The absence of sound may be barren and voiceless,
but this peace that seems so calm and solemn
is as loud and consuming as our ears can stand.

A house devoid of noise and energy
is a windless winter’s night,
is a mind with a chance to finally speak
without interruption.

All the louder and more resonant,
all the more demanding than any fireworking,
freight train, foghorn…

In this case, the sonority of nothing is convincing.

In my case, this illusion of peace and quiet
reveals itself as less than a butterfly’s whisper,
yet more constant,
more prominent.
It insists upon itself as if it were real.

Is it?
It never lasts.

The presences of all noise-
from the leaf’s dance
to the cracks of thunder-
can cut through it like a blade.

Any spare word can dissipate this thick lapse
like locusts slicing the air,
coloring what cries between silences.

Turned upwards toward a soul
And outward toward a land
And ****** into to the bone
It is a fricative short of fire
Yet equally burning
Equally glorified to victory in bible times
Equally tearing hearts, it tears into lands,
Children do not participate in ire
Animals and nuns do not know ire
Some men of power are composed of ire
Ire is chaos and has horns and
A crick in its neck that has grown over time.
Ire has great chrome fangs tipped in arsenic
And stings the naïve and the delicate
And strains the necks of the desirable
Ire is not friends with compassion,
Ire is not friends to its followers
Ire is experienced over and over and over again
And will drain the user before the user drains it
And practiced ire is as black and crumbling
As the crust off the meat off the bone off  
The soul consumed

Ire is ages old and ageless
Ire lacks the wisdom of yore.

The opalescent fish,
a predator
measured in unconscious patience,
chooses his path
without choosing.

A dip down beneath a bowed plant
to tune alee from the drift
and a sudden twist up
for a sharp gulp of bubble matter,
all without a wanting mind.

As I bend to indulge in no-time
with my friend, the fish,
I can only feel ashamed,
as my back and forths are
scaled to moment,
and wholly, unforgivingly
considered by desires.

If only to conduct the self like the fish,
unassuming of any space,
without a knowledge of this wish,
and unaware of natural grace.

as you draw the value of rivers
and the fickle nature of clouds
and the real gift of sacrifice
from my favorite book,
i gaze down at the ghostly veins
in this loving cabbage palm,
and wonder how brown ale and stew
is the height of the day
and when it's enough
and how.

******

by a journey north
i make all my old feelings
warm and alert

i remember supposing
my love was covered in frost
at the foot of my favorite spruce trees
gathering pins and needles

i know i fall for those of no sitting
and those spurned by silent blessings

my deepest vaults have safe spots-
difficult to find-
easy to alight-
surprised when beheld-

all chambers listen.

the only thing keeping me fast
is that car and those country roads

this fastens me to your existence
as i note your remarkable motion to
the growing world,
nourishing religion,
and your experienced hands

how does a straightaway of field
bring me to this loss?

the car is the only, holding me fast
to my hopes battling inevitable sadness
towards the unknown glides of our paths

i run far ahead
because i want to see this future
in front
moving past
falling back

*******

even over few solemn days
i want to know how you could leave me here
wrapped in ribbons of resplendent desire
and worried stutters

the only unusuality about your silence
is its absence
                                                         ­                                                         (likely misunderstood)
and such an absense is not voiceless -
simply careless no-speak -
neither sound nor kind listening
is present in this kind of brooding

where are the flowing rivers of your words
if not through the dark caverns in me?
who else has been trading softness with you?

more often have i gripped the hard glass,
the steering wheel,
the stiff drink.

was there a glimpse into shocked discontent
granting you sudden power to retract
from all my easy benevolence?

the trouble is this -
though you've been sweetly resistant,
i've never professed hot beckoning until now

*********

when i turn into the sweetness of sick sheets
and your sleeping hands
i breathe in all the dew on your chest
and smile
realizing
i'm the idiot
waiting

Can't tell if you're leading me on, or just leading me.
Can't tell if you're suffering in pain, or simply stubborn.
Can't tell if I love you, or if I'm in love with the idea of you.
Can't tell if you're being kind, or if you're showering pity all over my stupid little head.
Can't tell if you're pleasantly dreaming or angrily waking.
Can't tell if you're sharing and pairing, or if you're getting another free meal out of me.
Can't tell if this wine is good, or if it's good.
Can't tell when our side-by-sides in the snow will melt.
Can't tell whether or not your scent on my pillow is worth its own separate wash.
Can't tell if these scattered pennies are mine or yours.
Can't tell if this sacred book, all of it, is accidentally dedicated to you.
Can't tell who you're holding at night - me,  or a memory.
Can't tell what you mean by "team effort."
Can't tell if my eyes have some dark, nefarious power over your decision making.
Can't tell where I'm supposed to touch you, how I'm meant to speak to you,
when it's right to see you, or if I'm ever allowed to love you.
Can't tell if you're enlightenment or poison.
Can't tell if the past was wasted or spent lovingly.
Can't tell when I'm hungry or tired or drunk.
Can't tell if I'm crazy in ones or twos.
Can't tell if I'm talking to myself.
Can't tell night from day.
Can't tell you.

You picked me tulips and moonflowers.
You ran your hands through my hair.
You became in the habit of kissing me
sweetly from time to time,
opening up.

You held my hips and waist and back
with warm, strong hands.

You laughed in the mornings with me,
and we were both alive.

You visited me at work like a fleet fox.

You kept me safe and squeezed my ankles.

You sang old songs in the shower, ones that shouldn't have made me sad.
They do now.

You showed me the solitude of clandestine caves and hills and woods.

You revealed to me all the things I wanted to learn,
to help me distill and breathe my dreams,
to make magic.

You shared your whole home
and left me to your bed
and your secrecy.

You wanted road trips and Canada and bees.
I wanted those too.
You touched my knees in restaurants,
park benches,
early nights.

You gazed at the fish with me.
You made love like a prayer.
You let your hands fulfill your duties.
You lit up the moon on the sea.

You tasted like truth.
I know better now.

And you left me like a baby flower choking
On dust, and loss of future blooming,
And tremors like Eos's tears
On the stillest vernal pool -
It was as if you stole my life and simply
Went - or put me on my little sailboat
That sang of youth and an hourglass, a
Duet composed in the ***** crystal of purgatory,
Between my insatiably wild stronghold and
The rosy maiden, blushing, full, yet
Dumb, willingly deaf to red flags,
Praying for a partner to make a golden
Lady of the wood and water
And light, so warm and shimmering under
The forest's pine-down cover - what a
Big, hasty mistake, to keep yourself
Hollow and blind to the day's good things, to remain a
Man alone, wistfully misplacing a love
Who showed the loyalty of a crimson kindness, and who
Was always singing bliss and beauty and glowing into your ears,
So stuffed with lies, bitterness, ideals, and
Full like drunken leeches - all this, and the coldness, the stubbornness
Of the oldest mule, to stay isolated from my
Loving eyes, to make time with our sorrowful
Echoes, yours and mine.




*vertical quote from Kurt Vonnegut's *Slaughterhouse-Five