An apple lying two small divots
from the base of a tree,
I inherit inertia.
The son of a son of a son of a son of a farmer -
harvest, market,
settle up, rest.
Success is an even account.
Await the herald of spring.
Repeat.

In youth
I ran to knowledge
like a sponge at a spill.
Everything I wanted
was in the course
not at the goal.

After thirteen years of
trying to make Her happy,
my cup was long past empty.
A vacuum ******* in dregs
discarded on a back room floor.

After twenty years of
trying to make Him happy,
I float on a buoyancy
that stymies the sunrise
by flirting with sunset.

Now past greenhorn salad days,
a compass flutters.
The poles deconstructed,
magnets refute desire.

Comrades say their differences
make them Beautiful.
I am Beautiful because I survived.
If I am different,
that requires an entirely new stanza.

I rest this pole on my shoulder.
Tied in an orange bandana :
an apple, a sponge,
a compass,
a vacuum, a jar of buoyant air.
I am Weary Willie
setting course
on open path.

PART I

Mythical creatures
White-tufted
Branch-antlered or unicorn-horned
Drove back the guilt-fortress

A clearing of Open
Forbade my translucent
Excuse

Where we might have
Pointed
And Counter-Pointed
Government sycophants
Or social-discoursed
Impending collapse

Instead I pointed out this silhouette
Finger-tracing curves
And feathered jags of edge

Reading glasses emphasized my Now
With Immediacy

And somewhere at the root
Tightly packed cells of potential
Honesty
Sealed by long-intended Inertia
Stirred
Vibrated
Demanded

You, with a watchful patience
Circus-intrigued



PART II

At close, the clock struck
A gong of True

You returned
To
Your Wife

I venture
Back on the path
Of routine
Groping a functional Reset
Possessed of magic/potential
Or a vintage matchstick
For the dread-moment
When the fuse of Annihilate
Presents like a slate
Wiped clean

I carry only a solace
Potentiated by the grace
Of your listen
The healing salve
Coating the grit
Of my Askew

Leading
With time
To opalescence

From the deepest barrel
of molded blue hurt,
a kernel rests.

Faith-based yearning
my only thread.
Pray...
tether me,
upend me.

Open Love like a dissection.
Tease out hormonal misdirection.
Transmit static potential.
Germinate the dormant
to something feathered.
Buoyant.

Nicotine jangled nerves
reset to a normal rhythm.

Grass dew
cools my toes
as gravel sharp earth
returns a reality.

Futility of
turning to you
dispels any rumor.

Old habits.

The years turned into damp
Mossy bricks
Stacked in the humus of a dark corner
Too recent to be light
Too ancient to be dispensed
No bricklayer hands ever near.

I am too small
Too weak, too thin, too white
Too tall, too smooth, too angular
Too effeminate, too self-concerned, too defensive
Too loud, too smart, too bald,
Too soft, too hard, too plastic.

These slow healing wounds
These beautiful scars
Talismen of the Fear
Jeweled remnants suturing
Experiences. Wisdom. Gratitude.
Epiphytic reminders of Compromise
Become new design elements of a beautiful landscape
Where acceptance is Embraced and Transmogrified.

And in this place
The dry husk-formed shell
Relents under claw-like attack
Releasing the ripe sweet nectar
Whose wait was alchemic
Whose time has come
This succulent fruit
Will deliver the LifeForce which brings
End
To Debauchery of Hope.

And so…
You are my Experiment.
Will I be able to stand *****
On this platform rising from shadow
Will I look you in the eye
And when I do
Will you see my true Heart
Resting in the Lotus of my Hands.
Rising. Aloft.
And Beaming.

I’m in the bathroom
Scrubbing out a small white plastic trash can
Scratched on the outside
Yellowed on the inside
We’ve both been in this house
For 28 years.

Ani DiFranco is singing
F*ck You and your untouchable face
And I’m thinking about how often
I’ve sung along in frustration and kinship
Me and my uncanny skill
Of making things appear
As I think I wish them to be.

I’ve thought so often
That he held himself tauntingly close
But folded arms
Closed eyes
And I, ungrateful wretch
Unmitigated gall, all that.

Conjuring the warmth of his palm
To the tremble in my fingertips
Who was hostage?
Who was negotiator?

Rinsing the last suds from the bottom
I think that sallow dour aged yellow
Is comfort.
Is a sunrise.