just like a woman

woke up this morning in a funk, half drunk.

took a short walk around the corner past parched flowers ignored by striped suits and
high heels, and paused to sit on a bench in the park.

the leaves were newly budding on the trees and applauded a light spring breeze which hurried by, bringing with it a light misty rain.

and the clatter of light traffic and bicycles coasting graced and tickled the inner lobes of my ear with their hums.

and i sat and wondered about the worms squirming in the patch of ground directly under the outline of my bare feet, splitting in half and finding themselves, later on, becoming whole again.

breathing in,

and out,

the subtle whistle of a frisbee in the wind became the most wonderful ever, and
so it was as well, the witnessing of a shaggy wet dog

shake himself off in a moppy and familiar choreograph while

children danced in soft rainbows.

i think it's lovely to think of how many words are read at mid-day, all that inked paper bound tight in leather,

all those words written by sad lonely souls at lamp-lit desks in early hours with
empty glasses full of ice, still

all set to melt, no drop of whiskey left.

i think of all the most perfect words in the world like

pants

and the word discombobulate.

teeth.

awful, and thwarted.

and the rhythm of the word lavender.


in the coffee shop, when its right, the word dope.

among may flowers with the sun warming my pale skin, i am burdened with
frustration and sadness:

there is no word which can contain you.

BORN IN A DOORWAY

like a long, loose, lucid dream, the kind that disappears from the mind in an instant, in the morning sun,

over a cup of hot steamy Sumatra, between flicks of cigarette ash, in the exact moment of realization that that which is made

inevitably fails,

the attempt to remember the events, it was like their dissolution and their fade into insignificance;


like the subtle and instantaneous shivers felt in moments something is perfectly stated and said,

said even with the knowledge that truth does not exist and is mostly dead,

it was like the humbling assurance in its quiet breath, within reverberations of its precise utterance

and in the simplicity of it simply being said;


like the warm and muggy sweat produced by two nervous hands held together in a shed, among cold corn and dead bodies rotting in a field, like an insane laugh coming from a little girl huddled in fear,

like the brief wind produced by two gasps, shaking up dust from the windowsills, from all the would-be artifacts,

it was like the nervous tap of his foot, the hollow sound of wooden floor before the blast;

like watching marshmallows melt into hot chocolate or the harmony of crickets at dusk, the sound of fingernails tapping wood,

the way a tack moves into drywall as it is pushed in or the salty ocean and the way its air sticks to the skin,

like dewdrops on a spider-web

like writing a poem, reading it later, not knowing what was just written, what it all means or what it meant,

but feeling it is beautiful, anyway;


like dead leaves falling in the fall,

the first time i saw her it was like all that
but not like that,

at all.

WHERE THE HEART IS

on the way home in a boeing DC-17,
working on a chunk of peanut shell stuck in my upper teeth, i'm streaking across
a magnetic magenta sky at a speed unnatural for
humans to travel and the sun is setting over waves of puffy clouds
rolling off across the horizon.

six hours post-grandmother's funeral and i'm still a bit shaky from
the recent sensation of holding her warm veiny hands go cold,
nearly instantaneously;

i thought a faint pulse lingered on but i was wrong.

although i knew it would happen, it still shocked me,
the intense ice of it all, anyway.

i sit locked in for departure although the sign says that it's safe to roam and
i've really accomplished something great,
i've retained the scent of the red and yellow tulips outside of her apartment.

somehow, in my ears, church bells from around the corner play on still.

here i am
nearly a mile above appalachia, edging my way back home and

this is where it happens, while i'm siting next to an anonymous dreamer in a suit
with black thin business socks.

piercing clouds like needle and thread through a cotton sheet i
pass by the moon and the myths and i'm enveloped in a somber sadness
not knowing why or what this feeling is,
or means,
and not really trying to.

i come to one conclusion:

i do know that i didn't mean to leave you calm and quiet, riding your motorcycle out west in a light evening rain across an abandoned desert highway,
pavement cold and endless,

lizards scurrying in the sand,

early morning dew on needles,

blinded with tears in your jade eyes.

