Goosebumps bloomed on her limbs
like the plague
and this was a relief
she had been waiting for,
ever since her mother
put her hands on her
and turned an angel into a firestorm.

"It could be a scorching
day of summer,
but in your absence
I'm a heavy winter storm."

Death is not evil,
For it holds no ill will.

Death is a force,
It must continue for better or for worse.

Death takes no pleasure in its task,
It only performs what life must ask.

It will inevitably claim the ones for which you care,
So always cherish the time with them you share.

Death is part of the greatest cycle,
Of this there is no denial.

You may fear that death will claim all,
But the force of life will never stall nor fall.

Death must take us, no need to moan,
It must do this task all alone.

Accept the role of this mighty force,
And do not utter your foul curse.

Death is not for you to blame,
For it will not be brought to shame.

Why hate death?
It will still claim your last breath.

You are intensity
In ways that I can not speak
In days of gold that touch me, meek
You are hours that Gods keep
And rivers running into creeks

A gospel. Reserved for the cracks
That keep me weak
Shallows with the strongest currents
I can't be but keep this churning

Where was I when you were forged
And planes that meld so do not see
The rampant flames that you stoke
In coals of glittering magnitude

Apostles seek

“some say love is a burning thing. that it makes a fiery ring.”

so kiss her.
or don’t.
and always regret.
always bike home thinking.
always think of love.

she’s in a parking lot somewhere drinking cheap wine,
balancing on the bumper.
he’s on the river somewhere drinking cheap beer,
balancing boulders.

a dog sprints by and forgets all heartache.
he is happy.

the town and the people and the job and the dreams.
the nothings
and the everythings.
and the little life this is.

to slipstream years gone by.
one fire in the sky, or another in the hills
just west of town.
something said about the smoke.
we take a weekend to spool through the story of your folks.
film cans or video cassettes,
or home re-sets. rewind.

words and faces scrawled in a tome of note.
spoken little memories,
little mysteries.
stories to tell no one.
stories to tell those who will listen.

the boys with dirtbike brothers.
the brothers with drunken fathers.
the fathers with dead wives.
the wives with ancient mothers.
the mothers and their children.
and the children living well enough.
living calm, then free.
far away, then close.

an empire.
of highways and histories.
of songs and the souls they swing.
of old money/new money,
betrayal on the horizon.
blacktop jamborees and assassinations.
driveways and nicely neighborhood lit-upon lawns.
well-trimmed trees.
a never-ending tree of lovers,
grasped and gasping for the sky.
listen and wait.
for the sun to kiss the moon goodbye.

                              [a family and their dog.]

this chrysalis.
this coincidence that is us, on one good gust.
from heart to hand to sons and daughters.
synchronized to die and revive and imbibe along the ride.
a tableau of animalia.
feasting and sleeping and awoken
by the wide little world all around.

“we are fires in the night. let us bathe you in our light.”