The problem is––
when I see your face
I see a question,
one
unanswerable to me
or to anyone.

Your eyes desire
this thing.
A thing physically
unpresentable,
and yet you are
undeterrable
in your quest
to possess
this "thing,"
which I can tell you
does not exist.

I am not it
yet somehow I feel
you see
me as a key
to "it"
and this
melts me,
because I too
once searched
but have since
ceased.

We both sought ((?))
but at different
times, now
we meet and some
comfort does lie
in knowing
people still
search.

There is no word for these:
Old friends in new bodies
gOld souls with
Ancient minds and
Youthful eyes.
Some of us have
The blood of Mary inside
Others raise from wakeless lakes
You, I beileve, have both.

Balancing on her railroad ties
She whispers,
That's your own impression
And she adds,
Why do all your smiles pass like clouds,
Instead of sticking around like thick crowds?
Because! I answer ( in different words )
Even the best eyes, still
Cannot untie our blind minds,
Cannot disarm our arms,
Cannot keep our feet from passing on.

Fair, she allows
But now, quiet your mind
Forget your words, and
She starts to hum softly
His soul circles him, it turns
The passing train breaks his trance
Buried back in his body now
Hearing pistons pounding in his head
Dreaming up old friends again,
Real and fake, then
Unmaking them, one by one
Finishing with this one
Lady of the lake
Toes tickling the water, blond curls like clouds,
Eyes belying death...
How is it this one shares a friend
In us all?

I’m just a man looking for a woman and a therapist

One to fix me, one to love me, in any order

And you, you’re just a lovely, sweet, spoiled

Left by a father, whose death ruined you

It burns like a wildfire, ebbing in all directions

Our duo resembles a bear and a bear trap

While the poacher of souls trains his stare on us

Chewing tobacco with a tear in his shirt

With a wife somewhere, with all her chords in the proper sockets

Bored, dumping her love down the sink with the extra beans

Running the water we’ve come to share like barroom jokes.

And back to you and me, it was only a month; and I loved you

You never knew, because stitches never love a wound

They fall away frivolously, and anonymous

Much like us, now, with alarms of harder times burning in our ears

Yet the sound never fades, it sticks around like the old friends

The ones who helped you before you were famous, or infamous

Found this older man
Sleeping in my bed…
I threw him out
And my day began.
He was pleased, I tied
His shoes: a small comfort.
He walked submissively,
Warmly greeting
His newfound life.

Feeling the faces
I retract.
It’s not me
You want
It's my twin.
No one knows
It, but We
swapped
At birth
& have since,
Seldom seen
Or spoken to
One another,
But, I do know
Him, & can
Tell you, it’s
He you seek
not Me,
Feel free &
Have Him,
Because
I scarcely—
If ever—
Stand in His
Way, or
Share His
Shadow
Anymore.

From my window, I stare into the blue,
Without the faintest clue why,
You never come.

Time drips away.
My soulmate gone,
I’m not sure, she was ever here.

Lonesome George,
They used to call me that here,
Before I became the last.

The island fills with our empty shells,
I don't know how to escape it.
I dream of visiting the caves in France.

But I too, will soon become dust;
Perhaps, I already am.
Though when I taste the water, I do remember,

The feel of Fall's fluttering leaves, together.
And while the island washes us away,
My heart never forgets you.

MARITA
PLEASE FIND ME
I AM ALMOST 30

grandmother’s pond never moves

it’s alive, preserved inside her like a bubble.

an unknown aquifer, dreaming of us

no birds, no insects, no worms there

with a consistent season-less breeze

perpetually tousling the tangled grass,

her silver quivering hairs,

slow love rises from her porch perch

that chair rocks her into another time.

The Feather-fines hold the fences in place

a crown of thorns protects her herb garden,

she watches over those young, certain mountains

unaware of their Appalachian ancestors,

The Maple trees huddle, coveting their oldest memories

grandmother’s a stone, listening, under it all.

Nervous chewing college kids circle above her,

they think about this ancient perfect stillness,

this is her own        the morning of the grandmother

her pond remains frozen glacier still,

her chair cradles the illness

we remember her well, the owl of the anonymous valley

Quiet friend who has come so far,

feel how your breathing makes more space around you.

Let this darkness be a bell tower

and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.

Move back and forth into the change.

What is it like, such intensity of pain?

If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,

be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,

the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,

say to the silent earth: I flow.

To the rushing water, speak: I am.

Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29

No one hears this or sees it at all
It's not life, sound, or feeling.
It's an absurd apology from an ancestor,
A silent delta supporting static streams,
A breeze displaced from intentional orbit.
On it we float, aimless as little baskets of Moses,
Destined for quarries filled with birth stones,
Passing stables, sprawling into sensible horizons,
Through fields of recirculating whispers, and beyond
The nebulous mountains of abstract memory.
This seismic world divides us, eventually
When we come to the coniferous death:
one emboldening, one defying the sovereign sun,
We lay down our life force--
   -suspending the moments long enough
   -excavating lives lost in massive capsized ships
   -forgiving each other's steps in the inevitable fall
--and rest among the fertile, archived graves.
She visits there, laying a flower on each stone,
Replacing black with yellow, again and again.
An echoing gesture of love for us all,
The drifters outside of sight and sound.

I woke up an uncracked knuckle
Left the house late
Arrived early
My coffee shop closed
For good this time
The new tenants tried to sell me
On Reggae Dancercise
They explained they’d still have coffee,
A small conciliation.
I saw my sister, sat with her child
He ate cupcakes & distrusted me
For my gluten intolerance.
She is unimpressed with poetry
My sister, she falls for a Friday
I sit on a street in NoLita
It is wind-swept, as am I.
Wondering at this moment
When the next time I will
Touch hearts with another will be...
Not on this street
If today.