christmas eve eve

the roads are worst
right as the temperature hits below freezing
one tight long sheet of ice

my head cradled sideways in the seatbelt
watching pricks of freezing rain attach to the windshield
cringing every time the wipers are released
the thin screech of exposed metal on glass
time stalls

just waiting for the precipitation to freeze
all for a snowy christmas
or to get home again
although home is more likely to be found out here
knowing i belong to a place i haven't arrived at yet

headlights reflected in the side mirrors
blinding and frustratingly persistent
i tilt my seat back and close my eyes

over and gone or settle down

prelude:
quiet, old heart
those days are long
stretched thing

settle, mind
the sharpest memories
can prick when you stir them up

verse one:
i can't say it anymore
"everything happens for a reason"
it hasn't taken me long
barely a quarter of a life
(if that)
but i can't see this making sense
even in a great scheme
the wide tapestry stretching across the sky
cannot have so many snags
all of my misplaced stitches

chorus:
sitting on that old piano bench
i came home
no need for words
looking into familiar patterns in
stained glass
casting cares like the lilies

verse two:
a long line of moments
where all i wanted was to be smaller
papers shuffled, looking busy
waiting for someone to arrive
twitching fingers
tapping nervously on coffee cups

chorus:
no worries
i came home

coda:
quiet, you
don't wait
let it out
then let it lie

portland, oregon

a chance to wear my galoshes, daily
i will let my hair get long and ragged
a closet full of dresses

i want time to go to an art gallery
pausing in the silences
before each color
closing my eyes
and drawing in the smell
of rusty people

i have green eyes, mostly
and i want time to stretch
fabrics sliding over my skin
smelling coffee and roses

laying down the knotted hardwood floors
patches of sunlight in my mind

grieving

it's the most difficult in the morning
the moment pulled taut between sleep and wakefulness
that you almost feel him next to you
instead, worn pillows and creviced mattresses

no one to set the cereal bowl out for
decades old yellowed plastic and instant coffee

how to be one
the painful freedom of being able to do--anything
hanging laundry out in 30 degree weather
as if washing and washing clears away the need to think

getting the mail more than a chore
sympathy cards and junk mail to be returned, deceased

when you're out shopping
"he never liked staying out this long"
exploring the simple joys you haven't been afforded lately
it's beautiful
to see you smile when you try on that horrid plaid jacket
you look beautiful
finding something new to do all over again

the unobtained glories of the four minute mile

dear mr. santee,
tell me,
what does half a second feel like?
like the breeze,
or less?
like the snap of the ground
giving way
under your feet
does it have that bitter taste,
that comes from being
not quite good enough?
wes,
(if i can call you that)
i think you're doing just fine,
as find as dead can be.

classroom thoughts

oh, economists!
soothsayers of the world,
this day is irretrievable

the squiggles on the stocks pages
predict
tomorrow will come

and the type
scattered on the decaying pulp of trees
reports yesterday has gone

what is today, then
historians and theologians
what is to be done?

words

I sleep with books under my pillow
words of God and man
paperbacks
novels journals volumes

sometimes they spill out in the night
tumbling down to the ground
splaying their laborious innards

and I think of what I've written there
nights when I can't sleep
or mornings clouded with dreams

how just last night
I read some poetry
and scrawled out all that was painful
all that was trivial

words that speak of loneliness

putting my own words under my head
and now I can't escape them
and I don't know where to find you

from the trees

look
there's little better
than pennsylvania in october
the edges of the leaves

i thought of that
singing
you thought i was getting emotional
setting off a chain reaction
tissues and tears
when really
it was just the coffee
and i hadn't warmed up

maybe towards the end
i was adding some beauty to the world
if even for a small instant
like the crevices
the changing edges of
autumnal leaves

maybe it was a small offering
penance for my unbelief
gratitude for life given
nothing more than i can give
although mostly
it seems like you ask much more
from the trees

