the feeling when you
  s
    t
      u
        m
          ble
                 somewhere
                          you
     shouldn't, sweet-gum
                  letters
          gathered for a solitary
        rendezvous
                        then casual
              destruction
                             glimpsed from                                                                                                                    afar

everyone wants the shoes to
fit, but
    I've worn those and
                          many others in my time
and the heels always
blister

Is this all you will register as?
A change from 2132 to 2133 on my views.

I hope not.

Peace is healthy
   in moderation

Laughter is the sound of a flame
deep crimson take-out in
neat little white boxes

And fire is the flash of teeth at
the end of a sentence, speaking
with certainty as all language
fails again

Have I woken to find
myself surrounded by
such stars?

Listen up, sweater.

   take good care of my love now

         when her joy is boundless, hop around like a fool and
         revel in the excitement of each crisp little sound

                and in the cold nights lay warm beside her, whether as
                pillow or cuddlee and be the soft whisper for hands to hold
                the mooring point for beautiful dreams

                       (you are hers while I'm away because
                             I am hers no matter where I go)

            and in that rustle of fabric, that cloth to smooth skin
            do speak my name
                                 and retain all our scents when we laughed in her
                                 arms so she'll smile and close her eyes and
                                 burrow into you

listen up, sweater.
               take good care of my love now

nights like this are
born for dancing to senti-
mental music

won't you join me?

tapping out a
beat

just breathe
      and don't look away for a second

unfamiliar rooms will you say
when I've gone away?
and all the up-tempo living
will you say when I've
gone away? Ten steps
to the waterfront ten
steps to raw beauty will you
say will you stay when
I've gone away?

Inside the water
crystallized memories like glass
fall head over heels

Testify before your false god
        built of owned wood
        burnt to glowing ashes on
          pulpits like eggshells


    forgive all transgressions
  for to give
       merit to
     an inch to the game
                
                          will mean the end.

Sunrise is really going to be something
when we get around to it, you know I
miss a lot of things around this time of
year, reflection, family and friends with
one missing seat at my table won't you
come fill it sooner rather than later and
make it really something, this sunrise
once we get around to starting it up

(Who wants to know whether
     my heart is scalding still in this cold where
  lungs breathe melted snow every so
often, crystal air caught in twin glasses)

        -Who wants to uproot the
              depths I turn over, weaving
                   days into life worth living and
                cherishing people worth
                              the worry in mind-

                              [Who claims to be
                                      here like a
                                      break in the
                                      tide of grander things, forever in
                                      motion? whose
                                      persuasion stops those hands'
                                                  spinning for a single
                                                              implausible
                                                ­                    moment?]

                         Oh, it's you!

                                  well, that's alright then.

"I'm just stepping out for a bit"
           you casually mentioned
                            before a dispassionate hug
                            stole you from the warm
                            glow of your own kitchen
                          
                    and I must admit I believed you
                    where an image has remained for
                    all this time in my mind of your
                    return home

     but life continues on beneath the shadow
     left by your departure, dimmed sunlight,
     warm rain
                          and now the center ring
                          with word of the dropping
                          temperatures, the fire at
                          apartment 12D and of
                          the car that carries you
                          back to me
             wait
                                     what was that?  
a dream of mine
getting ever so
twisted up
in reality

I try to refrain but retch
And my thoughts splatter the paper

True conversation, simple as
The twig caught up in our river
Meandering along
Strips us of the shell they covet
Within layers of their own
Shining opaque splendor
A beautiful visage
That disturbs even the casual passerby

We are not the first ones.

Careless escapists frequent our haven
And their troubles vanish
As ours ooze from our pores
A vile sludge that falls and
Squelches between toes
Leaving us clean, relatively speaking

Upon our exit, we scoop up some of the stuff
And fit it back inside
Determined, the impure
Resolved, the imperfect
To sink further
Into the madness

The clock says smile and
  rush along the clock
     says we should eat heavily and
        drink until the oceans shrivel into
           our cups like death as a
               fire tide

The clock says hurry now before I
   get away from you, turn off the road and

****
             no more time.

Conformity will never birth
understanding

be true to your
self and it will
thank you

never lose your sparkle

promise me.

Skies have been cloudy for days
Great mothballs threatening liquid
Vengeance, and all the weathermen predicted
Rain. I for one anticipated a second
Flood, torrents of water so as to wash
Everything down the drain
And why not?

