Process

I left the windows rolled down

for days to see if you would notice,

and the only word you said was hold

me, I wasn't there though.

The roof of my mouth is shallow

and numb from chewing on ice

all evening: the air conditioner

broke long after you collapsed

onto my bed, which is most likely

a sign that you should have been

living without fear of the heat,

limb-broken attachment,

or slim beads of crystalline regret,

which I touched with one finger.

Our dreams enclose us these days,

all of us, even the ones who

thought they were loved by you.

In truth, we've all got a lot more

growing up to do.

Hometown

Welcome back, have your chair back,

there's too much to tell us about,

did you meet your new, slim-bodied family?

was the northern sky painted gold?

were there presents on your bed?

do they roll your socks for a nickle?

have they seen your new mind?

do the chairs lean back when you're tired?

does the airport have a place where you can watch planes?

where oh where have you put your record player?

is it bright in the morning?

do you spend your nights in the arctic tundra?

does your breath form wisp circles?

has the new year bullied you yet to tears?

have you stepped all over it with your elegant toes?

what sort of cereal do you dream of buying?

does anyone ever sleep completely alone?

or is there always a sort of confession coming along?

We've missed you so,

nothing much has changed here,

except our skulls are burning with questions

and the calendar has been completely crossed out.

Truthful

What ever happened to my

transparency, your cunning,

these thick, howling nights

dancing on our noses?

Your face is out of reach.

My face is in the Pacific.

Your face is out of reach.

My face is in the Antarctic,

stinging molecules forcing

an eclectic smile to triumph

over my frail cheekbones.

What ever happened to the

rhythmic breathing of friends?

Casual intervals subtle in side-

street lights, hovering in our

own chest caverns, unaware

of the warm, ever-moving

force of beauty in turmoil;

what ever happened to that,

and the comfort that brought?

Now we are more aware than flies.

Or, at least I am, articulating my

inverted sense of faithfulness to

the warm, taunting winds.

To suck in my breath and just say it

aloud could take months of closed lips,

but to meet your gaze and mean it

would take decades more of stoicism.

Far Away Gone

"My weariness amazes me,
I'm branded on my feet, I have no one to meet."
-Bob Dylan

A series of enigmatic classes
were re-birthed today,
but the sun is now closed
as my mouth was fixed,
though I had the world to say.

I shuffle around with glasses,
ones that aren't exactly mine,
yet I see the worn faces
put on their heroic fronts,
knowing there's not enough time.

Watch how they make passes
at all the girls far away gone,
stepping off the marble
with no proof of a medal,
and still how they stumble on.

The World's Looking For You

The young autumn bird's singing his song for you,

bringing the color to the leaves

and turning the grass to brown.

He'll be alone for a while,

but don't let it bring you down.

He'll shake the frost off his wings

and sail above the shimmering town.

All those who would look like you

if they were given the chance,

they're standing in the parking lot.

Peering into the foggy windows,

they try too hard not to get caught.

You can hear them stumbling,

wearing the scarf you once bought.

I hear the President's been asking for you,

he'll try to fix all our problems

and ship you off to Spain.

But I've been trying to reach him,

even he doesn't know who to blame.

Now the Spanish Sun beats down

on the American Rain.

There's a handsome stranger at the door for you,

he's got dollar bills in his shoes

and big ideas in his pockets.

A puzzled look on his face,

he asks to see the picture in your locket.

You bury it in your dress,

and he laughs and says "Oh, come off it."

The blind judge would like to see you,

he's got a few dozen complaints,

everyone of them covered in perfume.

He says that he'll let you off easy

with a reminiscent gloom.

The candles outside are burning

a path to your brand new room.

And I was there waiting for you,

with lilies in my bony hands

and a constellation chart.

You came up and went right through me,

a reflection of your own heart.

I won't have to be looking for you,

since we'll never be apart.

The Parable Of Being

In the sweltering sunlight of late summer, a young girl sat lonesome on a rock, watching an anthill closely with her chin resting on her knee.

A young boy came tripping past, and she looked up at him most hopefully:

"Can we be ants?"

The boy, out of his natural shyness, looked at her for only a moment before bolting into the woods.

Many summers later, a young woman sits again, though this time on a bench swing, peering into the murky pool of the pond resting ahead of her.

A young man, his face grown gaunt and determined, comes strolling by.

"Can we be ducks?"

With an involuntary smile, he nods his head and says "Of course we can."

It is some summer too far in the future to see. A woman sits quietly on the edge of the cliffside, overlooking miles of crystal waters and soft, yellow lights from the city below.

He comes back.

"Can we be?"

