Wednesday, July 30

[here is the thing—]



here is the thing—
i want to tell you about the sunrise.
in an unguarded moment i think
you would like this, the drama of it
with an old smile in my heart:
then i remember all the pain I've caused you,
how i am trying to free you from me,
and the sunrise flames to char.
a familiar lump settles in my neck,
because this is how i love you—
but i never helped you see it
and now i hope you never do.








10/07/24

i don't know





why there was a rusting 42 gallon barrel in the backyard or

why i hid in the green onions behind it from the teenagers and

how to feel about getting pushed down stairs when adults weren't looking, nor

how to think of fresh or ancient rejections while driving home from work, nearly 40.




that little boy behind the oil drum who must be enough, whether or not:

whether he is with a wife or without; with a good life or without; with potential lovers or without.




why this weeping woman would confess to a small boy hiding behind an oil drum

that his friend, who she has loved for 20 years, is a near-martyred saint with a perfect cock,

if the little boy, sucking the end of a green oninon, can only turn himself into absolute nothingness in order to provide--

what could even be provided, he wondered, but it seemed like comfort, costing him something equally indistinct.




why his caring mother should care so deeply about preserving his infidelous marriage

that her voice should break like the skin of his emotions leaving bright new scars across the top of old,

which he should worry about, metasticizing tissues at his age or death,

how you might describe it.




why lovers stop talking to him sometimes slowly or all at once, leaving him then

if he can pull back, ascending in macroscope to clouds, then galaxies, then abandoning

the limits of his body and his heart (my heart), the plausible weakness of existence, even the question of whether i care

whether i am alive enough to recognize my own enoughness, elevated so far i am perhaps puncturing the basement of reality




where i am enough, as is, with nothing else

if the little boy was also enough








05/01/24

i forget to remember



Make the assumption
you aren’t desired
see what it does, how it
seeps into you:
unwanted, cast off
at the moment, the millisecond
when love seemed at reach:
it’s not this time, or situation
but you specifically
love denied, wanting nothing more
with you.
You know it’s false
but feel it anyway, scum:
only despair can lead you
to repentance & repair.




1/20/22

suspension



stone suspended midair
“potential energy” was the term
wanting to fall

a 9 ounce human heart pumping
3 millionths of a gram of adrenaline
can shake this body like a rag

i stole glances at her eyes, lips,
the curve of a cheekbone, of a smile, of
a potential energy

her mind a fire in my mind
energy circling mine
tempts motion to unfreeze in time

so my stone heart shivers
one millionth of a gram away
from a rockfall plunge into kinesis

i hold it up; it will not move
but potential is undeniable
wanting to fall




1/20/22

over the Oakland rowhouses



oh, you blink at me
you, lights on dangerous buildings
and if i stare, and wink carefully
i can tell you which comes first
in this parade of
blinking red roof dots
and yellow wall squares.
you are the city's dance:
stationary movement
or the illusion thereof, caused
by removal and replacement.
how like us!
have we ever met anyone new,
or is this social dance of ours
just like the blinking lights?
sometimes this one over here
and then that one, there, turns on,
blinking different colors
different channels of one divinity
and sometimes the faces change
but not the person within.
how many times have you said
i've met someone just like you before,
although you know it's a lie
it seems so true.
well, i said that today
but the truth is, i'm happy
meeting just this face of you
because it's wonderful
and just oh so delightfully different.
and on the tips of the buildings
the lights are still blinking,
and i'm still winking back
trying to follow the city's dance.
the steady, still motion
plants a peace in me.
you, there, you're blinking
exactly like you did last night,
and the airliner is landing slowly behind you
which tells me some things
are consistent and worthy
of trust, love, and winking back
from behind a solemn joy.
for, oh, you blink at me,
you who are the city's dance,
keeper of my peace.




8/29/07