Sunday morning.
Eating her food,
Drinking her coffee

While she sleeps in. I
Miss her through the
Door, but a

Lady is entitled to her peace.
Last night I
Think I fell

Ever so slightly deeper
In trouble when
She, with the assertiveness

Of a woman aware
Of her own
Loveability,

Ran her fingers through
My beard; taking all
The time she wanted

To whisper: *"I really,
Really like
You."

All this fear of change.
Of being shaped by
Others.

When became identity
So frail? Let me be
Myself.

What else could you
Ever be? Multitudes and  
Motion are

Inevetable. Living is
Growing. Grow
With me.  

We cannot stop this train,
But we can set its course.
Let's change together.

And with us, the world
Around us. Come into
It with me.

It is a long,
Slow
Journey.

I know parts
Of the
Way.

Remember not to leave the
Refrigerator door of
Your heart
Open.

I dreamed I was blind.
Blind, and uncomfortable
With darkness.

Fingers blistered from
Feeling if the light
Was on.

Listening for something
Between the other somethings
That combine

To create the chord Night
Strums with its claw
While singing

To itself about
Morning,
Eyesight
And other unpleasant
Illuminators.

I've always said that the older
The soul, the fewer times

The three ugly words
"What about me?"

Have been uttered from
The mouth it possesses.

I wish I could oil the gears
Of your self worth with my

Every drop of compassion,
But this sudden flash of coldness

In my gut is that of a factory
Owner worrying ever so slightly

About a new sound in old
Machinery within the bowels

Of the buried bunker where they
Manifacture my every set

Of
Sympathies.

Live like you
Do when you

Have little even
When you

Don't and you
Never will

Don't drink.
Don't smoke.
Drive slow.
Don't love.

Don't pat the animals;
One in a thousand
Might bite.
You'll be safer in a pine box.

Sometimes it's the
Cure for cancer
That kills
You.

Daedalus' words were just another
Example of reverse psychology.

There is no sun to melt the wax
Enforcing your wings.

Flight is a victory in- and of itself;  
Freedom, however brief.

Never fear to rise too high.
Those who didn't rose safely.

You would have been just fine
Without the warnings;

Only you and the Sea knowing
The escape you chased was

Within
Her.

This place scares me.*

So why do you come down here?

*To be scared.

She looks at me like
I'm not an
Angel.

I'm good with
That.
Some of us fly

Either
Or. Wingspan of good things
Or not.

Watch your steps, little
Girl. You may be far away,

But when we
Speak I hear you're

Short of breath from
Running.

I am older than you; have
So much time.

You are a firefly. I am
A tree.

Let me come
To you.

Love watching
Talent shows.

With so much talent
That might never be

Witnessed, how come I
Hear the same song on the

Radio twenty
Times a day

For
Months?

Widen the
Spotlight.

Forever was not
Or even more than
Years  

We grew
Then apart
Leaving

Me with so much
Ground
Rain

Air all
To
Myself

I walk unseen through the
Shadows of my mind's capital.

Lurking, listening. Hearing
My heart talk in its sleep.

Searching the forbidden streets
And dark city parks within me.

I have no joy; only overjoy in
Sight. Somewhere inside is an

Enemy. Someone to fight. I'm
Meeting myself in the ring tonight.

This is you and me. This is therapy.
I have shot everything else that

Moved. Now meet me man to man.
Should be a close enough fight.

Guys.
Never ask her if she'd like
A glass of water.

Water
Is good for everybody.
Any time of day.

Bring
Her water. See that she
Drinks.

Unclench your grip
Around your own
Being.

Relax your jaw.
Your shoulders,
Your

Breathing. Slow and
Deep. Let life
Inside.

Lean. Sink. Merge.
Nothing needs your
Support;

All is here for yours.
Nothing on Earth isn't
Furniture.

It was a stressless
World. Before
Man.

Such a waste
Spending as much
As a week

Waiting for something
As brief as a
Weekend

I like to remind
Myself

*This is as old as
I've ever been

A plumber at the construction
Site has had me
Laughing to myself

All day. Replying to a friendly
Nice work! with a straightened
Back, a blank face behind an agreed

Yes. Then going back at it.
Yes. As
If

Breathing.  

Obvious as


Air.

I cannot help how I feel...*
Yes, you can.

That's why they're called
Your feelings.

Trust me, I know it's not
Easy to tell your heart

Who's boss. Like all other
Things, it takes practice.

Practice, will and dicipline.
Growth; the most human of

Human movements; always
Being between.

Let your heart cry. Cry itself
Dry, then beat on.

Lighter. Stronger. Grown.
I'll never touch your face

Again, I sigh to a photo. Then
Burn it. This is dawn;

Nothing to see in the
Dark night now behind.

There will be other faces.
These are my hands.

Everything is
Giant to
Something

I think I want to get old
Alone. Learn how to grow
Strands of white in
Grey.

Deaf to a silence as
Complete as any ever. I'll
Have longs since
Unlearned

To talk. I'd like to go like
That -still in the rocking chair.
Or find myself locked in the dark
Boot of a car, with a shovel and

Every last thank you prayed;  
Hearing, from the sound of
The gravel, that I'll rest in home-
Ground soil. Both feet in leather.

