Come Through

you feel it the way we want and are

heavy on the branches with snow

falling through the glass cold seeps

in an invisible river flows over

you collected as condensate

concentrated whether looking out or

turning in white robes the trees as

monks fold themselves down to one

vast with Winter we whisper visibly

moved and you huddled this side

with us behind falling sensate

where blocks of feet slow

standing at first with bowed heads

hands gathered fingers as if in prayer

deep in thought perhaps machines hum

hidden ushers guide the idea of heat

channels flow along the past

corridors a temperate season water

unhinged from the loss by degrees

remains fluid as in our bodies

chilled and slow white above by 

inference the furnace churns

turning bends of dark directions

by motion from first thought

of color to how it is free to gaze

outward for more less survival

to what we wanted of you all along

the window you feel it come through

-

Quiet Way

I think there's a quiet way
I want it, some exchange
I don't trust the current day to extend.
Not pretend to be getting fed
but alive instead as long as I need --
to be freed of death
as long as I breathe.


-

Galapagos

Do you know

how slow

I want to go?

Like grass grows.

I want to know

how old goes

like Galapagos.

Good Morning Fire, Your Honor

The fire is stoked and hot
with limbs shortened and split
not choked as tempers tilt
catching at guilt and shorn
with limiting ability but free.
All I did was feed it and breathe.
No ire needed; not much smoke.


-

Timed Flight

I flew off
one day like a bird
was there
and then was not.

I have seasons
of being somewhere
that end.

I have to get
to the edge
look down in fear
and shake

Go over my head
go back
go for a deal
go over the side.

I feel like falling
is taking me away
until I stop
looking back.

I hate goodbye.
I love the air
rushing by.


-

The Sky is Mostly Cloudy, But the Sun Has Found A Hole

Some gin goes undrunk
Remains hidden long after
Eleven fingers have ceased
And Death has come and gone

Undrunk fire capped safe
Lay under wool and pine
For lips all day to part
And tips as light as day


-

The Back Room

On top of the woodstove,
the crust around the spout
of the black cast iron pot
feels like Winter to me.

The blue couch loves dark motion
and moons around the round
braided rug in short barks
all night.

Spinning in the air with
the sharp bite of woodsmoke
tiny rainbows arc
and dance with the sun.


-

June, Dead

I died on a ventilator, but the good news
is instant access to freedom unrelated
to excited visionaries, young lions,
zealots, wanted pass-times or having
a home. Listening to music (Killing
Joke) my morbid curiosity at the
ordinary neighbor's names and things
(art studios, beatboxes, catwalks, dressage)
caused extreme reaction in
underaged boys (runaway inflation),
whose steep grades and total domination
at this unbraided hour draws June's
demise to a quiet close desperation.


-

fragment

unhinged at spider's edge, the wall
valenced at the sky, the shadow
world ignited at dawn long before
Xerxes and Ramses and Darius
yearned nightly to be the sky formed
zealots they knew they should be


-

Why are you afraid?

Because there are scary monsters all over the place.

Because you really aren't good enough.

Because you are going to die.

Because none of it means anything.

Because you are weak.

Because you can't control anything.

Because everything controls you.

Because your god is angry and allows
                                                        weak
                                                                mean
                                                                        men
                                                          to be his

                                                             mouthpiece.

Because your god is a false god who can offer you no protection.

Because if there is a hell you are going to it.

Because your evil thoughts come from you.

Because you can't blame anything on anyone else.

Because everyone lies to you.

Because you can't stop lying.

Because you don't know what the truth is.

Because you cannot know what the truth is.

Because the truth makes you totally insignificant.

Because everything really is out to get you.

Because you don't ever know what's going on.

Because everything is always changing.

Because everything you love that is alive is going to die.

Because you can't do anything about that.

Because you are nothing but a bundle of fear.

-

Sport, Maybe Tennis

If
you
find yourself
at one end
rather than
at the other.

You could say it was just

that easy to read minds

and you would be right.

If

at the one

hand in nightmares

with shades drawn

the first craft would not be

left out of the rain for long.

Life

takes

alone from

your genes for

emotional support.


-

All There Is To Me

I might write a poem a day,
usually many at a time
and then a few a week.
I always think I should
put them up here
or send them off,
then I don't.
I still might,
but it's really not very important.
Life just streams on
with the butterflies
and the Summer breeze.
Sometimes I write stuff about it,
but what portion matters?
The part where life is streaming by is all there is.
I write or I do not.
I work or I do not.
My life is my love
is all there is to me,
and I can see the day
when it is not here
but the bees and the flowers
still nod with it.
I've never been here nor there.
There is no mark I can make that will last.
Summer is right now
whether I notice it or not,
make a note about it or not.
One thing may seem
better than another.
One way might.
I don't wish for any other life.


-