That would be horrifying and
Exciting in most respects
But the rain refuses to be
Dislodged from its clouds, looming
Above a waiting world to firmly assert that
It will not visit, not until the grass is a bit greener and
The flowers show their true colors

But the brittle brown grass cries out for water and the
Cracked gray flowers weep with despair
Because, of course
Water is vital, and
Everyone needs a rainbow

bring me your silence
bring
     me, full of wonder at the waterside
bring me
         a lifetime of long walks
bring me real
               freedom for two, for here
               far from worshipped lights
bring me you
                      and
please take all that I have,
all I will be in your hands

Our world cannot stand still
when early morning silence only invites
remnants of thrashing nights to play
across lashes like dewdrops, a face like rain

I have witnesses similar shadows on the
moon, just as distant and untouchable, just
as hard to swallow in the fresh air, the
blank stare of post-understanding where we
don't try anymore

Our world cannot stand still.
     It's running itself raw.

Leaves are martyrs
for a ruthless autumn

I remember when life was all about
    soft edges and incandescence

        ( subtle timbres that echo )
         (                                          )
           (                                      )

until that stillness shattered with the
      blunt force of
            thirty thousand wandering souls
                              scurrying back to safety in their
                              respective books

The mouse
Knows he can fly
(She told him so)
He straps paper wings
To his paws
And climbs the Tower
Of Mouseville
To the cheers of all his mousefriends

Standing atop the Tower
His little chest swells with pride
At the sight of the crowd
The parades, the balloons
The thousands who gathered
For him, for his flight
His dreams are becoming reality

He sniffs the wind and concludes
It smells of promise
Of adventure
Of opportunity
Drawing in every ounce of air his mouse lungs
Could hold
He bellows
"I am Mouse
And I will soar"

The crowd watches as their little mouse
Takes a flying leap from the Tower
To splatter at their feet

A hush fell over Mouseville.

If there are so many people just like
me where you are

why am I here and why
do I feel as though we're not alone
when we are?

I love you, and I'm
serious

can you say
that?

can you say
torture tonight?

In light of current world standings
The committee of the human condition
Has agreed to conduct an experiment
Each of you will be given precisely
Three hours, in which you are to find
Another
              Interpret these instructions as you will
Your time begins now

In the end, the little ones
scampering about peppers, vibrant
red and yellows and oranges disappearing
into tiny mouths, behind toddling grins with
Meme and Pepere beaming, a
beautiful sailboat in their minds' eye that
was fortunate enough to lose sight of
the shore long ago

"Sketch a picture"
He suggests
"One with birds and
Trees and soft green grass"

"Lose yourself among your creations
As they carry you from this hell-hole"
A pack of paints exchanges hands
Accompanied by a brush of dark mahogany
And nylon bristles

"Paint the most desolate places
You know"

"Bring your art to the alleys
And to the cracked walls
And to the the train tracks"

"Brighten the day of a stranger
You may never meet"

A burnished bronze coin is help up with grimy fingers
But declined with a smile
As the artist makes his way
To the wall by the stream
Where he will paint her name
In stars

We are both the good eggs
Beating hearts and loving minds
These little bits of pure joy
Light our world up from inside

And that's what keeps me going
And that's what gets me through
When each and every morning
My waking thought finds you

A tinge of lavender, high D plunging
rubber into musical veins

All the world's a stained glass window through which
we can view ourselves

This is the good time, the awareness

Won't we all dance our ways to the fireside
             when it's particularly chilly

If you want to be productive
             Place socks over your eyes
and giggle
                at your dog's beard
                         and the bitter flavors of life

Maybe we all are the pins to
         explosive ideas
  and the world will shake apart
                   once we let ourselves go

The trees and the animals
   do not understand
          why we insist on
     h~u~r~t~i~n~g
                        them so

Waking up does not
                           always
    mean opening
                   your eyes

       Sometimes seeing isn't
                        half
                            the battle

Grow up when you want to
                              

                How you'd like
          Up
Grow

                   so that when you reach the top

It's somewhere you'd like to be

And who can describe the drive
that leads teachers to teach and
dreamers to reach for their
impossibles

I'm reaching, don't
stop teaching me the impossible
never taken for granted (you've got a
heart so big)

my weakness is not that which might
seem to take eleven years or longer, I
revere you and in reverence might
falter a time or two with the noblest
of intentions

and always the pictures I've shared through
words like hugs guiding me, granting
purpose and definition to each struggle
and success, leading alongside cliffs
watched out for to the end that is the
present and the start that is a future

