Some men
wear the heaviness of their souls
on their sleeves,
like a badge or a scar
for all the world to see.

Some of these men are kind
and their kindness
is their scar.

Some of these men are arrogant
and their arrogance
is their badge.

Whether they be civil or indecent,
at least they know.

At least they know
what's what,
what's going on,
what bubbles
beneath the surface:

That for man and beast,
one is not so tame,
and one is not so wild.

That savagery
is not so unbearable
when the time calls,
and compassion
is not so alien
when the time calls.

These are the men of our time.

I had a lover,
who was beautiful
and kind.

She grabbed the sun out of the sky
and grinded it into a powder.

She blushed her face with it,
and each time she passed
she would turn the flowers.

Her hair was a river,
it flowed for days and days,
and ended in a single teardrop.

Her hair
made the world
wish for more rain.

When she called me,
I answered.
Her voice freed me.

Her pupils
were the nexus.
Her iris'
were a foundry.
When she blinked,
everything darkened
and I wished she would never do it again.

When she slept,
she snored
peacefully.
And I drew her close to me
just to be closer to nirvana.

It is only fair
that such things
cannot be sustained.

That is too much beauty
for only one man
to hold.

She is a gift,
to the earth.

You have lunch
with a fly.

Standing in the street,
you allow the breeze
to take over.

You watch the mountains,
as much as they watch you
standing still in time.

At a garden, you sit for hours
in unperturbed silence
as the finches inch closer and closer,
your eyes becoming
more and more
like bark.

You pass everyone on the street
with a small smile on your face,
without saying hello.

Anger comes to you
but you do not answer the door.

It becomes easier to breathe,
easier to laugh,
easier to be.

The high that fills you
is non-narcotic
but the air is clear,
the sky dazzles,
each cloud mind-boggling,
and each mountain peak
a tiny heaven.

Your lover long gone,
is a recent memory. And she returns
to you with an electricity.
She becomes
all that she never was,
but always was.

It is saddening,
but it is also beautiful
because it existed.

Even your enemies
take on a certain glow,
and emanate eternal qualities.

There is no reason
for all of this,
it just happens to you one day
when you finally begin to make
all the choices in your life,
even the ones
you thought
you couldn't
make.

Take off your shoes,
drop your bags,
I know it's been a long journey.
The coffee's almost ready,
and I put the kids to sleep.

I'll carry you up the stairs,
****** to hell, let the floorboards scream.
I'll undress you button by button,
and hold you close to me.

Don't worry about the money,
or what the neighbors think down the street.
Your pride is your pride.
Your shame is your shame.

I'll get a bath going 'till
the water is bubbling and warm.
I'll crush you some wine,
and light a few candles.

But, please baby, don't cry.
It's okay to be us.

When I lift you from the tub,
your body
shivers.
The candles
flicker.
The whole room
shakes.

Baby, don't you worry
what the neighbors say.
Your pride is your pride.
Your shame is your shame.

I lay you down,
and your hair is wet and sweet.
You cry as much as you can,
then blubber away to sleep.

I walk to the window, and pull away the curtains.
Out in our backyard our wayward dog wanders in,
licking every single paw before he hops the monstrous hedgerow
and lands in our sweet-smelling rose garden.

The world outside
and the trouble within
he weathers it all,
as he limps back to his house,
licking his paws.

It's okay for you to be you,
me to be me,
and him to be him,
we all have our jobs to do.

There is a bird here
with a broken wing.
It cants off to the left
drooping almost to the ground.
The feathers are oily,
shredding.

He hops around the base
all day, scavenging,
picking up things
here and there,
making a living.

I left for awhile
and came back.

He was still alive.

I thought he would've died
already.
That wing was so ugly.

I asked him how he'd made it.

He raised his head above his shoulders,
just like a king,
as he said to me:

"I am a bird
with a broken wing."


For a minute,
he stared at me,
then hopped off
with that broken wing.

If, one day, I see you crossing
The street, I won’t wave,
I’ll let you be.

More beautiful now
Than you’ve ever been,
A couple butterflies
May come fluttering up
Out of my mouth,
And my heart may skip a beat,
But if I see you,
I’ll look down at once
And stare at my feet.

When he catches you in his warm embrace
And plants a sweet kiss on your face,
I’ll clutch my newspaper close
To my chest, and hold back a tear,
But I swear, you’ll still be as beautiful
As you’ve ever been,
And I won’t love anyone
The same way again.

When he takes your hand
And you turn to walk away,
I’ll feel that same deep burn in my chest,
That I’ve always felt,
That will never change,
Even when you turn around
And look at me so strange,
Like the visage of a dream
From some long-forgotten place.

But honey, when you furrow that soft brow,
And turn away quickly,
I’ll remember those days
When I caused you so much pain
That you counted the seconds on the clock
Hoping all that time would just tick away.

And the shameful memory
Will haunt me,
even as I turn to walk away from you
And you turn back to him, to walk away from me,
Going down two different streets.

Once he's out on the open road again,
the glittering lights
devastate him.

Reminds him, too much,
of the woman who's left behind
nursing a half-glass of wine
on the porch,
eyes glossy and red,
mascara the gauntlet runner.

She's finally saying goodbye
to his sorry behind.

She hates him. Cut and clean.
"Get your ****, you need to leave."

"If you stay here, I'm calling the cops."

She whips out the phone, taps in the number
shoves it in his face.

She plays no games,
no ***** given today.

A baby bump, bumped its ugly head
into him.

Sleeping some nights, on the soft shell,
he could hear it too.

A murmur here, a murmur there,
a murmur everywhere.

She dreams of the days on the beaches,
the crystals on the clear blue,
the screeching silks careening through the sky,
the canary diamond cradled by the waves.

The good ole days
before disgust
ruined her heart against him.

The gorged days of Fall,
burning, passionate nights of Winter,
glorious victories of Spring.

One night, he flipped out,
left the house heaving
and didn't come back
for awhile.

But the nail driven
couldn't be un-driven.

Before he turned the ignition--
for thirty minutes--
he picked a blister on his thumb
until it bled.