This society is plagued by the search for perfect things.
But as I sat there doodling with my finger on your spine,
I realized one of the most perfect things in the world
Is often the imperfect boy, with messy hair, asleep in your lap.
When you are afraid to move him
and to love him too much.

Your eyes where the color of summer wheat grass
They promised a hot, hazy summer
And reminded of life brought to it by the spring
Like brushing my fingertips across the wheat grass
My eyes sweeping yours
Let me feel everything that you where
Are now
And like a seed in the wind
Everything that we could be together.

My days have been numbered
By my fingers and toes.
If I had a hundred days
Would I have enough time
To memorize the features of your face?
So when I close my eyes
Your image develops on them
A dark room to remember
Where memories sit waiting in reels
Hoping that once more
light will pass through them.

Brick walls are incredible structures
The builder must realize the need for the wall,
then for many days must painstakingly
place mortar between bricks.
They must build with intention.
If not, it is no longer a wall
it will be left to decay in the rain.
However,
once finished it will stand strong against the weather,
impede prying eyes and thieves,
dissuade creatures and man alike,

The nature of the brick wall is this:
It only takes a single person
willing enough to remove that brick,
to break the mortar and push the brick through.
Their motivation
does not matter
so long as they find the reason for it being built.

I have never encountered nature
In something so human
I have never encountered bark that
Sees with the glassy clarity of an eye
I have never wanted to touch the fog
So badly with my lips that I thirst.

I huddle on this packed earth
Making the decision of life or wonder
I skim freshly fallen needles near me
too afraid to grasp them
I drink water that is not fog and long
To jump into the mist that hovers.

I hold back as if there were a poison
Dripping as sap from each tree
The needles so fine and sharp
Gleam menacingly in filtered light
The mist without air poised temptingly
Ready to choke me at the first breath.

Helpless I rest with the decay
Hoping the sun will raise a new day
Burn off the mist that so enthralls me
Dry up the sap that bleeds from the trees
Sweep away the glinting needles
With a breath of air
Replacing the moon that so knowingly
Winks from above the trees.

"It’s a mysterious thing time is"
said the pocket watch man
whose shop resided on the corner of 4th and Mabel Street.
"Do you see how the greatest minds
use clocks as the object of mystery?"
I was young then, I shook my head,
hair bobbing with the force of my agreement.
"But why? Why are clocks so mysterious?
For after all, it is we who give them time-"
He trailed off lost in thought again.
I picked up a silver watch that needed repair,
dusting it off on my light blue petticoat.
I looked at it, the gleaming glass showing no movement
He looked up, "That one is broken, I think there is a gear loose"
"I know" I break my stare from the watch
and look to the window,
The old man cups my hands around a small object
Shocked at the cold metal in my palms,
then by the warmth of his hands,
I look down and sitting there was his own brass watch;
beaten from the war, chain swinging below
"They believe when a watch runs out of time,
the person who gave it to you dies"
My eyes widened as I looked into his face
"Is it true" I say, I sure hoped it wasn't
"Of course not" he assured me patting my head
"Of course not". He shooed me out of his shop
and warned me not to lose that watch.

He built the clock that’s in town
and every day the clock strikes noon
It chimed just once then stopped too soon
He died at noon that very day
And his watch has never worked the same way.

Her hair was the color of the filtered rays
of sunlight that streamed
through the trees that summer.
"Look, look under that rock"
I looked around my ankles
"Where?" Rings jumped up
at my heavy steps.
"There" her arm thin,
like the branch above my head
shot up holding another crawdad.
"How do you do that?"
"I don't know"
Her lithe steps left foot prints in the mud
and I pressed them out with my feet.
Erasing any traces we where ever together,
there on that bank
on that hot august day.

The white walls smell like sick
the clean kind of  sick and
I don't want to be here.
"We are going to see him now"
"Alright" scrunching up my face
The elevator dinged, I pulled my sleeves
down over my hands
"They can't come in"
"Why?"
"They must be 16"
"But they might ever see him again"
"Thats the policy"
I pulled up my hood and walked away
Shrugged away their goodbyes
"Come on lets go"
"Alright" I took her hand
and we left to wait in the overly plush waiting room,
watching a TV with nothing on,
and looking out a picture window
at the concrete roof of the building below.

It was warm all week,
every day was sunny except today.
Clouds rolled in and dropped
soaking burnt hair
so it shrunk and curled.
That was the day she
leaned over and told me
"I can't believe this happened
I couldn't help myself"
"I know" I assured her
I must be in control of my emotions now
"you need to tell someone"
"no I can't"
"you must"
We walked out of class that day
hand and hand, and I wasn't sure
how to assure her I would never leave.
So I just smiled and hugged her.
We stood there,
while the rain washed away
our make-up and hair.
That was the first day,
we bathed in blood.

