Weekends fly
Like clouds that float
Across the windy skies.

Tonight I'll bite
The bedbugs back,
Then close my tired eyes.

Come Monday I
May choose to fret
That my own time is spent.

But it is worth
A week of work:
Weekend's Heaven Sent.

I can be an angry man.
Dead things that won't do as I wish
Tend to break.

Leaving behind a wake of
Fractured drywall and
Nervous cats,
Band-aided knuckles and
Bared bone,
I scare others. Hurt myself.

It's a family curse.
Our men are fiercely fuelled, have
Little patience for slow movers,
Rude tones, spite.
Grenades of muscle and noise
That explode in the faces of
Disrespect, then stand
Alone in craters
And regret.

Thank the gods we love with the same
Intensity.

The peace with which you rest
Reminds us: You were
Somewhere
Else before.
This world, it screams in violent
Dreams, but you know
Not the ways
Of war.

Deepest contrast -black to bright-
The way you smile
While others fight.
Could it be behind those
Eyes you see
The true
Reality?

The adult here is you alone,
The child is rampant
-Running free.
Fighting over toys and candy
While you're resting
Peacefully.

I fell asleep with my
Face against her young neck
Dreaming of silken skies
Above velvet oceans that
Saw me sink and sink
And sink
Undrowning.

Even human hands
Unclench
In spring.

Calyx
Fingers.

Look: This flower
Opens to offer; this
To recieve.

Outside my window I count
Three shadows.
Twelve legs.
Grazing.

Up here we call the elk
The King of the Woods.
[Antlers the width of your widescreen;
As convincing a crown as any].

When they run past the house
The crystal shakes in
The cupboard.
The cat breaks records up trees.

I am a man.
I am merely a man.
I will never own the night.

Sometimes I feel **** alien, even in the
Most familiar of surroundings.
Instead of spinning, pointing,
Naming everything Home,

I shut myself, and turn inward.
Day after day the first one at a
New school in a foreign country,
As far from a cool kid as the

Overweight teacher's pet with a
Stutter. I don't even know how to
Speak my own name in their
Incomprehensible language.

Nothing here is for me, and
At least E.T. had a home to phone; all
I have is the space i possess as I walk
Through it, eyes firm on borrowed

Footing. No single road leads to my
Rome, and somewhere inside the
Timelessness of my innermost, the
Old, old man watches the young'uns

Talking, dressing, adressing,
Preferring, doing it all the way
Young'uns do, with pale, tired eyes
And simply just

Can't, -tries, but- just doesn't
Understand.

It is a declaration of cowardice.
I put my pen down and
Step away slowly
[Defusing the letter bomb].
They don't always turn the
Other sheet, you know.

Sometimes the poem
Writes back.

On my every birthday
I give my mother
Flowers.