when i'm home

meeting at our old haunts
i couldn't help but smile
making eye contact
(you've always had such blue eyes)
my heart started pumping at a dizzying rate
although i'd rather romanticize
what i wish we still had
even as you tell me about that other girl
i suspect
it has more to do with
the three cups of coffee
regardless
whatever my organs tell me
you feel like coming home

observations

walking past the
paint peeling on the porches
a daily decay

reading the headlines
on the paper left on the sidewalk
under the sheen of plastic
and droplets of rain

waiting for the light to change
a boy on the opposite corner
lights up
and starts strolling
straight through the don't walk sign
despite the surgeon general's warning
i like him
so bold
and so alive

candles

i'm already wishing to come back and sleep
to lose myself in my cousin's music
and eat some mints
to pound away at the piano
and to not be concerned with deadlines
to pretend like it's winter
when cocoa and mittens are the only consolation i need
a welcome disguise in layers of scarves
a day where the muscles in my back relax
and i don't feel guilty about calories
with plenty of time to read

instead i stay waiting
for a day i'd rather avoid
unable to see the grace and mystery
most likely just unwilling

maybe just a day where bad poetry goes unnoticed
and it doesn't matter if it's not perfect
if it's real

I do not want to be there all at once.

I do not want to be there all at once.
I would rather slowly assemble,
piece by piece
the way I lumber out of bed in the morning
and my fingers unfurl over a cup of coffee.
The languid opening of the newspaper
filling the day with words of foreign lands,
to put on socks, and only then shoes
tied up neatly with old laces.

I do not want to be there all at once.
No one needs my undivided attention at 7 in the morning
but maybe 9 or 10

I do not want to be there all at once.
Because being there all at once
means I've picked up all of those bits
I've left strewn behind
under trees, scribbled in the margins,
tucked in friends
and being there all at once
means someone could pick me up
and blow me away like the dandelion on the wind

when i want to make music

there's something that doesn't reach your eyes
the monster that crawled inside
and snapped in two the line from your heart to your head

what happened, what happened, what happened


too many words to read
even without alexander's library

night

when did we decide to brighten the night?
to fog up the sky
instead of letting the deep, black
envelop us
cover the lids on our eyes
to hide the fierceness
of the rotting and blinding day
smearing the clouds
with our feeble reflections of the sun
with grimy streetlights
canceling the stars
take your respite while you can
enjoy the cool pitch of the evening
let the lantern lit
steadily die
in the flattened expanse
of the bended horizon

regret

i think
i'm finally tasting
regret
it's like
slimy pizza
i left sit
for
far
too
long

i am the light of the world

i miss the sunrise
which is funny
because i've never been a frequent follower
but maybe that's the point
missing something
you've never actually had

this room smells like
bacon
every morning
and now the morning light
is filtering in
as i wait for my hair to dry
and it wouldn't be such a
bad thing after all
to stay and watch the floors
beaten down wood
shift and move
as the light crawls across
letting morning become afternoon
and realizing
with grand patience
that i couldn't stop it anyways
how beautiful
how plain am i

oddment

I knew you were afraid I'd disappear
so I've held on
keeping myself present
in old memories
clutching on to anything familiar
as the sepia crumbles all around

I haven't forgotten you
or what it felt like to knit that scarf
knowing you would wear it every day
and as the snow fell
you did

I'm left here
looking around
unable to completely let go
standing in the midst of ruins
keeping a small fire burning

You come and visit
maybe you can see my flame
but I know we shouldn't
rebuild on such a cracked foundation
but I need a place to go
why can't I find a new place to go

skin

is the smell of
onions
monsters of produce
really the only thing i
have left
a part of my skin
proof
that for an afternoon
we worked together
canning pickles and peaches

later i was covered
with a film
of chlorine
the grime of summer
an old
familiar feeling
yet in a suit
that didn't fit
mine
was lost

back home
my feet are falling
apart
skin crumbling away from
between my toes
perhaps
it's wear from travel
too much
from here
to
there
or
my body
signaling
i'm a new person
every
28 days

if i'm a new person
with
40,000 cells a minutes
gone
lost among
the places i've been
moving
leaving
living this nomadic lifestyle
with people changing
at every turn
well,
shouldn't be this hard

a symphony: three movements

I.
there are flowers
growing out of gutters
lining the rooftops
as the rain continues
the vacancy sign lit
cooks outside, smoking
waiting to go home

