Come,Because there's breath in meCome,I will sing for you,           you don't have to answer...

Even when the fast windtoppled the old and looming tree outside,the one I used as shelter from the days of different sunlights,I noticed the strong double doors of the barn,where I kept the machinery,standing firmly closed--they were held with bolted hinges and metal strapsthat kept the splinters from happening.I was standing on the inside,staring out through the ***** windows,trying to figure out the difference between hurricane and breeze.And although the rafters above me were creaking, and I knewthey would soon collapse down and **** me, for now, they were betterthan the weather outside.And as long as the tractor has enough oil in its workings, its gas tank filledup and its tired inflated, as long as the harvester's blades are at their sharpestand the batteries are charged every weekend, I know that when I go outside,that when I do, the work's going be done...Yes, when I go outside, when I do, the work's going to be done...

you loosen the binding straps
and lay out your heart, exposed
to bleed in the bedtime air.
let each scar be a syllable.
let each wound be a word in exchange for a hurt,
a victorious phrase
swaddled by the page
while the pain becomes ink
dry, and a bit farther away
until sob becomes sigh, and then sleep.

show me your pose,your gravity-defying surgeryyour bonded smileyour Clorox hairshow me the scars that made wrinkles unnecessaryshow me the moments they paid forthere it is,your egg timer bodydecomposing with each hustlewhile your sensibilities go numb with apathy and practicethat require five happy hour margaritasto wash down the sin of each day.

You get to the pointto where you stub your toeagainst the dining room tableand it hurts like hellbut when you look downand wiggle your toenothing's bleedingor permanently brokenand you keep walking'cause you'd ratherjust get your glass of waterand go back to sleepinstead of wasting timebitching about the unbroken toe'cause sleep is more importantthan some trivial hurtthat goes away,come morning.

eleven o'clock at nightand it's time to move the car off the street'cause tomorrow's sweeping daywhen the big truck comesto vacuum along the sidewalkfollowed by a parking control chase vehiclethat gives tickets to guys like mewho forget the rulestwenty-eight dollar citations written upby uniformed women who are up at dawnslapping flimsy slips of paper on windshieldsmaking 'em stick to the dewy glasslike toilet paperlike face cream on ******* toilet paperthat either plug up the commodeor sit melting with the other face-creamed wads in the trash can next to the commodewith nothing to do except stare you in the face,to remind youthat you forgot the ******* rulesand now it's gonna cost youtwenty-eight bucks.time to move the car,time to make things rightyou *******.

By virtue of birth and circumstanceI became an untall, unhandsomeunfair-skinned, shy immigrant boyand given a chiselwith which I can eitherwhile away the rest of my yearsscratching my predetermined epitaph of quiet reservationor take that chiseland put its sharpest edge to my wit,hone my physical form with strength and sculptingand spit at heredity's woe,unrelenting, until I have carved away theweakest parts of me and cast them asidewithout blame, without doubt, without hesitanceto emerge defiant, breathing ravenouslypiercing with new truths that obliterate the once fragile heartto make it invincible with a new forging.I am the tower of my own might.I am the forgiver of my own sins.I am the pawn that has been cast on this board of kings,And I will be victorious.

We gather at the failing tidesinging our harbinger songswhile dawn casts its amber net of morning.Then moonlight turns to a doubtable hazethat sharpens to reveal the edge of a confident horizon.Unyielding, unstoppable,it forces us to bury our petty woes under sand.Enough, it saysBegin the day, it saysCreate the day, it says.

I realize
that I am not the man
I should have been...

My nights are scattered darkness
becoming crows descending in light

to land on wheat fields
where they become golden,

where rivers of orange
run between green, flying shores

and I can swim along
on unsure footing

and still be accepted into your heart.

if i am
sober
wealthy
straight
clean
beautiful
happy
betrothed
unmoles­ted
lucky

how will i
convince you
that we are not enemies?

The fish swam without making sounds
in the aquarium in our bedroom. It was
ten-thirty, and you'd unplugged the motor
that pumped air for the fish and helped clean the water for the fish,
because all that humming, if left on, would keep me awake.
And every night this was the ritual.

