The tongue wags with sudden impulse
swearing on myself what I’d never utter to another
a volcano of failure erupts like a reflex
gushing in a tide of crimson anger
making me wonder if my mind is master
or merely a servant of fleeting feelings.

I embarrass myself and subject those in earshot
to these small virile tsunamis of garbage
molesting and spoiling peaceful moments
while they silently love me
and cherish the molecules of purity
they see and summon in me.

It will take a higher power
to stem this tide
for my own devices have pitifully failed.

I call out to the heavens
mount me on eagles’ wings
bear me on the breath of dawn
change my mind
and pinch my tongue
between your finger and thumb.

Sometimes diplomas are deleterious to a degree
it seems the cap, gown, and certificate holder
buys a telescope and starts using it to see
loses the ability to write freely and bolder
becomes particularly adept at speaking in snark -
so much easier than personally and intimately connecting -
preferring critique to finding and being a creative spark
becoming expert not so much from practice as from correcting.

I knew a man who used to be my friend
until he acquired his PhD
then he began to depart and ascend
too high for him to see little ole me
I knew a few too who were doctors and buddies
whose degrees didn’t pedestal them
who didn’t let their higher studies
erase their humor, make their hearts go dim.

Across the alley
in the early light
you catch my eye first
you in the million white flowers
popping out of every branch
surging forth from each small tributary of your body.

You are the irrepressible life
that lay dormant
in your winter of contemplation
waiting there patiently through icy foggy days
earth cloaked in pregnant waiting clouds.

You are the tree of life this morning
beckoning me from my sleepy sluggish body
to join the chorus of your rejoicing
pricking the hidden hallelujah
coursing in the sea of cells
still alive and urging me
to union with you.

And so here I am
eyes wide open in the quiet dawning
of this small moment of eternity
imbibing your white glory
taking a tiny leap
into the cosmos awake in you
in this early day
of spring.

I have a friend who lives alone
and practices
with daily determination
the ritual of making her bed.
When I visit I make a point of walking to her bedroom
for a viewing of her work of art.

I’ve often thought:
if I practice this practice
it might give me some semblance
of order in a globe wracked with crisis.

But my mussed and unmade bed
is a marque or warning
don’t expect the normal, aligned,
or well-wrapped story
in this house.

Unless I am utterly into you
dwelling in your eyes
every crease in your face
seen the shade of your cheeks
hung out there - all of me
waiting to see all I can see
hear all I can hear
just like a cat - turning my ear
in your direction
leaning to drink in your sound
if I am not knit and bound
to you in body and mind
if I do not smell every flower of you I can find
nor extend and stretch my being
as far as is humanly freeing

then

I have not drunk your nectar,
ingested the juice of your soul
and my self
is not really present
nor fully there
in you my sweetest dear
nor you in me.

The alarm got us up before the sun fully awoke
we pulled our sleepy bodies out of bed
got on our grungies not even fixing coffee yet,
got our gear together in the pickup
and headed for the peninsula
where we hoped the sand bass would be schooling,
searching for some breakfast of worms or flashy things that looked to them like food.
If we were lucky we hooked a few which we would cook later
or save for the freezers back home.

When we got back to the campground
we’d comb our hair brush our teeth and head into town
for Pat’s Cafe who served the best biscuits, eggs, hashbrowns, and pancakes in the region
and if we were lucky Pat herself with her long black hair and **** lips
and substantial hips
would stop by and in her Texas twang and charm
she’d tell us about their farm
we’d speak of our wives
and some of the small details of our lives
and how we loved that large beautiful body
that sparkled and sang to us each spring
and how we savored dipping into Lake Whitney.

In late afternoon we would laze about the RV
discussing Theilhard and Jesus and Charlie
he’d speak of Bob Wills and we’d share
trying to make sense of the spirits there
and how they made us leap and soar.
We spoke in sync and explored
lines of novels, and fascinating texts
that made us eager to discover what was next
that would make us laugh or shed tears
of all those memorable years
we’d been brothers
afloat of the same waters
becoming men who hoped to make their mark
spark something good in the minds
of other seekers who also drank wines
fermented in corridors of learning
who had the same yearning
for knowledge and truth
embedded early and deeply in our youth.

This morning I woke up feeling lonely.
I don’t know why.
I have people around me who love me
and want to hold on to me
and I onto them.
I know…
feelings like this
and dreams
fly and soon evaporate into the cloudy sky.

But today some dark critter
a residue of the night
has hooked me
and won’t let go
it has reeled me in
so here I am using these lines
to cast my mind out into the choppy waters
to see if I can connect
with something swimming there
that’ll make sense of this tenuous mess
in which I wander and wallow.

I don’t seem to find my self
comfortable, wholly accepted and at home
with the people and places I roam
in this soaked and leaky vessel.
I know it’s stupid to be out here floating
when songs and words I’m often quoting
drift inside my head
planted there by many magnificent progenitors
who earnestly bred
a young man for whom they cared.

But loneliness does that.
It puts me where I know I shouldn’t be
by all grateful accounts.

I think to myself
I wish so and so was here to talk
but they’ve long gone and walked
from me
who has lived so long.

So here I am alone
casting out
or in
to find the answer, a home
or a place of some special grace…
while I sit here with these lines
in this lonely state.

Hello out there…?