I wonder how long ago
were the days of lonely men
waiting for the sun to sink
so they could turn on their
little beacons of hope
their godly, guiding light.
When did they start sealing
off the towers?
Perhaps the man in the
lighthouse made a mistake
maybe he too lonely one night
and decided to drink
enough whiskey to forget
about is loneliness and
his little beacon of hope.
So they replaced him
with a machine.
They don't get lonely.

As a young child and father search for *****
stare at cloud
so beautiful it can't be real.
I look out at the edge of the world
like a lone wife waiting for her sailor
to come home
stinking of sweat and brine
but feeling alright.

My mind wanders carelessly away
back to a place so enchanting
I dare not stay too long.
I should let my thoughts disappear to
the end
until all I feel is this expanse of clouds
blue and gray and white.

Today
for the first time
I felt my own mortality.
Before, I went through life
deliberately ignoring death and its couriers
absently aware but blind
to the dangers of life.

Today
I realized that life
is nothing but a quest
to escape death
neverending, never ending
until that day
when everything stops.

Before today
I never had to evaluate my life
in a split second
but today I had to remember anything and decide
(not like I had a choice)
if I was ready or not.
Twelve more inches and
who knows what I would be
saying now.

On the moon there is no oxygen.
That’s where I’d like to be.
There is no wind, no rain, nobody.

On the moon, there are colors of all shapes and sizes.
And I think I’m hallucinating, but I’m only imagining.
As I float back down, I remember what it is to feel.

I don’t like it. I remember the moon.
Purple and blue and pink. I remember the feeling: nothing.
I don’t need oxygen.

I met this guy, and I told him about the moon.
I said, is there a way, how can I stay
Up there forever?

He said, I know you. I see you a lot.
He gave me magic beans, and said see me when you’re out.
Let me know how high you flew.

The magic beans did just the trick.
The moon was just the same.
And I thought,  I don’t need oxygen, this is just fine.

Someone said I could die without oxygen.
But I thought I’d die if I never got to see the moon again.
I quaked, I cracked, I cried. But they wouldn’t let me see the moon.

Someone told me I had to stop going to the moon
Or I would die.
But I don’t need oxygen, I said. This is what I breathe now.

Wake and do
As you’ve always done
As you will always do
Forever.
Promise after promise,
Beg yourself to be clean,
But you know you’re stuck.

Wake and clean,
Wake and obey,
Wake and bake.
Wake and take
Just one or two.
Wait for the fade out
As it kicks in.

You can try to feel pristine
Live for diamorphine
Ecstasy or caffeine
Numb from the routine.
The ***** truth is that
No drug erases life
Without bringing death.

Wake and panic,
Wake and shake,
Wake and need,
Wake with pain.
You don’t want to feel again.

Pick up the bottle
Glass, plastic childproof cap.
Pick up the needle
You need to feel normal.
But you’re stuck
Somewhere in between.

Is your sky as beautiful as my sky?
Your moon
an antique blade
slicing into a cobalt belly
that was hung there just for us?

Can you see the stars appear
one by one, calling on each other
to come out and shine
for us?
Are you watching?

Can you hear them singing
their sweet song?
The wind must carry it to you.
They're asking if we want to dance
       (again)
like we did that time
when the moon was swollen
and the stars were playing
across our sky.

Did you forget
on that night
you gave me your heart?
I still hold it
as if
it will come alive.

cringing every time they hear my name
as if i am the one to fear.
legless, mindless, callow worms
but we are just children, waiting here
in this stinking wound for our day to
Fly.

when we are older we will grow wings
of intricate cellophane
and leave this festering place.
our six barbed legs to spread disease
were given instead of a heart or brain.

i happened upon a peculiar, bitter soul
she hated me, i knew, but the taste of her skin
was warm and chemical sweet and i
       couldn't resist her.
seven million times larger than i
she was a dangerous plaything.

i watched her cut my brothers down,
out of the air like a frenzied cat, a crazed look
flashing in eyes; she screamed
ad despite my lack of heart and pain
i am sad to think they will never again
Fly.

I swam in the same water
Somebody died in
I guess the same is true
for most water
(I think).
The water we drink
has been used
drip after slow drip
to drive Someone
to the brink of insanity.
no doubt.
At one point
your warm, smooth, bathwater
was choppy,
salty, grave
to more than one
unlucky
sailor, pirate or slave.
The water is the same
perhaps arranged a
different way..
Know it is the same
deep, ambient killer.
Still we swim,
and still we bathe.


This water felt, looked,
I swear I thought it was pure.
A humble lake
quietly licking the salty shores
not looking for a life to take.
We fished those waters
earlier that day
hobbling in our canoe
and barely hanging on
but smiling.
I imagine he was like that, too.
Drunk from beer and the thrill
of midnight swimming.
Nobody, not even he
saw what was coming
until the lights came on:
flickering and then
too constant
red and blue and
I can only hope
that bright, blinding white.
Drunken fools know not
what is at stake.
We were forced awake
by little sister
frantic but relieved
it was not us
at the bottom of the lake.

They visited the spot where his soul left his body.
Shot in the neck
Go get Mama
His very last words.
The blood was still there
She was told to wait in the car
Too innocent for such passionate danger.
Mother pressed her hand to the
concrete
Feeling the permanent loss of her only son.

Hundreds packed into that dull
gray church basement
So many unaware of the secrets
That died with him,
that maybe brought them there.
Murmurs of who and how and why
That distant uncle, locked away
Could it be his fault?
A little girl too young to understand
death and violence
Leaves her stuffed friend
To keep him company
Amidst the piles of Hennessy and gold.

Hundreds in procession
Leading the living to that final goodbye.
The city has a way of bringing out the worst in people.
Stone-faced grandmother,
how heavy does her heart feel?
Mother wailing as mothers do
Her worries come to life in this death
Watching as they lowered him
and his treasure
deep into the earth
A part of herself
A part of us all
Buried there.

imagine
if the mountains
were not just layers
of soil
melted
metamorphosed
rock
the remnants of
volcanic fury

but sleeping giants
the kind you only hear about
in stories written
long ago
imagine what it would be like
if the mountains stood up

ripping away from the Mother
they've known
and the people
who depend.
what of the holes
their departure would leave?

can a mountain love me
like i love him?
tightly tucked between tectonic plates
is there a heart that yearns
to feel the sun
even closer still?