A response to Joe's poem,
Young Poets Write For Me.*


I touched an old
Tree once, asking  
About its leaves.
They replied.

There once was a town in the world.
In this little town, lived a girl.
She barely could write,
But sat up all night.
Carefully carving each word.

The poem she wrote was a dream.
A thought that had grown, it'd seem.
The frailest of strands;
Words woven by hands.
Like droplets of diamond
Downstream.

The morning sun shone on the stairs.
He sat there, his face holding tears.
Her father, and all
That little girl called
Her family, burdened with fears.

She sat down beside the poor man.
Put paper inside his strong hand.
She left him to read,
As if sowing a seed.
And so, the whole healing began.

Her words had a life of their own.
Of wisdom beyond any known.
They spoke of a place
That was floating in space,
Yet it's beings were far from alone.

Why cry when there's laughter?  
Why fight when there's dance?
Why hate when there's family,
Fun and romance?

Her words were so simple, so clean.
Yet painted in colours unseen  
Through verses and lines,
And symbols and signs...
To adults, elders, infants and teens.

It took not religion, it seems.
No army, no guns or machines.
To shape this old world
To the words of a girl
With paper, a pen... and a dream.

She floated towards me.
An extention of a dream,  
The finger tip of God's
Downstretched hand.

My eyes wide open into
Bedroom darkness, as
If seeing something ghost
Yet so very, very not.

Hair flowing as if fading
Into the frame of
Night. Arms like wings over
Eggs; every piece of my

Heart in one warm nest.
Eyes like universes, skin
The glow of supernovas.
Smile as sincere as a

Mother's. Ænima. Soul-
Muse. The final force
Behind every poet's pen.
Nothing so penetratingly

Beautiful ever touched the
Iris of my inner eye. Never
Felt such embrace, as if safe
At last; knowing: In not too

Long, every drop of water on
Earth has been
Cried at least
Once.

Such a cloudless summer day
In the city.

Ice cream weather girls
Caught me winking back;  

Always looking for a smile
To kiss.

For those of care.
Of care.

Have you ever heard
An ambulance crew's

Member talk a brittle little   
Old lady into a

Young, confident
One?

You should see
Those eyes awaken

With living fire; so unlike
Those

That made us
Call.

I was put on Earth to feel.
To run my hands through dirt
And thank.

To lift; move and be
Content with the act.
To eat and grow myself into

A shield the size of
Family.

I have only come close
To taking human life.
I have never seen an unanimal birth.

A shield the shape of myself; only
A few sizes too small;  

I thank the gods I've never
Danced on TV.

That I knew how to end a
Marriage. How to lick my

Wounds with the taste of unsatisfied
Woman on my mouth;

How to take **** and
Name it fertilizer.

I've never looked a naked girl  
In the eyes and said "I don't love you."

I've never seen the inside
Of a prison
Sober.

I wish I could find it amusing to see
How an unevil man is rendered demon

By the cloaking of his good intensions
By female addiction to victimization.

I hold out my broken heart.
You scream at the sight of blood,

Squeeling: *"Murderer! I can see your red
Hands from here! Holding some poor

Thing's
Heart."

My passport says I'm 1.89
Metres tall. I carry pallet jacks
Up stairs at work.

I can bench press 130 kg
On a good day, about 30 more
Than I weigh.

I can punch through three layers
Of sheet rock, still I just
Picked up my cat

And held her a good while.
Because I needed
A hug.

Girl. If you were as close as
You could, those would not be the
Covers of your bed against you.

You'd wonder how many arms
I had; you'd ask how something
Could so hold you.

That is how close I would be.
Between your skins.
Within your withinnermost.

I would find you. I would dig
Until I found you; separate you;
Open your smile to mine.

See you seeing me seeing you as
As naked as anything without
Anything; final, final self.

That pillow; my arm. That pillow;
My other. That cover is not from
Feathers; I envelope you with

My ownership of the bed we lay
Upon, if I must. I claim what I
Crave; your rest. Rest.

I eat so much fruit
These days. I've become
Addicted.

I sometimes go outside just
To taste the fresh breeze. Summer
Is almost over;  

Soon there'll be a threat of
Snow on the air at night.
So swiftly they go, the winter-

Less months. I will wake up
In the dark. Ice crystals on my
Bedroom

Window. I can make a print
Of my palm in them every
Morning, then.

Taste pure winter. Taste
Her on my fingers. My coldest
Lover.

Waves form within a
Man alone in silence.

Wind moves old wood in
Walls. I close my everything.

The two sides I see of
All I see, meet.

What's a spark or two
Between good swords?

Sometimes I agree to dis-
Agree with either me or my-

Self; the first thought I think
Is rarely the thing I think I'll

Believe. Will this **** me?
No, it'll be with you forever.

A samurai's infant children's
Eyes begging him to reach

Down before he leaves again,
To kiss. But no. So rigid

Is my will to live; to draw from
Everything, life.

Yes, you still make sounds
From the kitchen. Some
Jingles on TV remind me

Of us. They're fewer now.
I'm beginning to feel less
Like how a place must

Feel after
Everybody has
Left.