He runs his fingers through his hair.

The Most Fortunate Mornings Are The Quiet Ones

The room

is empty,

as it will

be again

soon,

while in my hands

I hold

the bitter coffee

that tastes like

being lucky

to be able

to say

good-bye.

Facing The Shore

You'd be quick to call me a fool,

with some evidence, I suppose.

But only my second skin knows;

that's not the one you've seen at school.

Get over not knowing everything:

the captain feels his way back to shore.

He'll wind up where he stood before,

holding her hand on their cliff-top wedding.

And if you could only understand,

I'd tell you without a single word;

I'd show you in color blurred,

and a delicate motion of my hand.

The Dream Reverser

I've woken from several dreams

in the past few minutes,

each one with more clarity

and righteous cause than this

diluted day, shh it's not over

yet.

In one there were elevators

that sped sideways; another,

trapped elephants chasing

each other for eternity;

Soaked ankle bracelets

drawing the vulnerable eye;

a band of boys with too much

in common and they are worse off,

too much to share with a glance;

Miles of tents with smoke rising

out of their skylight roofs;

Not to mention the last

morning sky of summer,

quiet and motionless

and what everyone had built

it up to be.

And in each one there was you,

with your hair streaming

like auburn rays across

the mint morning fields,

with the anger obliterating

look that reverses months, asking:

"My dear, what ever is the matter?"

Before You Go

I want to see you,

and maybe free you

from the waterfalls in your eyes.

I could become your final memory

before you take off into open skies.

I want to hold you,

Girl have I told you

your body's surrounded by light?

I'd sneak around in the blistering cold

to melt with you every night.

I want to toss you,

don't want to cross you,

on the battleground of my bed.

'Cause I don't think I'll have such a loss

as losing you to someone else instead.

I'm ready to kiss you,

I'm ready to miss you,

in spite of all that you've done.

But we've absolved all of this,

and look how far we've come.

Today Is The Next Week

Write me a poem and rock me to sleep,

softly

Stroking my hair while our history

weeps.

I won't be the one to write to you yet,

at least

Until I cast out the reaper of

regret.

We know that next week is covered in fog,

and

This night serves an illogical

cog,

Fitting into no machine known to man.

well,

We do what we emotionally

can.

I won't yet ring the bells for celebration,

but

Fireworks will illuminate our

reunification.

The Breaking Point Of Humans

No one knows when this ends,

There are no seismographs, egg timers, stethoscopes.

We lost all our best friends

Somewhere back in the quakes, the dreams, the hopes.

Clarity of Vision

You made it this far, put on a good show,

through the thick brambles and lotus;

though it would have helped you to know

that you were too busy watching her to notice

that all the trees were in perfect rows.

Now let's see if you can swim:

a shriveling pool of desire;

a luminescent fountain;

a lake of fire–

whatever the hell you feel like bathing in.

From The Dew

My feathered breathing in my pillow

echoes like a burrowed owl,

while the crickets compose love songs

to the coyote's wounded growl.

The heralding stars shower down wishes

to spark the luminous coals,

which glow with a kind of sincerity

I wish the world would know.

Dew falls thicker than rain,

chasing from backs of eyes to brain,

and dripping down to anchor my feet.

The morning songbirds have been overturned

by the affair between motors and boys;

the bark on the trees is splintering

to ribbons from the endless noise.

Each path escapes back to our tent:

the wilderness map has no key.

The bloodless family sits rooted to wood,

sharing news-bits emotionlessly.

How could nature's grace

go to such a waste;

to passion may the North sometime meet!

The fruitless bugs rise tonight

to impale us with their blood-lust greed;

our resilient skin shines bronze so that we

may go wherever the river leads.

Twin fluorescent towers hum

and keep faithful watch over me,

thundering out the deer lodge ghosts

and mermaids from the cerebral sea.

Our blotched skin has been torn,

all our rain-covers worn,

and yet we still do not falter.

The words to add color to now

seem mined from lungs oiled and sprayed;

or otherwise dug up from muddy shores,

found in shells and weeds decayed.

Either way, the hour is lengthening

faster than the rise of the river tide,

and I am a shade within my summer shade:

the sun would raisin from the sun inside.

O, vacation, pulling lives

down from the skies

ever since the birth of water!

Out The Door Poem

I have four minutes

before I stand idly by

the gateway to someplace

overridden.

In that time,

I have taken with

whatever I wish,

which is to say, nothing,

and abandoned

whatever I please,

which is to say,

enough to count.

I have two minutes

before I lock myself

into a cerebral seat,

dizzying with plot.