No face.
Going through space
as if there is no time,
a race.
Farthest it goes is the book
put in its place.
A pace.
Looking forward
and marking each lace
on his shoe
as if he has no taste.
Full case.
The guard is standing with a mace.
The ballerina has no grace.
It's betrayed by her face.

In those days
The crows called every day
At noon they sang

The weather was
Non-descript, no rain
And the sun never shone

People walked down streets
That lacked direction and
Purpose

Those where darker days

The days I sat in my apartment
Writing down meaningless
words for hours

And tried to ignore the
Dove that made its nest in the gutter
Outside my window

Where my cat lay
In my lap, untouched
Yet still purring

And where my pen
rolled out the window
Onto the passing heads
of the street below.

The battle has been won
The struggle is over
It's time to go home now

The flag has been flown
The river crusaded
And the grass overturned

The enemy has won
The real enemy has lost
And all of us are gone now

But bring this near
And remember me here
When you feel that all is lost

So, come as we close
Bring what has been tossed
Bring what you have forgotten

Put them down here
You will never see them again
Bring her up there
And you will see her soon.

Summer nights are pushed in
with cold breezes and robins wings.
At night the sun never truly fades,
a yellow phosphorescence lingers
kin to the sticky heat and light bugs.
It hangs in the air, light caught on nothing
like dew caught in a web.
The mosquitoes wings twist the air
into a dour chorus
like a poorly tuned violin quartet.

And sweat sticks to the brow.
And to the sheets.
And to the thin shirt that twists around beneath tight covers.
The eyes that no longer reflect blue
only the slow blink of the fireflies.
Crickets sing the ears to sleep,
and if the ear is trained,
or looking for something to hear,
it might catch the very light buffets
of the frenzied flutter of bats.
The moon hazed from the days heat
hangs low making the sky like the inside
of an immense pin hole camera.
Promising an interesting and bright world on the other side.

Bells clang with dissonant fury,
they rattle the cracked foundation
upon which the church sits.
Thirteen lamp oil birds take lift
and scatter. The cacophony acting
as hands, throwing feathers and
feces out of the old tower.
The judges house leans a little more
to the left now, as it always
seems to at noontime.
The owner of the pub knocks
his sign back into place with his
knobbled cane.
The rocking chair tilts a bit further
back as the old lady finishes
her last stitch.
The children exit the schoolhouse.
None of them notice the blood,
or how the preacher slumps against
his chair, face pressed to the pages
of revelation.

We march in a straight line.
Sleep inhibited by pounding
footfalls and cloudy breaths.
Stone beats on cold flesh
which beats on our hearts
as we beat beat beat away our troubles
to a drum thats lost its tune.
We sing songs that have no words.
We lie, about where we
have come from and where we are going.
We speak in circles until
we forget what we speak of,
what we speak of leaves our
tongues in smoke and ash
fallen from a sky lined
with something different than
the khol that lines eyes that reflect midnight
instead of starlight.

The drum has lost its beat.
We fall apart and the
north star that used to pull us
forward, onward, fades.
Our faces paler in the dawn light
reaching an oak tree we drop.
Return to our headstones
Earth, blood, bones become one again.
We are night.

I like to watch the small beetle
run in circles on my floor,
chasing the cat,
who is chasing it.
A power struggle and a stare-down
Every imperfection of the floor
is a mountain for the beetle.
Every dark underneath
a failure for the cat.
Neither plans to end the game
so neither one shall win it.

Two lines of  students exit
the   double   doors   of    a
different   brick    building
they   were  the   survivors
led     by     their   teachers
towards  busses,   one   for
each class. A girl  and  her
friend  look   back   at   the
darkened  roof  and  shield
their   eyes   from  morning
sun,  but  really  they  look
for dust from two buildings




they were told had collapsed.
Two yellow  lines  of  school
busses   fight  cars  for  space
in    the    small    parking   lot
Where    is     your     house?
Mom  is  crying  and  holding
Sarah’s   hand,  she  looks  so
small   and   scared  when  we
go   home   and   sit  amongst
toys,  as    if     blankets   and
barbies will  protect  us from
the   evil   that    has    ruined




   A twin skyline
     Two planes
     Two towers
       Two girls
     Two parents
  Too many lives

They hung the man today.
They say he hung the moon
he alit a glowing orb
dangled it from a star.

