What shady grace,
as tall as trees,
you refuse to not
look up at me.

Scared of nothing
or sometimes
anything,
you somehow know
what's made for
climbing.

Your thunderstorm
of giggles
booms our sleepy
spirits,
insists that it's morning,
and therefore, time to
laugh.

Little girls,
you stir me
with electric
beauty bolts,
shock me into sharing,
then soothe my
scared-of-nothing
with ambushes
of touch.

You have no clue
just how your
brazen
boyish
bouncing
bombing,
dares me to dancing,
demands me my best.

Got up early
beat the birds
found their secrets
sold them all.

My fingers through your hair
leaves your hair
through my fingers.

We chase each other
in circles,
cause we like
where we're at.

my friend bakes bread
then breaks it,
feeds me freely,
and we argue
over which of us
to thank.

i found a friend
while sitting still
and now i ache
awake,
trailing after talking,
complaining about the weather.

something pretty
something scary
breaks in me like bread,
i can't stop crying,
can't stop laughing,
or slinging poems
like sticks and
stones.

Growing braver,
I take big bites,
clean and cool,
with waking-up
dripping down
my arm,
spit out poems
like watermelon seeds.

I know
you have
so much to do,
pretty power things
too big for me to see,
but
please please please,
sometime soon,
breathe a little slower,
and play some games with me.

I like
to pretend,
the dirt
I track inside,
followed me
on purpose.

That maybe,
I'm somewhere,
earth
would like to be.

Whenever
I'm around you,
I get greedy,
start planning
three-day weekends.

Rumi
told me
to talk less,
and now,
I can't stop
telling
everyone
about it.

Some secret sooner
day,
there's new jokes,
familiar flashes,
and cutting fresh fruit
to share with pretty people.

every morning
boasts its ripeness,
begs a beginning,
nothing cleaner than a feeling,
nothing fresher than a poem.

my favorite coffee mug
lost its handle,
i burn my fingers,
don't look back.

i lost my mind
and hit the walls,
found vines inside
and
very old friends.

The hearts
we lick
and bite
and savor
sometimes
disagree
with us.

i let three prophets
peek through my window,
and now i glow,
tremble as they chant,
'more, more, more.....'

clementines
scatter the counter,
bruised and browning,
a seedless deadline,
a citric clock,
some recent kid's
acid ambitions.

a minute ago,
maybe ten,
maybe twenty,
i remember being
unimpressed
by the star shape
in those bricks.

now,
no matter which leg
i stand on,
the tilt i try,
i can't see it anymore,
wonder where it's gone.

There's an overfilling
happening
somewhere next week,
kissing you.

Writing poems
about writing poems
about telephones
about missing home.

I got dusky dizzy
piano drunk
in the early evening's cooling,
in nina's sweaty cooing,
went giddy, mad, and growing.

I rolled around my porch awhile,
counting bricks and licking paint.

Over and over,
I kept thanking all the bugs.

Plummet heavy
through the clouds
or spread a little,
float around.
Pose or timbre,
chosen vow,
home or god
is always down.

I read a poem
about silence
aloud,
sat down,
held my breath,
wrote this.

Seeping through my starving eyes,
the neighbor props up windows,
walks around my veins in slippers,
seems to already know
which corners give
the best light
for reading.

it was a wood-paneled hell
with two doomed friends,
nicotine-stained,
beginning the end,
the dust of our daring,
the carpet's latest layer.

the shards of glass
we stomped on
were duller than the stones.
we'd crawl out at dusk,
and pace over
and over
our inside jokes,
in that motel cul-de-sac,
circling like trash.

"someone should tear this place down."

*

now the streets seem shorter
and the root beer parking lot
where i read youth to sleep
snuck up on me.

a quick dangerous flick
of eyes over shoulders,
a last-minute dare
for a chain-link slice
of where the ending
all began,

but the ******* tore it down.

"i think i remember
the first time,
i was maybe ten.
in a football stadium,
i remained seated
in a stampede of joy,
felt me sinking lower
lower and lower,
beneath healthier
hooves..."

the hours pass like clouds
on some other higher plane,
far from me
but big enough to see.

and the sunlight performs
its slow surgery
slicing my toes,
before moving upward,
on to more vital, failing
things,
before flashing its badge
and clocking out.

and i start again,
"i think i remember
the first time,
i was maybe ten....."

the hours play pianos
through the scaling
spiraled
march of truth,
out my window
afternoons,
fleet of foot
and sharp of tooth.

stranding through the moments
come glimpses
of tomorrow's
news,
inked in future
blacks and blues,
just off beat
and out of tune.

surely there's a braving
somewhere
waiting for a
nickel rube,
selling something
old men use,
softer eyes
or faded suits,

where sighs are money,
and sleep is grace,
i can settle in
the spot they've saved.

Ether phases, cones of power,
lunar cycles,
witching hour.

Many mansions, herbs and candles,
live aloud,
the goddess answers.

I.

you grinned at me
simple and syrupy,
a dollar reason,
a summer treat.


II.

like a road map
on a car hood,
we checked and folded
checked and folded
each other's lines
again
and again.


III.

you winced hard
against acid mist.

i watched
the bug spray bead
on your calves
and neck,
thought about blood
and the taste of you
later.


IV.

we drove around
looking for lakes,
or parks,
or picnic tables.

any new place
we could be the same.


V.

no matter how used to it
we get,
the sun stalks longer
than we'd expect,
jealous of our colors,
worried we'll set.

