we sit here
wandering, pondering,
       quandring
away the life.
awaiting the flood of
the Universal Ocean
to fill lungs of carbon
with sodium -
salinity in the tissue rising.
we sit here
awaiting Lot's wife,
to be pillar'd in a sense -
to be brined from the soul out.
we sit here
awaiting to be marbled and
pock'd with time,
to rest upon the Ocean's bed
and dream in lucidity -

and dream of the Shores.
and awaken of the Shores.
and feast of the Shores.

we sit here
awaiting in waste, in haste,
in repetition that our feet draw us upon.
we sit here awaiting,
healing of wounds thru time -
and the brambles wrapped tight
and tore of the flesh,
poxing.
limping, hobbling, waltzing on
and a blooded foot drew us home -
drew us onward.

I brought her one flower
from the cemetery I borrowed
love leads to death
but it can work the other way
so the blackbird on the telephone wire say
I brought her one flower
a bouquet -- wasteful, sour
too many kisses cheapen
how else to pay by the hour
so the meadowlark's **** showers
I brought her one flower
in a corduroy suit, sunglassed tower
a corkscrew and 12 apostles
too far from shore, too young to cry
so the stupid penguin tries to fly
I brought her one flower
in some water, a tired bower
"I didn't try my hardest."
"I know." Wish my *** to the moon
So the robin lets out a morose croon

A black-haired, sharp-toothed preacher from behind pulpit
told the rose carpet congregation that if a child dies
before baptized, it will go to heaven.
As automatic as automatic.

I was six when I heard those words.
I pulled my invisible friend aside; gently broke, "Now for the end."
Why grow old only to spend an eternity in hell?

I walked through the yellowed pasture of grain.
To the brambles.
To the brambles brimming with what my mother called "poison berries."
"See ya in heaven."
I ate until my stomach churned with unrest.
"This is it."

15 years later,
I'm still waiting for the effect.

Blue.
Blue eyes,
not like the ocean tides
or a pretty sky
but blue,
bright,
clear,
with strands of white
and miscilaneous colors
weaved into the fibers.
Blue,
like my sweater.

Blonde.
Blonde hair,
***** and smooth.
Not like the sandy beach
or the dry grass in the field.
But blonde,
thick,
wavy,
and you scratch your head a lot.
Itchy,
like my sweater.

Pink.
Pink Lips.
Not like any flower
or beautiful sunset.
But pink,
thin,
chapped,
with blinding white stars
hidden behind them.
Covering,
like my sweater.

Freckles
across your face.
Not like splatter paint
or migrating birds.
But freckled,
brown,
random,
little dots dancing
on your cheeks.
Cute,
like my sweater.

Skin.
Pale skin.
Not like fresh snow
or the paper these words are on.
But pale,
soft,
tight
and warm as you hold my hand.
Comforting,
like my sweater.

And with every
stitch and knot of this sweater,
I embrace your love
and how every morning you'll
walk that extra distance
just to give me a hug.
And I always wear our sweater.

I am making a desicion
to clean my body of
your hollow whispered bruises
cracks in my diaphragm
your words left sizzling there
like acid that dripped from your lips
I forgot the deception that swam from your eyes
I have never been stupid
enough to believe
that you were only one
when there were three.
But we stood and watched that house burn
never feeling colder,
than we did that night.
Im sorry your brother died and took
your parents with you.
So you are an orphan that
demonstrated car crashes
in the mere rhythm of your hands
or melody of your speech.
But I find myself drawn to angry cobalt blue eyes
too often enough to know that
I cannot grapple out of your choke-hold
and frozen fingers will bruise me every shade of your
roaring ocean-like blue.
I can only admire the sapphire in your soul from a distance
and hope the red ruby rage turns to wine and not blood.
I have left my marks on too many wooden floorboards, pleaded with too many icy aquamarine eyes;
from boys with steel in their voices but a fury in their hearts.
Too many fingernails stuck between infinite spaces somewhere in houses
where the silence reminded me of the stillness of a teal lake in spring
your eyes are reminiscent of a grey morning I do not wish to remember
I will leave a mark here.

I don't dream of you either. Not at night. The occasional daydream occurs. You crawl into my mind in sentimental coffee shop conversations we never shared, love made in hotels we never went to, picking up naked dolls with frayed blonde hair that the daughter we'll never have left out. Sometimes it's lovely not to question the reality.

Usually the night drives keep me in Oklahoma. I don't know how many times I've stopped in Kingfisher to look at that terrible statue of Sam Walton. But he reminds me that no matter how successful a man becomes, in the end his legacy is depicted by his leftovers. There's a sadness in that. But also a freedom.

Wednesday's drive took me to Ulysses, Kansas. Light pollution gave up just outside of Woodward. Guiding me like a weary wise man who forgot his frankincense, stars beamed and made for suitable company. I love passing through small towns at night. I become a ghost. I'm above them. I'm not exactly there. Brief haunt. Then on my way again.

I parked about 100 feet from my grandmother's old house. Judging by the minivan, some young family's new house. They were in the process of adding to the east side. I wanted to tear at every fresh board. Instead I picked up a couple pieces of my grandmother's gravel. Put them in my pocket. Touched her old mailbox, and drove to the cemetery.

When I got to the headstone, which read Merle and Virgil Mawhirter, I thought back to the last thing my grandmother said to Karen and myself. We visited her in the hospital right before she found herself in the pangs of a ventilator and scattershot science. It was her birthday. I bought her a book she never read.

As Karen and I left, she stopped us. "Don't forget to bring me some ice cream. Good to see you, Floyd and Margie." Not sure who they were. Ice cream. Even at the end, she laughed in the face of diabetes.

Do you think Tim will be the name beside yours on your headstone?

I lied down by my grandparents' graves. Dim moonlight seeped through small breaks in the amethyst clouds. Dead leaves feathered to the ground beside me. I wanted to say some words of encouragement to her. For her, but mostly for myself.

All I said though -- My name is Joshua, Grandma.