They hung a man today.
They say they hung the man
who ***** the women and stole the children
But, they say he owns the moon.

They hung the stars themselves,
painted every one.
But he hung the moon they say
the moon's face is his own.

They hung his life on a rope,
his life was but a strand, they say.
The moon and stars dropped tears of light
That’s why we no longer see a one.

They hung the man.
They say
They say
They say he's in the moon

I promise this time it
will be different,
Like how I can
assure you I won’t wait
with bated breath for
a text from you at 2 in the morning,
even though I know you
are asleep.
I assure you that I wont
use your old tee shirt as a pillow
then wear it the next day.
I can especially say
I will not leave a note
in the lunch I pack you
"I love you"
I can even promise that
I will just walk away
when I find her in
your bed again.

But I can’t promise that
I won’t steal your Wellies
and waltz out to your
garden and meet your
dog who lazily barks at
passing cars,
the one I taught to fetch
and is my best friend
the one who will
miss me most when
we are over.

It was one of those
fall days where
leaves poured off trees
and onto our heads
even though there was
no wind. The sun
was baking the leaves
to the crispness of
brown and gold

And we were best friends.
we strolled in amiable
silence like we always would,
take a picture,
walk some more.
We reached a *****,
took it with ease,
agreeing to climb to the
top together to
grasp hands and lock
fingers to make the
climb a little easier.

We got to the top.
you asked me a question
I could not answer
I had no way to know
or the right to respond,
like the leaves had no right
to stay on the trees that day.
You had to turn to
hide tears I didn't think
I could bring.
Dropped my hand
and walked away.

We are mismatched
like the socks that come out of the dryer
One gray with red spots
The other blue with pink.

I feel that we must, somehow,
go together because
after all we are both socks.

Maybe it’s just some static cling
but somehow I have gotten myself
******* in you,
and you are ******* in me.

Wool socks are very bad at letting go.
They are hard to take off the foot,
and placed in the washer,
and then be found again,
and put through the dryer,
then found again.

Somehow we where put together.
It’s as if the house wife knotted us
on purpose because deep down
she really misses being a kid,
and wearing
mismatched socks.

Crouching trees
congregate in covens
-- witchcraft

Two navy and pink quilts
cover a floral couch
where her Oscar de Laurenta
perfume lingers.
Dust touches picture frames
of memories long past,
All of her clothes sit in
the closet, boasting red sweaters
colorful pants and
a pair of slip-ons that she
had worn the heels from.
The blue pants I borrowed
when I had gotten my own
***** lie on the top of the pile.

Her favorite plates sit on the
top shelf of the cabinet
beside the sink,
her lotion still waits for her
hands.
Cannoli shells wait to be filled,
just in time for Easter.
Bottles of seltzer ready for her
to drink at lunch time.
Ice cream ready for her grandchildren
sits untouched in the freezer.
The lumpy yellow clay bowl still
sits on a desk full of bills.

Things are missing, though.
Her loud, boisterous voice calling
when you open the door,
excitement filled "look at you's",
strong laughter,
the belief that you are in fact
taller since last week.
Slippers left at the front door
because she was in the garden.
Her wedding ring,
Her love,
Her life,
Her.

Absolute basalt caverns darken.
Empty for good.
Had I just kept
leaving my notes open.
people, quit running.
stop.  Time's unforgiving,
variations wandering.
Xamine your Zen.

In the bitter spring we do not sleep.
The Ides of March unforgiving, reap
silences, times that keep
souls that inconsolably weep,
baby birds refuse the seed,
winter comes, four months deep.

Roots have shriveled buried deep,
corpses rot although they sleep,
they are the dirt for new seed,
this is the fruit the farmer daren't reap.
Childhoods where we could not weep,
fade to promises we could not keep.

Why do ravens turn from the towers, that keep
the king buried six feet deep.
The villagers do not weep,
they too have fallen to sleep
The Devil’s hand was there to reap
death’s long forgotten seed.

God has planted one mustard seed
the only thing there was to keep,
because there is no reward to reap.
The mortician dug in his pockets deep,
all his clients are fast a sleep,
he sits in his chair and refuses to weep.

His wife sits in a rocking chair to weep.
She is lacking of seed,
knowing that she will be next to sleep.
A single child she could not keep,
The needles puncture, puncture deep,
for it was his child that she could not reap.

Winter winds have come to reap
the tears that some have refused to weep
in a crystalline jar buried deep
like some vengeful seed,
the secret that the grounds keep,
in the place where creatures refuse to sleep.

In the lack of sleep, it is then we reap
a safer place we then keep, we weep
the seed lies within our hearts, no longer buried deep.