We both agree that we want to keep it pure
as it used to be -- not a makeover or nostalgic
stroll, but unencumbered from what has been.
Uninhibited --
seeing our true faces anew.

When we seem to hurt each other we agree
that we only want to lift the heaviness that
weighs us down –
carefully shaping words to cut the strings

that drag the weight through the generations
so we can learn from past mistakes and not let
mutations mutate our love.
                                                           ­ 
Peace be still my love.
My peace is not here
as yet, but you have it within your reach.
Drop the weight
and grasp the lightness!

Maybe mine will come sooner if you stop
mourning my darkness and follow your own
light that has always been there--
sometimes hidden
behind the horizon--
but it has always been there.

Let it glow as it used to --
not human-formed
or reflected beams but uninhibited from what
has been. Not obscured, but seeing us anew.
          
Please see that I can see that you
have the power to be set free.
Then maybe my peace will arise within me sooner.
Then maybe my spirit and mind will heal sooner.

For those pieces you long to see put back together again,
Be the stitching which is sewn.
Let your sleeve wear your heart,
And from that sleeve
Let there be a spool fit for knitting.
In your mind, be bereft of emotion
And kindle virtue begat of logic.
Then your words may pierce like a needle Focused,
By & on all the love you know.

Ceiling with a hole:

the airco lies on the floor --


It is still buzzing.

I

At night, I search for the wrench
I lift it off my nightstand
I lie down on the workbench
the cool weight held in my hand

what I must loosen first is my knee
lull myself to a state of repose
leg is a swollen trunk of a tree
placidity the pain soon outgrows

ache that is green
ache that is ivy,
ache that is wrapping
around me
entirely.

being disarming,
the way that a friend will--
in no way harming,
I pry up one tendril,

My ache and I have just locked eyes
I turn my bolt counter-clockwise

just one half turn.
making way t’ward release,
pain is adjourned
to finally find peace


II

And in the factory,
It seems I was wound too tightly
Deemed satisfactory
Now, I relieve pressure nightly

The bolt pushes in such a way
it leaves the metal bent
Relief is not given away
but instead it is lent

pain that is sharp
pain that goes squish,
pain that is swimming
around me
like fish.

The pain in my head
a pain bright white
Will surely spread
If not done right

My head and I sob, throb, and cry together
And then I finally sever the tether

spin one full revolution,
Though I know it's unwise,
Lets in nightmare pollution
Maybe last night’s reprise



III

At night, I will always search for the reasons
Why is it that bad things happen to good people
I lie down and lament each of the seasons
If it’s about church, I’m skewered on the steeple

Now plaguing me is my dear heart
O! Please don't think me frigid
It’s how to be, if you are smart
Walls that throbbed become rigid

want that is lace
want that is divine,
want that dissipates
completely
in time

Wincing at every twinge
Heart so hollow it awards me pain
Lace is fraying at the fringe
Meteor in my orbital plane

said it flutters and feels flighty
prescribed one spin righty tighty

Then, compact are the loves I hold,
Locked in my heart airtight
No space empty or left cold
I wish you all goodnight

The tide is low and you can see most of the boat’s ladder,
slimy and green below the high tide mark,
dry and growing brittle above,
subject to sun and salt each day, no matter the weather.

The ladder is the way up, the way out
from the fishing boats that populate this pier.
No matter the undertow below,
no matter the direction.

There are other materials that might last longer
than the locust wood used to make the rungs and stringers,
materials less susceptible to the slow death
of the seaside docks,

But the wood ladder remains. When it fails,
another one will take its place,
new wood gleaming for a week or two
before turning grey,
the persistence of weather taking its toll.

But the wood has a certain feel. A realness
that resonates to these men of the sea,
a trueness to who they are, and the all too real
world they live in.

It will remain their material of choice,
a thing you can run your hand over
and feel the truth of life, that it comes
and goes, that age takes its toll,

and maintenance is everything.

The breaking of things,
disappearing meanings,
for growth, and progress,
we strive nonetheless.

What was once old,
remade to the new.
What was once treasured,
now merely a tool.

A hintings of a time that once came to be,
A sign of a future that was once yet to be.

Time passes fast.
Things are not the same.

What was state of the art,
now merely maintained.

All things are like this,
thought to give us amidst,
a splattering of pain,
a dash of suffering,
a combination of stress and disharmony.

A certain happiness,
a joy that won't be missed.
A goal that is worthy,
of all the pains that we once dissed.

We slowly grow,
chasing after things.
Yet then we realize,
said things are now slow.

Everything that's made, will be like so.
Nothing is free, nor can be maintained when old,
for our happiness and joy, that which we sow.

All things break down, even I myself too.
What was once good, may become taboo.

To maintain we strive. to be happy we work.
Not knowing when this will be our last word.
Where we see that all things that have come to be,
just like our happiness, will cease to be.

So abandon this maintenance,
of this facade and countenance,
and live a life of honesty,
of complete abundance.