And every night I would snore,
and you'd awaken and turn me over
and fall back asleep when I had stopped snoring.
And every night this was the ritual.

And every morning I would ***** about my world, over your bacon and eggs,
and you would silently go over some shopping list,
wondering at what point in our marriage
I started calling you
"mother,"

and when you'll start calling me "father."

Expect my sun to rise with yours
My trees to shade
My leaves to fade
My water quench the spell
Expect the grass to live as long
Expect the birds to court each song
Expect my sun to glow like yours
But I've a moon to tend, as well.

When the sun shone
And the waves subsided
And it was safe to wander again,

We strayed and tangled rope lines,
Forgetting what had stayed us
In one place,
When the first storms were raging,

When we weren't anchored.

As we are:

Quixote would stand
Surveying the span and depth of the drop.
Pick up a stone, throw it nowhere near
The other side reaching.

Check for bridges and fallen trees, none.
A good tail wind to aid a heroic leap, none.
A rope, and a team of horses
That could pull his side a bit closer to hers

For a year, for one hundred
He would walk his edge from one end to the other
Only to turn away, realizing
That fate and windmills are unrelenting

And hope is only a word
Written by a fool without choice or an exit.

Dawn glistened through frost
Through a morning window
Through a hazy sun, leaning
Against the snow on the small mountains.
Without paint, I painted
By opening my eyes.

We drank juice instead of coffee
Ate pancakes and strawberries
Put our boots on
Walked
Until the cabin disappeared from the canvas.

The wind shifted and took with it some leaves
That fell into a stream, and swam away
From where we were

And we squinted from the cold,
Our new life
Barely as old
As breakfast.

Until the light betrays the way
your shadow knows that you are more than shadow,
fight

Until your skin and bones convince your heart
that they are all that is you,
fight

Until your patience winds up
being wound by time's own limits,
fight

Until blind luck convinces you that
nothing's left but rolling dice,
fight

Until the fate that tears your will to shreds
has will to tear it up again,
fight

Until there is a stronger word
than what is kept inside you,
fight

Until there's nothing left of you
except your empty shadow,
fight.

maybe it's supposed to happen this way.

whenever Joe the convict raked leaves within the compound,
he would always find scraps that had blown in from the other side
of the double chain link fence

--a ticket stub to a weekend matinee that
young lovers could barely afford to see, a fast food napkin
with lipstick and ketchup stains, an incomplete note
written on rainbow-colored paper, a square cotton
pad the size of a ring box--

these he would gather along with the other leaves,
using both hands to shovel everything into burlap sacks
as fast as he can, as fast as he can, as fast as he possibly can
until there was nothing left
but grass and his tired breathing.

maybe it's supposed to happen this way.

You were a phone number
on a folded piece of napkin
wedged inside the bottom of my purse
where the matchbooks and chewing gum wrappers fell
with all the change and lint and dried, uncapped pens

And I watched you float down
and almost miss your mark
when I emptied the bag above the trash
to make room for other things that were lately.

I remember you writing
then putting my pen inside your jacket pocket
thinking to myself, "This is it, this is really it"
when it wasn't.

Only when I scavenged the bottom of the ocean
did I find you
an urn, preserved
within rust and clay
ready to be brought up to surface,
cleaned,
presented as unique,
as timeless,
beautiful.

And in return, you found
a scavenger.

the sea made Henry
knot a fishline 'round his ring,
tie one end to his wrist
and throw the package in the water

as he stood there, he sang lullabyes to the ocean
tugging often at the line to make it sparkle
but elusive:

"There are no hooks to catch them with
There is no catch for me to keep
I tempt them with a promise and a song
Once sung to me."

careful
where you throw your words of hope.

they may fall
on rusted steel and cracked cement
that make them yearn to be majestic skyscrapers and pristine roads
waiting for your magic rain to wash
their truths away

and careful where you smile
to shine a light on wilted petals
that turn to your temporary sun for nourishment

careful how you stand
if the breeze catches hold
it will burn you into memory and regret its every movement

and careful when you leave
that doors are locked and windows shut
so that empty houses never hear you walk away.

