There’s a lighthouse
On the horizon.
It is the mother
Of the child in me.
For a time
I’ve worn
This cactus sweater
And have gazed
Through the lens
Of a night sky
Without stars.
But the way
That lighthouse
Throws its beams
Keeps something
Alive inside
Of the seemingly
Abandoned shell
That I wear.

Look at them all,
Falling in love
The way young people do;
Walking toward each other
On a bedsheet
Tight rope
Between two towers
While wearing
sparkling red
High heels.

For some awfully
Long time now
I’ve felt like
A blind man
Playing tennis,
Listening for the ball
To bounce in front of me
And swinging with all
Of my might
Hoping to hit it back away.
And while it’s away
I’ll have peace
Until I hear
The ball bounce
Before me again.
It’s just that when
It passes me
I feel like I’m losing.

Last night I saw something
Very clearly
For the first time in a while.
It was her and I
Woven together
Like a basket
Made of sand-sized
Stars.
I heard the bounce
And stood as still as I ever have.
I feel like I’ve won.

I wonder if the spider
is less lonely
with a fly in its web.
I wonder if the fly
is less lonely
in the spider’s web.
I’d like to think
they are less lonely,
just for a moment,
before the feast
in a world
where you die
if you don’t eat;
in a world
where you might be
tonight’s special,
served on a webbed plate.

It's the warmest day of the winter
here in Denver,
and I enjoy wearing a blue
short sleeved button up
with strange patterns
that I found at the thrift store
that belonged to some man
before it belonged to me.

I wonder how different we are.
I wonder how similar we are.

I wonder if he'd ever crawled
inside one of the great pyramids,
only to find a small room
that people slaved and died over,
once occupied by a king
who is no longer there
and was replaced by
cool, wet air
that smells like
some tourist
who forgot to wear
deodorant that day.

Maybe he'd have quit
smoking cigarettes by now.
Maybe he'd have never started
in the first place.

Maybe he would run out of breath
when introduced to olive eyes
complimented by olive overalls
and constellations of freckles
that spelt out the words
to the greatest poem
he'd ever read,
along with the letters
of his name.

Maybe he'd worn black jeans,
along with that same shirt,
that grilled his legs
medium rare.
Maybe they stayed rare.
Maybe they stayed moving.
Maybe they didn't.

Maybe that man
had spilt a bag of *******
on this shirt.
Maybe that's why my heart hummed
to the tune of Etta James' "at last"
the first night I wore that shirt
across the table from those
olive eyes.

Maybe that man didn't give a ****,
maybe he understood how silly
it would be
to glue fallen leaves
back on their branches in November.

Maybe that man was a brilliant idiot,
who really didn't give a ****,
and knew how silly it wasn't
to glue fallen leaves
back on their branches in December.

Maybe he said,
"**** the neighbors, watch me glue these leaves
only when you get tired of the news on T.V."

If you want to know what's happening to the world
don't just watch the news every night.
Watch what happens to yourself
after watching the news every night.

Maybe that man's thoughts
moved like gravel
under steel toed boots.

Maybe the moon moved that man,
the way it moves the tides to higher grounds
and brings life to those hot evaporating pools
where an octopus
contemplates leaving,
only by way of
scorching sun baked lava rock
and air that he can't breathe.

It's all for a better life,
isn't it?

Maybe that man
was a house with one small window
with a view of his well earned
green lawn
and white picket fence.

Maybe there were no windows
and he was a cactus
somewhere it rarely rained,
to his own delight and misery.

Maybe he figured out
that the only things that break our hearts
are the things we are willing
to let inside of them.

I'm eating apple pie right now,
and it's one of the few things
I have enjoyed this week.
Most people like apple pie,
including myself.
And maybe he does too.
Maybe that matters.
Most likely it doesn't.

Either way.
We've worn the same shirt
and it's a nice day out.

now it's just a tree,
then it was so much more
than just a tree.
i've been trying like hell
to get back on that street,
and in moments like these
i feel i'm getting
closer.
rain and garbage cans
full of beer cans,
fresh cut lemon
and a dog
of many homes.
a sister who said
it was always as
simple as our mother
told us;
some days I don't believe it
and live for the days
when I wholeheartedly do.
that rain on those beer cans
is the best show
i've seen
all year,
and the dog applauds
with his tail.

Life is a perpetual act
of learning and unlearning.
I remember the wisest
I've ever been.
I didn't know it then.
Intoxicated skies
where stars would spin.
We had smoke shadows.
We would two step
on curled boards
and swim with catfish
as the river ran,
as it always did
and someday
no longer will.
We put our bones
into motion
while the rest of life
was innocently
still.