I

I sing songs

The voice of God trembling in my belly

The songs were always for you

So much love in these hands

I could hold anything like it were a baby

Even you

I can hold you like a baby

Teary eyed and trembling

Gaze down upon you like the moonlight

Kisses the trees

I can kiss you

While you sleep

Give you chills like gentle insect feet

Make you moan like a memory

I

Have veins pumping so much blood

Into my heart

My heart is so big

It breaks my rib cage sometimes

And despite the pain

I can still hug you like a bear

Groan at the weight of my arms

I used to sing songs

About how my father never loved me

And how my mother never loved me

And now

I sing songs

About how much I love you

And

Don’t get me wrong

Sometimes smoke still billows from my throat

And I choke on the love songs

Sometimes I cough up feathers from

The birds

Beating tornadoes in my chest

And I drown

From the beer that I drink

Before I write these songs

And before I text these songs

Blowin up your phone

I wake up some days

Heart strings still pluckin’ away

Fingerpick still diggin’ into my skin

And sometimes

Because I got words

And maybe some paper

I just sing

We are the kinds of people
who love first
     (maybe against mountains
     landscapes
     mountainscapes)
fingerpick cherries
cherrypick at dawn
paint birds and blues and telephones.

Live in E
die in B
sleep in space.

Write of main characters
     (but dream of antagonists
     on planes
     or fields further upstate).

Frame flowers before they have the chance
     to wilt
stuff clothes into backpacks
sing along with church choirs
     from the alleyway next door.

Imagine biography covers and post-war memorials
look at poetry like a lampshade
leave for fear of holding on
return in hopes of holding
     (set sail for north woods
     carry weight like hurricanes
     steal moments for beggars
     retreat as quickly as god)
stride past roads with cameras.

Stencil where we should sketch
finish with a flourish
lay by waterfronts
lie by stormfronts
take breaths like in movies.

Need like children
dream of signs
     (road signs
     shop signs
     celestial signs
     all are the same, all are the same)
climb heights to speak of majesty
climb down to think of it.

Witness each other's faces like
     smatterings of people in cars.

Arrange alphabetically
depart dramatically
realize with horror
     but abolish without difficulty
watch things fall apart
mix up the pieces
work without ethic.

     (Things we get wrong we
     right but things we get
     right are already wrong.)

Wind up in books we've never read.

Change chords and regret the knowing
     that we can never not know last.

They fingerpick on the guitar
while I toe pick on the ice;
my equipment doesn't fit as well
as each note in each composition they write.
After building brick walls in front of the net
their slapbass slapshots destroy my defenses
until their goals plague my crease.

While trying to set focus on my own game
loud cheering emits from various venues
for Mozart writing his first symphony at 6
Orson Welles directing Citizen Kane at 25
Johnny Depp originating that last line at 31
and Patrick Mahomes, whom I'm older than.

Competition is healthy, functional
until the unstable heat of boiling envy
releases the steam of resentment
building pressure in the machinery
until the screws pop out like marbles
knocking each other out of bounds.

Daftly defining ego as the self
and success as superiority
and achievement as relative,
I race against relatives;
each pace they gain
is a slap in the face in the rain
stinging while slipping while
blaming the elements
precipitating my demise.

Gripping graphite too tightly
vulcanized rubber goes wide
shattering through plexiglass
and into the rib cage
of an innocent bystander
dropping his concessions
to climb the stairs to the sky box
while I wait for repairs to be made.

Any evening during the last ten days of October
On a clear night from a porch chair
Face the East , swear upon the lair of the-
long departed and the forgotten
Beg for the ministry of the Delta Ghost
The Twelve Tones , the demonic host
Break the seal on a bottle of scotch
Pour a quarter cup into a white coffee -
cup
Add a half dollar piece , a steak knife , a -
metal fingerpick
Cover the offering with a handkerchief
Turn out the light
Search the heavens with all your might
Let the concoction be , may the sound of -
the thrush , whippoorwill or cicada alert thee ..
Remove the linen covering the ' chalice '
Dip your pick whilst the light remains dim
Play on a whim
Play in the light
Play on any dark and dreary night ...