My words don’t have arms big enough to hold these great and growing feelings.
They stay in my insides
Crowding out
Grinding down the subtleties
That reside near the edges in the used to be,
that cushiony soft berm.

It was comfortable in here once

The Room for Interpretation,

now lost,
now over-full,
balloon-bright and tumbling one voice and many into and out of supremacy.

These great and growing feelings
and my insufficient words
that fall from me one-by-one into place,
the thudding truth in basic blue.

He fancies himself a cowboy
In line at the corner store
Concealed carry snug on his hip
(He secretly hopes someone gives him some lip)
The cashier hands him his change without meeting his gaze
He’s surprised and aroused.
She knows her place.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else

He fancies himself a nonconformist.
A free thinker
The sheep will all do what they’re told
And he’ll be ****** before he goes peacefully to slaughter.
It was easy, he figured it out
Demanding proof is just an excuse to hide behind doubt
A warrior,
he wields the flaming sword of truth
His wife asks a question; he breaks her front tooth.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else

Somewhere a fat man is checking the math as he’s being served lunch
Picking through numbers, looking for nibbles
He dribbles drool onto his chin,
as he dials his guy in The Caymans
His stomach is rumbling, it’s never enough!
To deepen ones pockets, one first must make cuts.

The determinant cause for the silver mine fire
Will read “Accident: faulty electrical wire; Company denies liability
per signed agreement at hire.”
And the cowboy free thinker won’t laugh at the joke,
he’ll just choke
There will be no survivors

But today, The Cowboy nurses his hate,
while Somewhere a fat man is writing the fate of the cowboy in pen,
pleased to be Great Again.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else

This place is a wasteland
Wasted potential
Food
Opportunity
Wasted at the bar, looking at your hands
“how could you do this to me?”
What happened to beauty?
And who will be the bad guys in the movie?

If a fascist takes a **** on the floor, will it land in 1984?
We’re at war
We’re at war
If you’re not rich you’re poor

We’re not the ones keeping score.

The air is heavy with a million million souls
Parts of wholes that escaped in the breaths of prayers
Whispered at windows of the desperate and the faithful
In the apple-core-rot towns and cities of America.

I’m standing in my driveway
And I can feel them all,
Bearing down like storm clouds in the heat.
Another offering could bring the heavens crashing to my feet.

My forehead is sweating, standing there in my driveway,
And I wipe it with the back of my hand,
Squinting into the haze.
The waves of energy
Their ecstatic mass vibrating, buzzing, clicking
A dog’s toenails on linoleum  
A tiny ear pressed to a mother’s chest as she hums. A heartbeat.

I feel dizzy
and wonder if the entirety of the universe
is made of the hopeful, wasted energy of unanswered prayers

I will dig a deep well inside myself to deposit the seeds of doubt, I say to myself and no one and the universe,
and despairing for the orphaned dreams surrounding me,
I give in to the indulgence of wishing.

The sky sags under the weight of a new plea
As I prepare to forget

Polka dot trees
They're supposed to be cedars
A collage for my mother
For Christmas Day.

Asleep on the sofa
You wait for me
Quietly breathing
You give yourself away.

I could be painting
But it's four in the morning
The day that awaits me
Is silently dawning.

We'll drive to my parents
I finish this there
Sleep is impatient
In its persistent glare.

Goodnight to the bakers
Goodnight to the bells
Goodnight to the sleepers
In their comfortable cells.

Sixty degrees on solstice day.
An incubator.

If we go to the beach we can find all the bones of the dead animals
that are supposed to be buried in the snow
and throw them in the lake.
We can dip our heads in the cold water
to wash away these nasty thoughts
growing on our brains like bacteria in the warm weather,
send them into the lake with the bones and the souls of the dead animals
that are supposed to be buried in the snow.

The supercharged atmosphere
zaps my fingers when I open the car door.
Static electricity.

If I collect all that ecstatic magic
I'll let you hold it in your hands
in a jar
and we can watch it dance.
A hundred million fireflies
that should have died on the lips of
December.