inland waters . . .

As the blood begins to drop,

I am home again

in the sweet brimming vessel

of my own flesh.

Primal and loving,

raw and undefended.

A warm gush returning

a tenderness that infuses

every mind-fuck lie,

every place of blindness,

every cell of somatic hostility

with the balm of

just being.

Open.

A warm gush leaving

with a sigh of relief

as the swollen grip

of domesticity releases

its polite hold

on this wild nest

of mystery.

Each flower caught

and then offered.

The rich warmth

of my own center given

to nourish life,

to nourish life itself.

Go to the beach

and dig your feet

and your hands into the sand.

Now imagine

every single beach

everywhere.

Pick up one single grain

and place it

in your palm.

The smallest crystal

in existence.

You are as significant

and as precious

as this.

2.5.12

If I, at last, 

remove this 

woven gown of eyes,

these centuries of binding fabrications,

will you, at last, 

withstand this 

wild and

naked fire,

this untamable,

unknowable ocean

abiding only

to the expanse of sky,

rising to meet

the pure strength

of the sun

in the long evaporation

of surrender.

At last…

12.29.12

Like the first crack of thunder,

a sudden intrusion

interrupts the importance

of everyone’s pace.

They stand gawking, for an instant,

as the collision of two lives

and more than two illusions

break open

to the possibilities of violence

acting out all around us.

This was an accident,

but the rest a disaster we can’t

blame on chance.

My eyes now broken-in

to the present…

Sometimes I stare

into theirs

as I pass

just to see if anyone else is looking

at the world.

They’re just like me…

one isolated world

ordered by gravity,

pulled toward

then repelled by the honesty

of our difference,

our similarity.

A man with his home

wheeling on an edge, on the corner

mumbling then yelling.

Finally something sensible:

“We are not good to each other!” he says.

A mind trying to make sense

out of nonsense.

His madness like an open window.

I turn the corner

where someone has shit

on the wall between two pillars.

With nowhere to go,

our world has turned

into a toilet.

All these empty hands asking

and all we can bare to give

is our spare change.

While we clench our fists tighter

and cling to the figments that build

our apparitions of sanity,

we fear most the only change

that’s worth giving,

then hand them our shame

with the ease of forgetting.

I have no answers,

only my heart

and two eyes

that are asking

if anyone else is looking

at the world?

4.17.12

two large hands

fold safe around

tiny little bones

underneath new skin

pressed against sharp air

one pair of pristine eyes

still caught between

two realms

peering through a body 

so small still so fragile

little square moments

caught forever

on a page

frozen in time

bodies half cut off

heads poking over

the edge

of paper

there’s only these

few still fragments of truth

to prove

you loved us

to prove you lived

proof that I held

your hand

that you wrapped your arms

safely around

my shoulders

the contents of this box

are never the same

no matter how still 

or square the page

the book

the edges of each image of us

I always change

and still

nothing in here is

ever enough

inside this box

there’s a life

of mine

I can’t remember

I can’t forget

I can’t remove from these bones

these eyes

these two large hands

always coming back

to hold 

flat pages flat faces

with smiles and distant sockets

that knew more

but say nothing now

pages of written words

that hold

so much still emotion

in each stroke

lines strung across

oceans to reach

ears that didn’t understand

distance or death

and could only translate them

into question marks

10.31.12

For my father

Our histories are hung

in midair between us

hovering

like hungry ghosts

coming to take back

their hearts.

1.17.12

To become attached to you

is like being the rope

of an anchor.

Taut.

::::

Then, to be taken.

 ::::

I crave this

deep decent.

 ::::

When falling feels

like freedom

then death.

 ::::

In this spot

beneath the sea

there’s been a shipwreck.

 ::::

Rubble

 ::::

plunder

 ::::

and gold.

2.4.12