you taste the day age from ochre to sienna,
grinding its color in your mind
watching the sun burn to ashes through the wait
staring it down, staring it down
until it winces from realizing
that it has no power to make you yield
just as it never had power
to grant a yes.

you breathed life into yourself
and carried the footfallen dirt
of your third world into this first one
knowing that the timbre and reluctant pace of your voice
will always be more revealing than the fingerprints
you bring on your brown hands,
the color that you hide in your pockets,
masked in a new heritage
that shines a light on petty and trivial pleasantries
instead of humble,
this now-useless thing you had remembered to keep

and because of this, you are left wondering
what else is there to do
besides hard work and simple devotion,
besides abandoning your old ways
and accepting this false heaven,
besides mastering the microscope words
and regurgitating them when the right ears are listening

and no matter how hard you try
the line that separates the color of your palm
from the back of your hand
will always be obvious.

This pillar of Hercules
is an unthinking, unfeeling piece of rock
with no choice but to hold its ground
and jut its granite neck out to ships
proud that so many have canonized it
as the symbol of strength and fortitude and stability.

You stare at this rock
with your decades of service
to a world that has taken from you
your time, your good will, your money
your extra effort when no one was looking

And you quietly pass
with your hands in your pockets
Instead of holding, or being held in content.

I have done that, you say.
I am that, even with a choice not to be.

For hundreds of thousands of years,
we've been trying to figure out how to
articulate with our mouths, to build
unimaginable machines with our hands,
to try and fathom our own existence

and the best that we've been able to do
is scream and fight with each other, fear
what is beyond the horizon, and
****** each other's genitals because
we are bored out of our wits and have no idea
what to do next.

And when you look at us, and think that we
are laughing at you,

We are."

Watch the street's gutter for
movement, look at the reflection
against its water, it reacts
with concentric circles

find low points on telephone lines
see if they drip, see the telephone birds
not fly away, the larger ones
can take it for a while

find a moving car turn its wipers on, find
a car wash, see if it starts to empty, listen
to your hearing improve as vision gets worse
listen--there are more sounds

take your shades off then put them
back on, the glare is still there
stronger now, bouncing off new surfaces
put your hand out, your palm down, feel it

watch the others look up, take cover
running under roofs, but the wind is blowing
sideways, it doesn't matter, they get wet
they don't see it but they get wet

they look up but there's nothing to see
not like down here, where everything happens
it's on everyone's clothes, everyone's faces
it's the movement in the gutter.

You keep going until your limbs catch a fever
until your world becomes nothing but this one straining moment
rewarded by a globe of air that you gulp down like instant mercy,
giving you one more curl
one more step
one more crunch
one more push

one more past the number you thought was impossible as a child
back when everything made sense
before the failures and misfortune
and the million heartbreak deaths
that, compared, diminish this hour of agony
into nothing

and for one brief moment, your heart about to burst
it wills your blood to keep flowing, abandoning the past of regret
because time and gravity will never be as strong
as hope.

this is why you are made of steel.
this is why pain is an afterthought.

You knew that if you didn't stay on top of the beat
the beat would have its way with you.
Your prayer of music wouldn't be as sincere
if you had followed someone else's prayer.

Your sound, almost indecipherable
but we can hear your unrelenting effort, your patience
carved as a psalm for us, right now
transcending our pettiness and frailty
making us think that we can be better than what we are
because we can hear your music.
Yes, we can hear your music. Thank God.

in every moment
a world is created
a novel is written in the mind
then burned as excess memory
every bitterness is sweet
every taste is reassessed
to match the perfect vowel
with the perfect tempo
held in the hand
and squeezed until there's nothing but pulp
every black becomes white
and every white becomes fever
and any gray is obliterated,
sifted, recreated, grown to full maturity
until it dies from its own heart exploding
with decisiveness and guilt and sorrow
and whatever word is stronger than euphoria

in every moment, a life is saved,
then lost,
then saved again.

the streetlamps dim
to push sleep past the sidewalk
up through windows
into bedrooms,
like an ether
with a deep breath that never exhales

collapsing with the smog and the traffic
until asphalt footsteps are as loud
as the ringing in your ears

and four o'clock comes
from endless birdsongs
courting darkness
as if it were
light.