God help me, I cannot imagine
the newness without you, let this
bumbling wordfall, this clatter of
heart assure, soothe

for I am real as the
bones of the oak, as the
glow of a fire on
timeless sand

and just as solid and
just as warm, let me
show you

It's like a pit (a
massive gap in the thoughts that
unsettles you)

and (lest your resolve be crushed to
a fine powder suitable only for the most
tasteful framing)
saturates conversation like a
virus

but there's a problem with this
invitation, if only to

convince yourself the gap is
useful, (that it's a landmark of
sorts, a real treasure, why not
picnic next to it, make up stories
and holidays and marvel at the
obvious ingenuity of the earth in
creating such a beautiful loss)

at the end of the festival, (when the
streamers have faded and
the food lies stale, when the cars have
herded their people home for the
night and the moon reclaims
her sky from clingy weathermen)

it is still a hole, (and you might
fall in).

One slim tapered finger
Brimming with determination
Slides the plunger home
With a soft wet ripping gasp

"You may experience a slight
tingling sensation as it spreads
outward", she recalls
With moderate amusement
Written in black sharpie
On the side of a mason jar

But she had cared then
Filling the long hollow chamber
Cared as the anticipation
Held her captive
And filled her mind with lucid
Thoughts, disturbing and familiar

and this commotion makes it down
To the depths of a stone well, hidden
Inside the medicator
Where a beautiful girl
Turns her face toward the light
And curses her prison once more

You're my picardy
third, the major apex in
this slice of life

the one that brings the audience to
its feet like so many jacks from their
boxes with the pop-out love you
shine all the time

Massive hearts gently
shading our sleep, dreams of
long afternoons cooking curry in
naked freedom, rain as a tell-tale
reminder, the flowers we bloom in
this time without time

Anne learned to play piano
At the tender age of four
Swore up and down
She'd leave that town
But never seemed too sure

Around her all the fellows
Would gather and they'd dance
For hours on end, she had a way
To put them in a trance

And that slight figure wobbled on
Until it was her time
To raise the curtains
Face the lights
And play like it's a crime

Cheers to the one that
finally makes it work, the
time the door stayed wide long
enough for a fall breeze in loafers or
corduroy pants to blow down the
walls of your heart and sit you
down on his patent leather futon

the laugh that stuck around to do
battle with every grizzled teardrop in the
middle of the afternoon

the chance worth taking because all
things can be generalized, but the
best can break free

Life distilled
Before my eyes
A revelation so simple
We should have missed it
If not for the spark
That hit like a downy pillow
To the face
And compelled me to turn
Around

Whispers of the mind
Too soft for others to hear
Shouting within our heads
Birth impulses that
Once we comply
Give rise to a fantastic newness
A wholeness of self, simply
Miraculous in nature

Walk with me, then
And put this theory to practice
The secrets of your self
Yet unknown to me
Carry an allure
Poised and potent
That gets me
Through the day

Sitting always with a pen tap tap tapping
To the direction of a long, tapered finger
Restless paper shuffles, eager to be filled
With medical jargon, words that have
No place in my heart and have never
Existed there, even now failing to mix the oily
Madness with pure liquid thought

Ask your questions of me then, and
I promise to do my best to answer
Watching my thoughts become trapped by
Your pen, locked into paper prisons between
Blue lines and then signed with a practiced
Flourish of fingers, sealing my fate as surely
And unwaveringly as countless others before
I disappear under your gaze, vanish amidst the
Oil pastels that line your office
Time stops here.

I wish I had that kind of control.

at times the /
weight of this /
world drops like a /
guillotine between bits /
of rational thought and soft /
unassuming despair (the quiet /
sort that wants to skip to the end)

Up on the roof there are choices
The freedom to fall, it's a hefty decision
But a decision nonetheless and one we all must come to face
In time only the whispers will survive
Lingering in the ears of the attentive
Lost within the murmur of countless souls

But there on the roof it is simple
Life or death, hell or beauty, togetherness or solitude
All brought to light above the lights
Of dull orange, illuminate the drug deals and
Quick kisses in alleyways
(We never saw it coming)

To jump would be a mistake
But so is life at its core
Turning in upon itself in a vicious cycle
Until we are flung off, one by one
Like leaves rattling in the spokes
Of your shiny red bike

Real virtue is not found
    in our unfortunate town

        Leave me be if you cannot bring
        yourself to leave intact your moral obelisk

                                                            You are sheltered

        And I will protect my own as
        the only thing worth saving

                                                 I will shelter you

Real virtue is not found
    in our unfortunate town