Poem 52

for W who will be mine in four days

It’s the earth that comes up between these weeds
and feeds the trees, please, return just as you left:
Enamored. When you break and I’m broken
the weight of this accidental continental
drift pulls me away from myself and into
tremors. Truncate all the whisper-words
That meant more than sexual tension, though exotic.
When finally we came together and forgot misfortune
I found what innocence left in me to grow as seeds
or sprout like weeds: dancing infantile about the trees.
It was you all along promising happiness from sorrow
making wax candles of my worries, dip after dip…
When the seasons come together and reminisce of this
you and I will devour the sky winking of orbs and travelers.

Poem 51

tree time in just a few days

Fingerpads and fingerprints
Rest wrinkled in weaving fibers of
This pillar.
Come away come away
Come away with me
Up up… with straining, buckling
Joints to climb.
Push up. Up.
Come up. Come up.
Come away with me.
Your hands and my hands
Will follow the same ladder up.
You will climb and I will follow.
I will follow you.
You and I and weaving protests
Groaning murmurs from this tree
You and I will ascend upon him
Come away come away.
Come away with me.

Poem 50

Some moisture on the outer most
Skin of quivering lips curls
Into the rippling petals of a chest
Left heaving in and out
To the subtle rhythm of two hands
Reaching to the others’ ear
And pulling together the pieces to
But with every inward gasp of nostrils
Comes the cowardly chill of a moment ending.
And frozen the features of one face
On another, bend and curl to mold
White teeth softly on the pink flesh
Bite the nerves to life.

Poem 49

on accidentally cutting my hand during dishes
You never know how easily
The knife breeches
But it does and the blood always comes
Filling the imperfections of fingertips
And fortune-deep palm lines.
Quickly, like the pulse of fight or flight,
But there’s no escaping your own torn skin.
Nausea. In blade, out blade.
Always startling how easy it slices
The human skin so much like butter.

Poem 48

for W a long time ago.

The flea to the elephant says:
Catch me! Catch me!
But elephants have no time for fleas
With feet like the trees
And a trunk broad and strong
With a swing of his knee
He could sent the flea on
But the flea to the elephant says:
Catch me catch me
If  you chase me I’ll run
Up from the circus and  into the sun
Yelling catch me catch me.
But the elephant frozen refuses the tease
And lays down his trunk and his ears with great ease
And says: Catch me catch me,
Catch me you say
But all I want a little flea to do is
Hop on her way

Poem 47

We built a city
Around rocks and ruins
Stone by stone
They rise they fall
But we built a city
With rot in the middle
Half broken bottles
Well wandered shoes
We built a city
Where men marched onward
Forward, downward,
Stones falling groundward.
This is where we built a city
This is where the rubble lies.


Poem 46

for her in the library, as we wait for him to come wandering by… oh the changes in a year.

Push on push on
Clouds of cotton tensing fingers
Pushing on pushing
And we are trifles to believe
That we push anything at all…
When they push the rain. We push
Our palpable novelties. No more
Push on push on
Bring the rain then
Bring the rain!
And meet our smallness with your greatness
Pushing on. Pushing on.
Pushing on pushing
Cotton clouds so innocent but burdened, so burdened
We watch them pushing on and on and on
Bring the rain, bring the rain!

Poem 45

circumstances change, of course, but at the time this was what the sea-floor of my heart resembled. 

Below the ocean
In her jewelry box of
Precious metals
Untapped, her
Impatient hands
Pull the furrows
From the floor.
A carpet rippled by
Careless child-feet;
A discarded draft,
The seafloor face wears
Ridges. And they carry me.
I trust the compass.
And he points me North.
No question, whether
I follow the needle
If I will arrive. Love
Is trusting the magnets.
Letting them pull the
Metal from my skin.
Letting them point me North.
It is North
Where my compass points.
But when this night passes on,
A parade of lifetimes from this
Moment, some heart
Will reach for this compass
And he will point her to
The under-bellied pole. 
Turned over white like an 
Expired fish. Will
She trust him then?
Will the magnets be wrong?
If the Earth’s core reads:
Will the compass falter if
He tells the truth? Are
Heartstrings mistaken
If they follow?
Be honest:
Are you still searching for North?
My soul, My hand,
My helpless compass
Wait on the ridges of the
Seafloor to shift again.
If the crust swallows them up,
Someday too far-out to grasp,
They might convince my
Compass-heart to return.
But now: the novelty; the impossibility
Of compasses that face South;
That whisper South
Define this topography.
Oh! Map me this way.
And ask your deepest
North—Darling—or South?

Poem 44

to be read slow and jeering 

Dorian, What Do You See?
There’s a box on the wall
And a man in the box
He smiles when you smile
And he talks when you talk
But you are not the man
He is the inverse of you
He is the pain and the trials,
The failure, the rot
The evil inside of you
Wringed into knots
But you are not the man,
He is the inverse of you.
He is that piercing sore,
The sore at the core of the man.
The man that would murder your lover
Would silence your doubt
Bludgeon the children
Rage RAGE throughout.
But you are not that man,
He is the inverse of you
And you keep him inside
As good Christians do
There is a box on the wall
And a man in the box
he sees all…
Or have you forgot.

Poem 43

I Killed A Spider
Scratching of chalk on board
Scribbles from my pen
Novels of the greatest
Philosophies of men.
And then…
This, tiniest of monsters,
The acuteness of life,
The pitter of his petite feet…
Fascinated I pause
And observe…
Fading of the world—away
Muted mumbles to my ears.
I watch a cell-sized being
Traverse the vastness of my page
In perfect awe…
His body teetering side to side
As I offer my finger as a vessel,
He declines.
I ponder his perspective
But I tire of his trek
Wishing to send him off anew
I slowly—
Flick him with my pen.
Oh Horror!—the round surface
The crushing Weight!
He was taken
By the colossal power of my thrust.
Dead he lingers a smear on my work…
Indifferent I return to the lecture.