The In-Between
Miles of dust and sun
40 needful years of turning on a bitter lathe
Yet only my children will know why
and will their children's children remember?
will any legacy be left written upon hills of sand?
will there be no wind, no moon, no fear?

No

Well…

Maybe

In a way I am begotten of those stiff-necked nomads
In a way, my feet still burn and suffer the lessons learned

But I have my own desert stretching my toes
But I have seen a promised land filled with giants
and I have sided with the ten
and I have labeled the two - nutbrained

But slow your fear shea… slow your darting eyes and consider…

I live
I don't have to but I live
I live now
At least for now… but
For what?
Must I live for something?
I might live for nothing important
but that is not the same as nothing
and important is a thing to consider
while this wind carries pain into your face

But I do not lie down
to let dunes shift over me
For this fact if none other
I perceive a reason
A something
More even - a Presence
Concepts in the human mind are like these flowing hills - changing
I have not pushed
this far
for the sake of a concept
I know I have not because - becuase - it is not even in my power to do so
you are looking at a turtle on a fencepost - do the math

So return behind the How
Let the weight of the What
and the wonder of the Where
Conclude
with the obvious Why
There is only one
and it is a Who

So tell me while my ears are open
Play Solomon for my blistered and bewildered heart
must I chase wind
or worse… turn heel and flee the wind
all the way back to Egypt
Can these ashes in my mouth be
swallowed or spit
while I yet live - yet journey

was the maker lonely
up to the time the maker made?
or merely curious
to discover what a fabricated will
would do or say

maybe the maker has always been making
universe after universe
each divided by plastic orange fences
each using a new ingredient or spice
in the recipe for free will
each seeing a different hue
when light reflects through sky
some perhaps with no light at all
no heat
no change
what will a will do when
there is nothing to break free of?

What do you think of at the word soul?
what is a waterline traced
by a child's fingertip?
what do you see of a cloud
after it has spilled out over the hill?
what is that sound in your ears
a moment before thunder?
that sound of that moment of anticipation
of the wake of a cracked sky?
what is the name of the fear
that floods you when
your heart skips
or stops

What is the soul
is it that which says I and me?
or a silent witness
you occasionally think
to invite over for tea
once the
  dusting
     and the sweeping
        is done

Leaves dim against the sky
Focus makes a shift into blue
That moment arrives
and I treasure it
plunge my fingers into it
And even as I wrap my body around it
it is leaving me…
don’t go…
goodbye

Another comes playful on its heels
but I have a fork in my mouth
so it wanders into a corner
to console the dust left there

One of its friends stops by
(it has many friends)
I consider more will be about later
so I remain unmoved
– unmomented

All used cups – 99 cents
and there is one well-used
A bit delicate
A sharp lip
The floral design fading into china white
She drank her coffee black
I conclude with a tipping look
or perhaps a single sugar cube but certainly
this cup lived its life favorited

It has rested beside many morning papers
and accompanied many fresh tea-biscuits
here it is - sad - lonely
its friends saucer and spoon lost
at the bottom of a box in back

All these other stranger cups surrounding
most haven’t a clue how to be a favorite cup
You must meet her lips just so
for what you contain is both
a delight and dangerous

You must shape into her hands lovingly on cold mornings
and balance perfectly from her aging fingers
when her mind is engaged elsewhere
Your morning greetings should be bright and hopeful
reminding her daily of all she is likely to forget
- There is beauty in the world to savor today
- There is goodness in every drop of life
- There is truth to be stirred by even now

It is not an easy thing to be a favorite cup
you must endure many more scrubbings
than the visitors cups
and the thoughtful-gift cups
the ones which say “Worlds Greatest Grandma”
the ones loved but unused
You are far more likely to be dropped and chipped
so you must be stronger than the rest
and more than any other dish in the cupboard
you become part of who she is
until the day she dies
and when
she does
the plates and bowls and holiday mugs
will always find a new home
you never will

in my revenge daydream
You write an essay to the teacher about how wrong it is to be wrong and how doubly wrong it is to wrong someone like me and for your third point you challenge Buddha to be more enlightened than you are since you learned you were wrong

in my revenge daydream
You have crumpled to your knees on the far edge of the field you were fleeing across to be free of the look in my eyes - there is grass in your hair and a growing pool of mud beneath your eyes

in my revenge daydream
I had a fist cocked and a boot in tow just so I could hurt you and oh how I wanted to until a far away scream caused us both to be the same

I was appearing
On a back porch in front of the world
I didn't have a song to sing
I didn't have a title a degree
An office an oracle

I did have a handbag
Full of failures
Of misunderstandings
Of hopes from love

I stood unsure of myself in the yellow spotlight
And I asked my first question

I am not the first to have asked it
-standing in front of the world-
And it wasn't even my first time
I asked it

Indeed the words laid
Out in front of me
Like a worn dirt trail across the campus green
Like an obvious horizon

The horizon is somewhat different when
You expect the world is flat
Destinations are no longer a fuzzy objective
But a vast emptiness
Which the bravest turn from

Its no wonder under this plastic light
That clarity and compassionate
collusion against the fall
Appear in fact to be waiting patiently
For no one to arrive

Some no longer ask the question
And that alone neatly divides us
Much more than our varied answers

With that line drawn I stand
Stand over here
On my knees unsure of the answer
But unwilling to stop asking…
A blind man swinging against darkness

it’s a new morning
I sit in the new chair
wrapped in the old red blanket
listening to new jazz
touching new words to paper
pushing old thoughts out into
the new light of day

darkness is receding – fleeing
that is why I like this time
because it is as if light
is coming after the darkness
with a f**king frying pan
in its hand
and darkness is running like hell

it is a new morning
and if I keep watch in it
there will be new moments
for me to live