II.
and i am tired
and the rain is making the leaves tremble
and i ease my bones into the ground
letting the rain wash my elbows clean

III.
when i don't think
when,
the world is right

innocuous

i understand, "mere feeling is innocuous"

but

the feeling of falling when i reach the top of the hill
and decide that no, i don't need to put on the brakes

when the landscape opens it's willing arms
to my eyes trying to categorize every color

waking up without an alarm

or

seeing an expanse of stars
after life in a thickly light-polluted place
leaving my hands open as a benediction
before i fall asleep

the rush of caffeine

a well-designed home
with spaces that make me dream of a place of my own

and

handshakes

a new piece of paper

dancing to lousy music

at times, it's nice to know that "mere feeling"
is enough

And also with you

Corner seat, up front.
Probably the best seat in the house,
except for, of course, where the big guy's at.
Omnipresence sort of removes the need
for front row seats.
The power of the organ shakes straight up
from my heels to head.
I'm dressed in Sunday best.
Right there, right next to the sound,
I'm tucked behind the beast
that's roaring and drawing everyone along
in often old and faithful songs.
Lyrics of prayer wafting up to the vaulted ceilings.
I feel God everywhere
but how can I not tremble while asking,
"Lord, have mercy upon us."
Holding the hurt and misery out in front of me,
lifting the worst kind of sacrifice to the altar.
How can I express what it feels like
to be the one who gets to turn around
and tell you, "Your sins are forgiven."
Like a rushing wind, a flame.
I mean every word I say.
I understand, that this is just an hour.
A civic duty, maybe.
But I want to tell you that this,
meeting with you. Falling before God.
This. This, is what my life is about.
And I could sleep in pews,
and live off of communion bread
if it meant living in the house of God.
What's incredible,
more than music, stained glass;
is that this God, Alpha, Omega
lives in the house of me.

Alleluia. Alleluia.

Reminiscentia

Struggling to get dinner ready on time
you can't remember
how to work your oven.

But older memories
come spilling out
as I clamber about to scoop them all up.
I don't want to lose them.
The relics, the glass keepsakes
tucked and shelved all around
above the sink and dinner dishes
I want to know their stories.
An easter hen
and fair souvenirs from generations ago.

Tell me about before
walking to work
living in town with an old aunt.
Tell me about the independence
and the sunshine on the sidewalk.
Meeting your future husband.
What did you see?
Was it the crinkle around his eyes?

When you drive down Main Street
vacant and crumbling
do you think about when he walked you home from work?
Streetlight and starlight.

Living in the same house
you grew up in years ago.
Right on the township line.
The memories live in the carpet,
they breathe through the wallpaper.
Up through the heating vents
that inflated my Sunday dresses
twirling and giggling.

tired haikus

boxes and baggage
new shoes in a time of change
help me get going

sunburn on one side
days of delightful sunshine
books returned too soon

no more shared dinners
we eat seasonally here
well-salted cuisine

smudged

I didn't feel old
until
I saw the lipstick
stains on my
blue toothbrush
but even then
how much of that
is simply
a sophisticated game
of dress-up

all-knowing; all-loving; all-powerful

here I am
wearing my sweatshop clothes
crying Lord, Lord
forgive me
for my iniquities
for my late penalties
deliver me
from this world so corrupt
that I've embraced
because I love dishwashers
and a clean face
but why! and how?
could You create
a system rotted to the
roots
the children hungry
forcing down sickly sweet fruit loops
and then they tell me
that You're doing all You can
You're just missing hands
and that I understand
because I'm trying
Lord, I'm trying
and if You are love
You wouldn't let this happen
without a fight
forgive me
My Lord and my God
I'm doing what I can
use my bruises
and tomorrow
I'll be into something new
less beef
more relief
please be there too

