One day, I know
that he will ask
questions,

Children have a way
of noticing things
that are there,

seeing shapes
and shadows
that aren't,

A special talent for noticing
missing things and finding
words to help them understand
what shadows mean
and how the sun shines.

Some children grow up
and ask where the sun
goes when the shadows

grow,

I know

that the silver
lining is a cliché,
but I keep looking at the clouds
expecting a miracle,

but the rain brings
no relief,

only pelts me with reason
after reason to keep writing
to you, even though you'll
never read these words,

I know one day

he will.

The sun always shines,
somewhere,
even on the cloudiest
nights, silver lines slice
through in patches,

and all the shapes
and shadows tell
me that.

Glass lights, red star glow
Could this be Purgatory?
All the bars are closed.

The sun sinks behind your hips,
the moon rises around your shoulder, up
your collar,
through your lips

the radio is
broken again
and this time
is the last time

Your songs no longer
fight the static.

the crunchy hiss
the empty stutter
between pops

crackling cackles,
unplugged from the wall
still playing the song
of something ending
into a new beginning

Your songs no longer
fight the static

but I still hum
them to myself

at the edge
of our universe

BG-4/8/17

If my tongue were a pen
every word would be a postmarked
love letter to your ears.

If my tongue were a pen
my words wouldn’t have
cut so deeply and left you
with coupons you’ll never

use and bills that are past
due.

The page is my playground.

My Church.
My Sanctuary.
My Womb,

Our eyes are doorways to
the secrets that make us
who we are

This dark haired face with three
day scruff and glasses is a
single sentence out of context,

and our chapter isn’t finished.

I am fishing on a lake
at five years old.
passing my driving test,
graduating high school,

I am both an old soul
who
lived too much
too young,
and a child reaching
for candles
in the darkness.

If my tongue were a pen,
my darling,

my soul
would slide its fingers
through your eyeballs

and bury itself in
the deepest recesses
of your heart

If my tongue were a pen
instead of picking up all the
bad memories of this apartment
with piles of ***** clothes,

you would
find the words and phrases
we phased out of our lives for a forgotten
reason at the end
of an empty bottle night.

I am moving to a new city at 25,
becoming a Father.
Invisible to my child.
A Stranger.

I am meeting you for the first time,
we are children holding hands
in the darkness
We were children jumping from
swings,
We were the children
who knew just enough

We told each other all our secrets
We shut doors
We blew out candles

if my tongue were a pen
My darling,

it would tell you
we are not a mistake.

we are a
collection
of unfortunate
accidents
that became
something
beautiful.

Turn the Page.

BG-4/10/17

Peace,
Quiet,
Love,

these abstract things that guide
us through our lives,

We all want them in one way
or another,

A steady paycheck,
A backyard,
A soul mate,

those concrete things that justify
our suffering & strife,

We all want them in one way
or another,

We think

Maybe Love will carry us away,
Maybe it will answer our questions,
Maybe happiness is the root of Love

So we keep digging
and we find something different

Or maybe we keep digging
and we never stop

and fool ourselves into thinking
the fruit is the labor, and this is
"What we gotta do"

or we never find what we want

or we find what we need and say
"Whatever."

And then we **** all the happiness
we can from what's found
and we bury it deeper, leaving
what's left for someone else

Meanwhile, the world turns
full of war,
full of noise,
Alone because there's
nothing like it for
millions and millions
of miles

But that's not me,
That's not "Us",

Whatever.

the chill of winter winds left with the Spring, I still feel the gusts in my bones,
I see our ghosts trapped in the trees

This forest is never blessed with the stars, The Darkness is the only thing complete, The Moon shivers, consumed by clouds

I strike black stones, but can't get them to bleed,
Your fading ghosts whisper, "Come back to me."

BG-4/9/17

If you held a gun to my head
and pressed the barrel into
the small indention I've had
since I was a child
and asked for a story
I'd give you a poem
and ask that you'd just
give me
one more
line

My color a cliche
    Once new
        Once blue
over aNd over

Seven hundred ninety four miles.
Twelve hours twenty three minutes.

I would’ve said something.
I should've said anything,

but her bags were packed.

Her boxes stacked
in the back seat.

I could only ask,
“When?”

and she told me
“Tomorrow.”

That night she placed my hand
on her stomach

and I felt you kick
for the first time.

Cigarettes,
Alcohol,
Heart attacks,
Car crashes,
Knife fights
are all exciting
ways to die.

Knowing,
at least
it spirits the mystery
away.