tell you that they're happier
than you.
This will be true.

They'll confuse your courage
and limp all your lyrics.

They'll beg you to borrow,
curse the curbs,
gently grief you
to suit yourself,
to buy better guts.

They'll set you up
with the shiny sons
of their duller deeds.

When they ask you
your curfew,
promise you peace,
they will make many
many good points,
and they may very well
be very right.

Don't ******* do it.

A four word risk
has ached at me for months,
stripped wire,
a fraying rope of
half a try.

God save the paper hearts
that smudge so sorry,
that follow on faith
the reckless breezes,
that soak up our histories,
and rip when wet.

Lizards, snails, birds, and *****,
tobacco plants,
thornapples, obscure types of
buttercup.
Pinecones, arrowroot,
the more striking moments
of fossil remains,
foreign fish and normal bugs,
a terracotta monkey.

We took the things that matter,
gilded them in squares,
glassed them astride.
We enshrined your lazy gardens
in a temple on the cheap,
reminded you to
visit,
to look up
at the world around
above.

At any given time,
I wish I didn't have
about ten percent
of my too many books.

My country is coughing,
my neighbors number.

I search for pictures
of places
I used to live,
find landmarks
I remember
in lesser light,
scroll to the bottom
of local news,
where lonely hearts
notice me missing.

Remember when you coughed here?
Saved money to leave?

It's collected some dust,
but we saved you your spot.

Each morning
brightens
visibly
at my approach,
busking birds
and snoring
garbage trucks.

The mailman
refuses
to let me carry
my boxes,
and the bills pay
themselves.

Hands on hips,
popped akimbo,
I just want to hold something
that's angry at me.

We negotiated natural wonders
and local history,
settled on county museums,
filled our days with boring
plans
to be somewhere new,
but not get distracted.

Every few hours
I convince myself
all the edges are
sinking
and the air's gone
rotten.

Until the next corner
where some crooked smile
stabs me sober.