After the linens,
I turned out my pockets,
was reminded
where I found you
and how much it cost.

My eyelids are a coiled bolero,
a bear trap,
a battery.

My tongue is bitten with
careful measure.
The skin of my teeth,
a dormant antique.

My breaths tilt forward
to the next dry season
and downbeat ignition.

I keep faith with the calendar.
I worship the prophet,
the savior spark.

I'm long overdue
for a poem
on her eyes
or her lines
or her
sleepy Sunday smile.

But first,
how do you write a poem
about another
person's
jokes?

Wood-fired summers,
spiral iron curtains,
cloudy watercolors,
a stride away from certain,
brazen vinyl blearing,
lazing under searing,
sighing over greening,
reading over fleeing,
gritty teeth and halfway crying,
brand new air and album trying,
one foot keeping
in your hiding,
noses stretching into braving,
loudest laughing,
neighbor waving,
counts-as-living,
public sinning,
barefoot breathing,
hornet seething,
coffee filling,
spirit swilling,
someone
smelling
later
grilling.
.
the safest sort of being,
only just outside a door.

All these trees
reach up for warmth
as I cool my boiling
blood beneath them.

The clatter of dog paws
on a wrought iron gate
thunders a newness,
that something is coming.

I think that it's friendly.
I think it's been paid for.
A storming of something
that's coming for me.

These kids can't cope,
don't eat on time.

They stomp craters in sidewalks
on their way to the
culling.

They choke me in comet tails,
blear beauty through brains,
cursing at cops,
stooping to saviors.

They streak their spit like evidence.

These kids get angry,
get plosive,
like it was kissing or grinning.

These kids get angry,
and I've yet to say thanks.

The soft side of starlight
keeps winking
through my blinds,
surprised that I'm awake,
asking why I'm scared.

"Can't you see,
can't you see?
All the breathing,
all the blooming?

A curve or two away,
a month of brave at most,
weaving through the pines,
there's laughter there
that's yours."

it's been so long
i know the way now,
folded pavement
seamless merging.
hopeful headlights
piercing windows,
i cross the border
cannonballing.

then one wrong left,
and hell again.

all this gravity
inside me,
dragging like bricks,
melting like suns,
where where
what's under there?

Found a fence,
climbed a fence,
wildflowers
ever since.

*

It should be
right around here.
Yep,
see there,
through those trees,
with the gothic points,
that's it,
the one
that I told you about...

A friend recalled
some minor news,
that last decade's
daring
moved back into town.

I remembered her height
for most of an hour,
and now,
my skin's a compass.

No matter where I turn,
there's a
buzzing buzzing buzzing,
somewhere straight East.

Operas
mount racehorses.
Idiom rubs elbows
with Billboard charts.
World capitols bow
to puns
and seabirds,
and long-dead winners
waltz,
cheek to cheek,
with subject-verb
agreement.

The things we love most
are the least important,
but how nice to find
them meeting
each other.

In the desert of south Utah,
lies a staircase of gods.

Follow the southwestern wind
there to the middle,
until you find
the tomb of The Gore King.

The smallest version
of a frightful legend,
five-inch fangs
in sutured jaws,
a skull like a comet,
dragging death forward
to
any
next
new
blood.

How quaint,
how horrible and honest,
to demand your meals,
to roar your lust.

You should have stood straight,
practiced grins
and built museums,
friendly temples
of natural history,
yesterday's dangers
made safe
in cartooning winks.

Now,
your reign of terror
diverts
our screeching young.

Last night,
I boiled
and baked,
fried at least twice,
a meal
of multiple courses,
balanced textures,
and a symphony of spices.

Deliciously earned,
in hours, in dishes,
it tasted
as good
as food
can taste.

.

This morning
I overslept,
groaned upright
into water and coffee.

This morning,
this banana,
is heaven on earth.

tragedy,
like joy,
is built
in tiny
parts,

you can never
track
just how
it happened.

life is full of swallow hazards,
plastic pieces,
straight lines,
sharp edges.

Angry sparks
get lost
in light pollution
until they spiral
to the bottom
of this season's funnel.

Brilliant blazing warmth
for the night,
then a burned-out
barrel,
next to the others,
a museum of flaking moments
in the cold morning air.

Death is too big
for ten words
or less,
and these bobbing signs
and chanting rhymes
make myths of our meaning.

Or at least
so I sneer at my screens.

I have no right
to ask you,
to stir my stuttered spirit,
to rouse me from my
contemptible
somnolent
overfed
indifference.

Nonetheless,
I have to say,
for better or worse,
this just doesn't do it.

You were stern
when we were young
and spared not a rod,
but when you moved,
for us,
you boomed like miracles.

Later, you calmed,
and willed us
your wealth,
tried to share
how to share,
and we stubborn
and stupid,
wielded your love
like bludgeons.

Now modern,
full-grown,
we trace only
our ugliest genes
back to you.

And you,
old and dying,
can climb no mounts,
have nothing new to say,
and we don't call you
anymore.

I propose a deal.

Where I would
scrape terrace walls,
would break my vows
to god and state,
Would fall in ****
and climb out broke,
Would cheat you blind,
Would feed you grapes,
Would steal ruby rings
from bishops' tombs,
Would bolt my pottage
with a wooden spoon
to get back to leaving
a painting unfinished,
I would be murdered
by your brothers
and ghost you with my head.
I would fire and **** and pray you.
Would believe myself
a ploughhorse.

All of this,
for ten stories,
each night.