THERE'S NO LEAVING NEW YORK

rather than bitch or give any semblance of a shit

suit pants typically pristine now drenched in piss

broken glass cutting deep into burnt boiled skin

limbs broken and snapped like branches and twigs

mumbling soft words in an exasperated breath

laying near death in a bloody stinky mess

sky full of manila folders and remnants of desks

crying out helplessly with no hope left

in a cold shade made by the congestion of ash clouds in a blue sky

while off somewhere in high mountain tops

hums and drums of winds race through cracks and whistle alarming songs

and the urgency of the breeze rustles dead leaves from off trees

where a rat's skull is shattered in an instant

clasped between owl claws in an early dewy twilight

far away from block parties

and hot dog stands

and women in cowboy boots on the corner

far away from capped and flag-waving boys at parades

yellow taxi honks and pedestrian shouts

and the early morning garbage trucks

poets sitting in creaky buildings

in classrooms in the winter

looking out glass windows

witnessing the snow fall through thick black glasses

warmed by their tweed jackets

smudged ink everywhere

while i attempt to remember how lucky and fortunate i am

to be alive

even in this moment

as my last breaths draw out

i keep wanting to return

to any given summer day

between the ages five and eight

to be on the tree swing which kept a natural rhythm in my front yard

to feel the feeling that i could fly away

but truly

honestly

rather than that

rather than bleed

rather than scream

or dream or scheme

or laugh or cry

rather than try

rather than

all that

to wish for it to be different

for it all to start over new

i will stop in the shade of a bodhi tree

in the twilight hour

under a shimmering diamond sky

i will sit in lotus pose

eyes closed

with a soft breath

waiting for you

GOODNIGHT MOON

aside from your grandmother's cotton blanket checkered
in a sanguine and scarlet plaid pattern and the faint
taste of copper on the tongue, the damp impressionable
Fall grass on top of which we sit,

a corn field is necessary and all the crickets that
hide in the tall cut stalks, too, and the black scarf
covering your neck, keeping away the cut and bite of
howling winds, that's another important thing

if we want to enjoy this meteor shower tonight, what's
most required is a consistently cold temperature, one
which makes visible the invisible heat of inner breaths
and the quick pace of it

there's a certain beauty in the not knowing whether we
shake with impatience awaiting the event, this momentary
transcending by reminder of our insignificance among the
billions of stars and galaxies

or whether it's simply from the frigid breeze and light
sweaters, and the loss of gloves for hand holding

at any rate, it's absolutely necessary for both of us to be cold in this moment

so we have a reason to hold each other;

for the opportunity to practice hugs

to reveal how warm it is inside of us

for a moment to express love simply in one innocent act

BLUE PERIOD

she implores me to go West
leave the fickle Eastern air behind
leave the ponds caked over with ice
ponds made mirrors that line the sides of highways and shimmer in the indecisive night
in the dark lit by lighter light
inside a phone booth
beside a 24 hour diner
under a holy astronomic sky

she begs me to love her fully
to hold her with red knuckles
to warm her cool midnight fingers with
the scent of my heat

she asks me to remember the wind how it reveals
invisible spirits on playgrounds midsummer as
they swing on the swings and to think upon
the chirp in her laugh
the red wine split on that one sunflower party dress
the scent of lilacs
the way it mixes and stirs the blood
the phenomenal sharing of love

i think to myself that i want to go
but i don't want to go no
i don't want to
i don't want to

MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM

in this particular dream we are two pigeons carrying important messages all
across the land and across the channel,
over all the men with ears muffled by fiery blast, over the pastures made sacred with cold lifeless flesh,
perched sometimes to rest on a branch to catch a breath overhearing words such as i love you and i miss you and i need you and oh how i am sorry

and as we fly together we wonder why we don't care
why we think, "they're not even pitiful"

for a moment i realize that you're the one who, in the night, sleeps still while i kick my legs and shift my head

but we still sleep comfortably

then all of a sudden in the dream we find stray bullets piercing our wings and we fall into the earth, into a motherly embrace

and in that moment we are falling together, melting
together, fading into a distant sun

dissolving into one other:

becoming one