Too much of one worry is our buckled knees
dragging
the question to the fountain to make it drink. I’ll tell you the right
and proper Why I had to stifle
my cigarette break before my wrists broke
before my wet-eyed babbling witnessed your last constellation --
My last star
The star that bore the envelope between Doubts and Wisdom.
And Mourning -- that tossed bag on the vagabond's back.
I'll wait until the morning breaks.
I'll stake my flattery on the flyman's ****.
We'll wring that excuse "We were young"
until the dishrag shrivels moreso than
the letter on the fire.
Stick-figured promises -- know why you're here.

Three nonconsecutive generations that can --
No -- Will – spit the timeless fairytale of that princess
Who never lost glass slippers -- or
Touched poisoned spindles -- or
Ate strangers’ apples -- or
Dealt with witches – and
We are that dry, plain Eucharist-wafer taste on your tongue
                That paralyzing cramp between your toes
                That still-alive, still-wiggling earthworm’s six separate, butchered body parts
We stole the words from journalists’ larynx,
His statistics, his inference, his prowess
His bias came hungry and ate the bread crumbs from our hands.
The name mother-bird doesn’t carry as much weight these days.
Collectively considered and individually squandered,
                We’re the nonsense jumbled-word search in your local Sunday paper.
                And you’ll have us whether you like or not with your large coffee and bagel.

Like dried leaves fluttering
                With trembling stems
From an earthly passage, She took
The high road when Winter called
                Her back to the elements,
                       Back to the spiritual vent that yawns with souls.

In her gentleness remained memory – legacy;
                A smirk – that fun, secretive thought
                                Whispering across bloodlines.
I could never know her as well as you --
That tight, heavy knot at the back of your throat.
That dull thud of a monotone ache perched in your gut.
That knowledge that she was two in the same:
                Throwing the bread and serving it, too –
                Spreading around discipline with comfort to follow.
She was The Maker; The One –
                Now faded to brooches, to photographs, to stories.

I felt the muscles in your arm tense (As mine
did, too)
I felt the surge of tears beckon the realities of grief
                Like the smoke curling ‘round the swinging censor
I know why you ignored the Holy Man; sermonizing
                Her Life as if she were familiar.
                His discourse as bitter, acrid tastes upon breathing morning.
                His fabricated familiarity – the pinching, twitching nerve between your neck and shoulder.

Holy Man -- Bone Man –
                We could proclaim the mysteries of Faith
                But She taught us the permanence of Love.
She knew more; what she taught was
                Tangible
                Alive
Her Lesson more forgiving than any Act of Contrition.
Her Body more sustaining than any wafer of Christ.

Two side of the same blade –
The Love she taught us taught us Grief as well.
When she followed the Holy Man out – the Bone Man -
                You, Her Son –
                You knew.
You flew out like a sin to forgiveness
And staked your devotion, character, and eternal Love
                Upon her dwelling.
                                One more tangible reckoning of her attendance here;
                                One more connection that grounded her presence on this plane.

We followed Her – We followed You
Blind to your seeded bond that will never grace any words on a page
Yet drawn to the Lesson she taught
                And the Lesson you maintain.
We followed you
                Like trails in water : molecules bound and devoting the leader we call Mother.

Romantic wise man, starry-eyed traveler,
                  Quick with your heart
And words that trail a thought’s whisper
As a shadow’s lost ripples soften with journey,
The centralized passion blossoms in memory.
And the world will know that Love
To have the entire world spark ranks of leaves
In the universe that exists between Lovers.

One road examine, one pair exploring
                    With sun rays imminent,
To behold a lifetime in one bright glance,
Pregnant light in a fertile flourish of green population
Where cities stretch like lovers’ sleep
And princes’ reigns cascade from sleepy, drooping yawns.

An entire life, A flash of worlds
Experience flightily in a traveler’s sigh,
Who exhaled down cliffs and heights of Lover’s bonds,
And stared down the glare of
                                              That other universe
In the briefest clash between Lovers’ eyes.

Watch it all build then fall to bubble
like boiled water within our coffee bathtub playtime
with a gaggle of giggling girls.

Our curiosity's peak was the movement
of blankets morphing to our will --
imagination trailing tall grasses on hills and valleys.

So soft, malleable, fresh
our patterns consistent to our instant thoughts
dripping like ooze from a grand golden time table
that swirled and breathed in time with athritic joints.

To catch breath, to hold it solid in your throat
and savor that crisp existences -- what makes itself known.

Wasted, spun, absolutely gone to drizzle,
my sense of silence is the smothering white pillows
morphing to the mouths of yawning trash cans
under microscopic statues.

To tear away the azure twinkling of
the mother-bird's heart beating
and replace it with Mother Nature's pet ant-eater
dipping his wind-nose from clouds to dirt
and ******* away the green -- leaving caked matte mud brown.

Fraggled cottage stones aloof
where chaos is the juggled glory flanking dust and soot
blanketing fluorescent fauna unbeknownst to the birds.

Right-lightning scars when you shut your eyes
against the shadow of a mocking storm, and
Fraggled thoughts soar with the cottage stones.
Frequent nightingales regail of June's monsoons
that gulped the quail's acquaintance with Sir
Gawain and the Green Knight.

My sense of silence is the unvisited dirt mound perched beyond the graves.

There was a squandering ember that climbed her spinal chord
and lit the deteriorating birchwood on the peach-fuzzed tea lamps.

When those stairwells cramped and swelled with staggered liquid terraces
in the foundational pin-cushion that cradled family after family.

Woe begone chants that railed support beams moaning under elemental abuse.

A litter of ghost kittens coiling underfoot where the rug
used to yawn before the grandfather clock,
now senile and rotting with absent-minded tick-tocks.

Inside her streetcorner, the music was that
monkey hopping to street ***** blue notes on somber ropes.

The air thick with the regal, chunky vibe
of batting eyes, flirty sighs, and bourbon.

Between the buildings again...
embraced with the same warm feeling that
entrances your fingertips, lips, and ears when within a man's arms.

In this city, Love is those two birds on that same powerline
that bowed and ebbed with summer's sweet sigh.