belief

breaking down these locks
and I'm jealous of how
you just walk
right through closed doors
and I hate that
because you see me at my worst
but you're always around for my best
telling me
to look around
feel the marks of suffering
compare scars
don't be afraid
you're bringing some serious peace
to my huddled group
right in the middle of our pettiness
prying my clenched fist
apart again and again
breathing life
you invite me to inhale with you
cut the chains
I'm working on it

Not very good thoughts, but important ones nonetheless.

We didn't make it far
but at the same time
you're clearly here with now
and I can't help but wonder
as you sit in my kitchen
with another old friend
coloring eggs like we did before
after a day full of anticipation.

And maybe it was that,
along with sandal-weather
that gets right up under your skin
and that constant companion
worry about being left behind
that has me electric.

But I'm the one prancing ahead
dancing to the songs streaming
right through my ears and my rattling brain
thinking about an array of friends
both old and young and new
and well-worn like a good plaid.

It's so nice to stay outside
to breathe the openness
to consider what tomorrow will look like
to wear a belted dress
and we'll talk about God all you want
the smell of hyacinths and daffodils lingering.

one dream

i'm going to be me
I'm going to be carefree
as beautiful and as humble as a queen bee
rather unrelentingly
and as the sky parts from the red sea
the world is going to open to me
full of squid feet and possibility
from the strong and from the weak
i'm going to be free
feel the beat
singing wildly from the tree
from its roots straight to its leaves
i'm going to dance recklessly
i can see
open fields above my bruised knee
all things that are lovely
and it's so unlikely
that i can hardly breathe

lunch

she struggled with the gritty can opener;
like the one back home--bruised and battered
retching along the grated edge
the shared can of spaghettios torn open.
with coffee, the meal of starving literary types
split in half as well as could be
(even though she shouldn't have given him anything at all)
how was he to know
the sickly tomato smell felt like the John Deere clock at grandmas
the texture of tracing patterns on the olive green rug.
he didn't know that this lunchtime familiarity
processed pasta worse than a deep splinter
was a poor imitation of a life they had
if only in the whimsy of her mind

sneakers

running, running!
shoelaces trickle open
and i break free
tongues wagging behind me
hair cascading
long loose and curly
chasing, flying!

barking up the wrong tree or guardrails

on these road trips
when you're driving
i realize
we may not have had anything in common
and i can feel the greasy roots
of my hair, unwashed, unkempt

until our favorite songs come on
and i hear your laugh again
and even if you don't understand my life
the tea kettles and video games
it's okay

look at the trees
creeping up to the guardrails
look at their highest branches
spindly and vacant

the first bits of sunlight
heat the car burn my face
i don't mind
it forces me to think of books outdoors
and new places

after a long season of new people
and a chill that went deep to the bones
i can't look to you, my past for roots
and we've seen the spaces new leaves should be

look instead at the sap
the deep, sticky syrup deep within me
that feeds me
and makes me alive
the stuff of jane austen novels and acrylic paints

my glasses sit crooked on my nose
and i breathe deeply past the tension in my neck
watching the dents in the guardrail
listening to you once again but
mostly
looking for myself

things get turned around sooner or later

I don't like to think too hard about the way
Elliott Smith makes my heart pound
and the way he killed himself
more alone than the lyrics in his music
and I don't want to think
about starvation
when I live in a building with vending machines
don't make me think about what I see
when I look into your eyes
and I stop thinking about the world's problems
and how disgusted I am
that you make me think about mine
when I'd rather be pretentious and be concerned
about those dead and dying
instead of what living means when I'm with you
when I'm feeling most alive
because I'm toeing the line of sanity
because I can't hold all of these things at once
and I see bombs exploding
and limbs flying with gruesome accuracy
and all I want is to hold your hand
how are we supposed to live like this?

