Remember before this
when faith,
synonymous with bliss,
caught you on the down side,
gave you heart to fly?
The hero isn't the fable,
the circled hands at the kitchen table.
Change isn't just a constant
without it we are haunted

There's more space out here to breathe
the budding branches after fall
that big orange ball
alone, after all,
since there is no more than one.
And, coming over the hill,
I feel free to revel in the sun,
in purple, indigo, pink blazing horizon,
and I choose to smile.
"What's a few more miles?"
Because right now, I am the Soldier
feeling heart and bones get older
ordered by this Sergeant Brain.
But soon, I will be the Farmer,
trading weapon and armor
for soil and grain.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

Accolades.
Titles.
Never did a very good job at running them down.
Just as entitled, in that aspect:
wanting a crown, but no real respect
for the hard work necessary.
Forgive me.
Maybe it's feigned humility that makes me wary.
Maybe I know Liars.
Now that's a label I carried
until honesty
emboldened me.
I preferred when "Good Woman" was said
to  "Cool Chick,"
but those and "Different Than I've Ever Known"
didn't do any tricks.
You know what did?
I'm a fool for not having checked before we left.
Not gauges or pressures
or tires' tread,
and less than half way
the latter slipped from the tire
leaving exposed wire
but enough air it might get us where
it could get fixed.
A fool twice. I didn't listen.
I was told how to fix it
...weeks ago
before the snow.
What can be said
is that I kept a level head
and safely kept my commitment.
What I was told
as I scolded myself on the road?
"You are amazing. Thank you."
For what?
"For getting us through that. You could have done worse-"
which could have meant hearse.
I'm not always slow to toot my own horn.
I can wear the Pirate and the Priest
though, the second, not as well.
And for that title, I made its hell
as real as love is when it is possession.
In my life, two men, and one friend
called me that name: Cool Chick.
One was being slick  
and I didn't believe the other two, until today.
If, of the three,
the liar had been
in the passenger seat,
how the words would have flown
like shrapnel.
Curses or praises,
they'd tear me to pieces.
When at last today
I saw your face,
you looked good,
but not honest.
It was awkward but nice
standing there knowing
whatever the price we are paying
it's worth it
to know what it's like
to feel worth it.

I still wonder if it's me who was the dys-
in our dys.functional family.
I sit atop guilt
as though it were a fine bed.
And bed is where I stay, most days.
I am the same.
Could the future be the past--
since time's not linear?

Escher struck me
not because of his geometric impossibilities...
incredible symmetries...
but my wandering mind was drawn
to the pattern, repeating...
sinking together pieces in a puzzle...
             you know the feeling.

I know it may not seem clear
but there is some stability
in fear.

You should always know what can or is killing you.
We can argue if fear is a choice,
and maybe the usage is wrong,
but death's voice isn't truly welcome
until you've seen it's face more than once.

And what do I know of facing death?
Nothing.
Standing at the razor's edge
and a stick-up and Eye-Mart Express are as close as I've come.
So,
it's fair to say
that fear, for me,
sometimes isn't a decided election.

It's a place.

The sleep-with-one-eye-open,
pray-for-omens,
waiting-for-that-other-s­***
place.

The optimist says,
"I will be prepared... A beast of battle."
The pessimist says,
"A meeting with the creator is best."
The realist says,
"Get over it."

When I watched that fly
on MTV
buzz about that ****** chic
Deftones video...
when I heard the stories
of money and glory...
and power...
and of the sour...
I knew I was done for...

It's so 'Romeo and Juliet'
except
no one will sing about my love affair
with the warring houses
of drugs
and self-worship.

And there
tied at my feet
that ****** weight
held fast to the stone.
Though not tied
tethered
to both rope
and statue.
"Anchored"
should be a welcome feeling.
My mooring is a heavy yoke
and the future is itching,
stabbing,
tearing
through my shoulder blades.
Who could have thought
that thought
would begin this battle
and win it
with wings?

I remember tracing the lines of her veins,
the hills they made in her thin skin,
purplish flesh and wrinkled hands.
I loved the way
the vein gave
under the gentle pressure of my finger
and thinking of what my hands would look like
when, at last, I was old
and sat
with a child in my lap
letting them explore the map of my wrinkles
and slow the river of my veins.
Each winter
my knuckles remind me I am a year older.
At each joint
the skins darker and dryer
and the wrinkles deeper.
I have longed
for slender fingers and painted nails,
but I find such pleasure now,
seeing the age in my hands.

That growling voice
raspy
bronchial tubes screaming under
cakey mucus;
feelings are thrown around here,
jutting out of auras
like flood lights.
We all need things.
What would it be like if we didn't?
Can you imagine that?
Everyone
having everything they need
to feel safe,
secure,
loved?