The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.

I remember the slamming screen doors,
the rattle of the stained glass monster,
and the drafty shadowed nights beneath chenille bedspreads.
 
I remember the sun soaked cloak room with its reek of wet woolen mittens,
the un-impeded flight down stairs in tomato basket bobsleds,
and the bouncing at the bottom in a frenzy of strawberry carpet burns.

I remember church bingo basements smoky on Friday nights,
Saturday morning sounds from her kitchen,
and a mile of sulfur dusted sidewalk in between.
 
I remember the damp musty smell of the low lit basement,
the passing of Black Label beer through semi-circle windows,
and the nauseating hangover from Mogen David wine kept in the cellar.
 
I remember hearing how they kicked in the door while she slept and beat her
and took her things, her rings, the gifts from my grandfather,
and how she stubbornly refused to leave the home my mother was born in.

A half century book ended on one end by the great depression,
which she survived,
on the other end the kicked in door
which she did not.
 
I remember my mother’s wavering voice when she told me she was dead,
how Uncle Ed found her sitting in her chair, rosary beads wrapped
around arthritic hands.
 
I remember hot on the left and cold on the right,
the smell of her sweat,
the breeze off the lake,
the creak of the old steam radiator,
and the way she slept in her chair with her mouth wide-open.
 
The way Uncle Ed found her.

There are days when the sun
speaks through windows
speaks through anchors,
cast through windows,
of light. Soft, elegant,
swirling entities,
to claim your picture frames,
to claim your clothes,
to claim your keys,
your shoes, your change, your favorite chair, your favorite cup,
stagnant dregs of your spit
on the rim.

Yeah, there are some days when I wake up
and your smell on the sheets
burns my nose,
creeps into my eyes,
razor wire finger tips
split my pupils, wide.

There are some mornings when the hard
lasts longer than the time
I’ve got to give,
and there are others
when I’ve got the world to explode,
yet no one to show.

And there are nights when I dig
deep into those same sheets,
and I look,
for you, for me, for that smell, for us,
the smells of us,
those that set us free, and full,
from hunger, thirst, lust, death,
life.

There are nights when I stare outside,
the porch light brimming with beetles
and moths and gnats and flies and sometimes
the occasional *****.
Some days are just like that, I guess.
The T.V. hasn’t been turned on
since you left.
but a lot of other things have.

MOURNINGS


It is always like this:
waking to a sunless
morning, to a silence
pervading
except for the whir
of the fan nearby.

The pen will lie untouched
on the bedside table,
for I had tried forcing
out words
only to stain the page
with lines, shallow

unfelt,

for I do not know
how to feel.

Or so you said
in the night,
while darkness bled
through my window--

and the text message
that just came in
will remain
unopened,
while your voice instead

eats away slowly
at my brain,
echoing:

yes, i am  insensitive,
self-centered, i’ll give
you that,

anything you want.
Yes, i am
mourning dreams
tasting your words
of salt water
on my tongue.

It is always like this.