The animals
have always been
mischievous—
the eagle and his prey.

Showers of
orgiastic rain
through cracked soil—
the eagle is no better
than his brother.

The umbrella daughters
don’t feel the rain
but hunt all the same—
the eagle’s offspring
are destined to try for—

Ten years from now I’ll answer all my own questions
I’ll take care with the brighter lights and sadder days
Even when there’s nothing but the abyss of empty rooms
Of fleeing demons on the swoop and prowl for what’s left
Even when there’s everything under the rug and more
And more reasons to keep the turns and sidetracks buried
Even if I can’t begin to know or try or see or do all the oaths
Of foolish guardians on my shoulder that are fed up

Somewhere there will be a flash or a bump or a splash
Of the best kind of amnesia to remind me to let myself
Forget the silly toobabs and bills and errors of a decade
Spent on the worst kind of expectations and fights
And frights and sights and blighted odysseys of my times
As a hero—Theseus and Perseus know how hard it is

How can all the boxes underneath the bed ever be cleared
Of the things they hold so boldly in the face of the moving
Planets and lonely Pluto waiting not so patiently for a surrender
From the waxing waning pulling straining lifting tugging
Falling and falling that keeps me awake and puts me to sleep
And asks and asks and asks and asks and asks

Like water—
assuming windy shapes
and earthy sways

So too, we accept;
so easily, could
we plunge hands
beneath the surface and
so in vain, could
we tide a new direction

There is a morning with an icy note
That frowns until all hands efface
Again it’s hard to stay afloat
Not sad? But still a somber place

And sun—conceived; born for us again
to dissolve the binds that hold and plague and
rip and lust away the frost of The Frustrated
Generation; too much! too much of the expectation
and shaming, unwavering against the wavelike blossom

But still a letter at the door
That knocks to bore its way inside
For what? For why a chance at more
Than ways to sit and wait and hide

For that cringing question;
melting and clawing through
a queasy stomach to the throat—
to the forefront and visions—or just the chance to ask:
the ***** and sting that steers
to and from sense.

There is always a song
that fits—a blanket,
it hands us—
to disappear beneath.

But also, a
a warm breath, rising up
into a cloud—For us.
We make time to stare.

Sometimes melting,
burning, freezing—opening
honeycomb pores until
storybooks fall in and we’re
so full of everything that we stiffen
and burst with it all.

Often though, glassy goosebumps,
they raise—the ridges pull away,
stretching, until we peel and shed
crinkly skins and shells—

More naked than before,
and scared—enticed to
the flowers left by
coal horses.

And so it was done,
the smoke had blinded everyone;
the fire was long gone.

Days, weeks, months went by.
Dodging watchful eyes
made him want to run.

So he looked down,
along with everyone—
Everyone is looking down.

Of course it was bad timing,
contracts full of signing,
and you.

It all looks the same
until it fades; so he looks
down, with everyone.

Suddenly, tonight,
I detached;
limb by limb.

Suddenly, the constant
(misguided) revelation
was louder—the loudest.

Suddenly, the argument
for release was
so pungently imperfect
and so dejected
and dire that I understood.

And suddenly, it was
all over, and I did not
understand a thing, again,
how could anything be wrong.