My whole life
I've been focused
At times almost
Desperate to win

The fight
I never tried
To beat
*It

By Paula Lee and Sverre G. Holter

Today I grieve for a love gone,
No reason why, No goodbyes....
Now here I stand on the precipice,
Alone,
Confused,
Tears in my eyes,
Why?

I find I lay my hand on
My own heartside.
You did that once, I remember;
I slept so silently
You had to
Check.
Tears in my eyes.
I know why.

I would give all I own
To feel your love once more,
To hold in my hands, your gift,
The heart I have always adored
On bended knees,
Longing,
Begging!
Tears in my eyes,
Why?

I wish I could tell you why,
But The Question is my lover;
The Answer, my ex.
There's an absence the size and
Shape of a heart by your side.
I hear hands gone knocking on
Doors that never closed; the
Sound of love against
Love.

*You have left me, with no hope,
No heart to hold, no love to share,
You had my heart, so full and pure
Giving yours away to an ex, not there!
You pushed me over the edge
I lay broken at the bottom,
Tears in my eyes...
No More!

I just jumped on my
Bed for the first time
In 25
Years

I promised myself I wouldn't drink
This morning, but
Ring of Fire was playing on the
Radio as I showered.

I guess we shared some demons, J.
Well, here's to us. To how
My father played your songs
For me when only my mother's

Skin and bones were between us.
Here's to you and me, John.
How I cried when June passed, but
Drank to your joining her. To

How you boom-chika-boomed to
The taste of the ice cold beer on her
Warm lips in New Orleans
As we stopped among the piles of

Katrina rubble just to take it all in
(Including each other);
That we were there. Together.
Here's to you, John. To how Rick

Rubin was a prophet sharing your light
One last time with the humble masses
Before it went out. As it should be. As it
**** well should be. To

How my father loved you his whole life
And never got to shake your hand
(But I brought him to meet Willie,
Which was almost as intense to the old man.)

No rest for the wicked, John. So I'll
Never pray that you rest in peace.
I pray that you rock on -June at your
Side- Going to Jackson, when it's

Springtime in Alaska. Remembering
Forks wedged in the walls of San Quentin
And gritty glasses of water served.
I'm putting on my black shirt after

This drink. Then guitar, boots that could
Kick out the foot lights at the Grand Ole,
And an attitude I've adopted with honor.
Here's to us, John.

Walking the
God-
******
Line.

I guess you're still
Reading by now.

Your voice (that you try not to hear
While you're reading to

Yourself) would lull me to
Sleep if I heard it as

Closely as
You do.

If I ****** myself
Deep enough
Into your hardness-
Recieving softness, will it  
Convince me

That it's really
*You?

I love how the viking comes out
In you when you drink, but

Sometimes a woman needs
Not to be hurt

At
All."

To listen to this thunder with me.
No make-up on, wear one of my
Shirts; leave what's left of
Yesterday's mascara.
I love you more, when you don't.

I need a woman.
I want to smell yesterday on you,
Perhaps your legs should have been
Shaved, but I have an itchy back
I can run across them;

Costs you nothing but a pose.
I need a woman who says "You
Really should not go in there,
Use the sink, I'll do the dishes with
Antibac tomorrow."

I need a human. Not a Victoria's Secrets
Model; someone all blood and bones
And body who puts my hand
Under my shirt,
And says: "I know you're a poet,

So if I only give you this, you'll still
Find enough in there to keep you
Occupied with a poem about it until
******* is over, and I can give you
The rest..."

I have a friend who can clear his whole
Restaurant for us.
The fact that you'd rather be here with
Me, on this sofa, makes me wish you were
Real. I need a *woman.

I wish I was there with you,  
Watching the ocean break its green
On white Australian rock.

I wish I was there with you,
Seeing a thunder storm form,  
Knowing the only shelter we had

Was our rental car parked
On an Arizonan desert roadside,  
As we opened our bottles and prepared

For the night.
I wish that was your hand in mine,  
As we counted crows landing on

Stonehenge. That that was you
I shared a snow cave with
In the deadly sub-zeros of the Finnmark

Plains. I wish that was you with me.
Even going for walks here, under the
Northern Lights on a January night,

Both dimmed with dad's home brew and
What not, content with the fact
That we'd wish

We were there with
Each other, if with
Anyone else.

My voice and guitar echoed from
The wall of rain outside my
Window.

Wasps seek shelter like little
Refugees; pass my face and
Settle inside to

Dry little wings under roof.
I wave them only away from
My glass of wine.

All are welcome. Rain falls
Harder on the small.
Shelter and space.

Such easy
Things to
Share.  

Nothing unhuman
Could ever be a
Stranger.

I know you struggle; I've seen
Eyes like yours in
The mirror before.

Sit down. Breathe. It's a
Recreational universe
If you let it.

Open your hands. Look.
What is that? It's heavy.
Sharp. Red hot.

Hands worn, blistering,
Bleeding. Let it drop.
Here, I'll carry you.

I'll carry you like a father.
Let go of your burdens.
Be mine.

I run on your relief.
When you wake up  
We'll be there.