The time is now,

and I carry with me

the airy dreams

of my bed-ridden soul.

In This There Is

In music there is

a tiny avalanche

of what used to be.

In light there is

reason to stay

to find it again.

In solitude there is

always an insect

somewhere small.

In people there is

resilient light

and plowed sand.

In change there is

something finally

worth loving.

Aszune

It is the eve of your birthday,

hopeful Aszune,

and the streets are cobbled with your heart.

They spotted it dangling,

illuminous as the moon,

and drove their ego through it,

anonymous as a swamp

in evening June.

Their two part tongues

will one day stitch together

into an ivory cocoon,

long after your special day.

But what gets me

is that you, gentle Aszune,

never once gave up your name.

With The Thunder To Our Backs

Silver-lined and spit-shined

car exhausted from chasing

fine fantasies twisting through

the marble maze of Minneapolis;

sitting cross-legged with smooth

arms ready to open and embrace

me on my forlorn return to where

I keep the sound of loving.

There's rain in my peace

of mind, along with gentle

guitars and channeled voices

singing love songs that never

end; and there's smooth rocks

at the bottom of the river and

smooth hands folded at

the bottom of the sky.

The clouds are spotted and

the hazy roads lined, much

like our own wall, Dear, which

should be wearing down right

about now, crumbling down one

sandy brick after another, and we'll

turn our backs on it after all;

we'll turn our backs on nothing, at all.

Incense of Indifference

Burning subtly,

choking up temples,

stripping down monuments.

Smells like warm bodies,

sand dragged in from the lake,

consciences dirty, dirty, dirty.

And look how high we are now.

Will the future be so indifferent to me,

when I kiss its feet and claim innocence?

Favorite Sort Of Answer

Song and dance swirling on the screen,

and everything else just went unseen

until the silver lining colored over.

His eyes gave in and the laughs grew stark,

the brightest bulb gave in to dark,

the starving kid reaching

for the answer.

His only contact with the world

was hearing from this unknown girl

who never knew when the day was over.

Eventually, he'd find out how

she'd become his best friend now,

since no one else would

ever give their answer.

The calm rang out without a kiss,

while the furniture began to miss

the pleasure of having someone over.

With no foreword he began to cry,

there was no sense to even try

to pull the words

together for an answer.

Into the room came a native ghost,

the queen of grace and the sorry host

of all the pain he'd never gotten over.

He reached again to touch her hand,

but she threw to him her reprimand,

and ran before he'd

even found his answer.

When silence fell, a voice came through

and whispered something he always knew,

"You need to get below before you're over."

And you know what else, I know it too,

and that secret voice was always you,

the one I know,

my favorite sort of answer.

Knowing You

Try as we might, it's just us tonight,

putting our shoulder to future goals,

patching in bruised spirit holes,

biting off our wilting tongues.

I doubt even the daughter of suns,

with her tender sunbeam sight

and miraculous compass of right,

could hold me together for very long.

Yet true as dreams, I know I'm wrong,

since even inchworms crawl forward;

and in case you haven't heard:

You will never un-know me, try as you might.

A Lane's Always Closed

Oceans of headlights

drowning before you.

How did you get there.

At first there was mist

anchored to the horizon,

mystifying the midnight.

Then swallowed a groan

from within, and merged,

one lane away from...

Heard nothing at that

very moment, felt

nothing once more.

Oceans of headlights

screaming ahead of you for miles,

waiting for you to turn back around.

Defeathered

Stuffed

superficially

with feeble

hope

and hushed

pride

Subtle

absence of

lips to

sink ships

of all kinds

from all times

Turn away

into night

into day

into some

other kindness

Kiss My Cheek If This Ends

The water tastes so sweet,

lying on the old late night nest,

once at my passionate best.

The starless sky looks neat.

Everything good's been unwound.

People don't just play into roles,

they kiss and expand their souls.

I am nowhere special to be found.

Give my love to love.

It'll come around next year,

but we'll no longer be here.

Who, then, will it take hold of?

Let sleep take me to long-distance past.

Everything promised is already dead,

so I'll rest my retrograde head.

Let this moment of weakness be my last.

One Possible Cure

Dollar ninety-nine wrappers filling up the landfill;

can after can after can after can after can after can

plus pillowy chocolate running smooth down

the gastric sewers 'neath a clueless street.

In some never-coming tomorrow,

he'll catch a common cancer, maybe

that kind his mom always talks about,

cancer of the delighted or whatnot.

Oh-well-fare-well.

Some day soon comes the cataclysm,

and the streets will flow with fresh spring water,

pure as the roofs of mountains.