crocodile tears

the grasshoppers are anxious behind my eyes
and all I can think as the water drips down my back, is
"you don't love me"
"you don't love me"

"you don't love me"
and I want to chase away
to let the sunflowers sprout from my palms
crackling through my skin
to carry me towards the sky
to live deep within the earth

I can avoid your eyes
devoid of watermelon love
crisp like a Sunday

and I'll try to dispel this morning chill
that lives like the ants deep within my bones
tunneling

and I stand with the water off, immobile
as the water drips

snow moment

huge forts of snow
perfect for burrowing
to crawl inside
and wait
watching the sidewalk freeze
and the snow
fall, timidly
weaving in and out
of the streetlight

the sad beige color of unbleached linen

vacant
the gravel-pocked road stretches its
crumbled
long and winding arm
for miles.
horrible little grass tufts
covered by the dandruff of smut
lecherous barnacles
and feet.
kicking up a long line of dust
from this town to the

next.
chasing
i'm running
on this barren road
watching your bumper drive away
pulling away from this miserable place

and my ankles snap,
unable to take the weight
of dirt
clods collecting deep within my lungs
accumulated filth
a broken hitchhiker
listening to the engine pull away
watching the road decay

dinner for one

he is content sitting alone
the bustle of the restaurant
a calming reminder
that the buzz of the hive continues
long after his wings are clipped

back in the days he flew free
meals cooked by his wife of 53 years

it's been so long
that's a wistful memory
he conjures up by ordering liver and onions
despite the grimace by the young waitress
a favorite dish
reserved for Sunday nights

he sits and waits
slowly sipping his coffee
with barely trembling hands

waiting for a meal he can no longer cook
waiting for the return of a faithful companion
knowing he can only order one off the menu

danger

prying apart the sinewy ties
between my mind's fantasies
and reality

the dreams pumping a poisonous blood
into my everyday activities
sickly muscles
growing stronger and stronger

you nonchalantly feed the beast
one handful at a time

do you know what you're creating?

time well spent

I. waves
sunglasses

we walked for miles

conversation between old friends
as old as you can be
when you're sixteen

the sun slowly swallowed by the surf

watching people go by
envying suntanned bodies
and hands held tight


II. sand
sunglasses

wondering about a future
admiring spacious balconies
families

small creatures
burrowed deep in the sand
broken shells from the past

sketching hearts and initials
recklessly sharing in the moment
hide tide erasing all confessions


III. we would walk
we would hold hands
and share
on the beach
in our sunglasses

on aging and happiness (in a swimming pool)

it's nice to know
that as we age
this anxiety will fall away
our terseness will push us over

(we can momentarily watch this from the lifeguard's chair, at the neighborhood pool in the heat of summer, wilted vines crawling up the chain-link fences)

men and women toppling off the diving boards
bodies, frame by frame, aging into wrinkled shells
falling into one elegant splash
creating ripples of happiness
that casually push the group along
swimmers slowly liberated from the congestion of acquaintances
faithful companions doggy paddle side by side
long strokes towards the shallow end
and the stairs to climb up and out
shamelessly displaying aged bodies
sagely glancing back at the deep end
the youthful thrill of not being able to touch the bottom
replaced by the confidence
of feet on the ground.

zip code

he crept out onto the roof
to feel the crunch of snow on his boots
and to feel the burn
run up the inside of his thighs
to wait and think
before morning whisked away the brilliance of the moon
and thousands of evening stars

looking over the emptiness
that comes with rural living
lives marked by mailboxes
miles and miles apart

he knew she was out there
pausing in her driveway
neck tilted up to examine the stars
if only he knew what she was thinking
if only he knew she was thinking of him

instead he had his own thoughts
haunted by science
things dreamers shouldn't think about
the enormous shifting plates underneath him
slowing dragging his world out to sea