alone with you

20150723_230621

your arms around me, like a

tree; a thousand words unsaid,

passed tight between.



all the right words,

all the non-sounds i’m

climbing to hear.



with enough time,

any thing could

happen.



with you, all

things feel

possible.



an elemental joy-

ful-sad-ness holds,

tremors on the edge of



need in clear

view of

want.



i drive away, drive you

away, drive away from

my true self.


20150723_230609

we are time less

here i am, perched on the edge of earth’s balcony.

the beach at night—how i’ve missed it, the way the sea and sky merge into one big dark blue sigh;

the way the soft black-blue cushions you, makes you forget your fluorescent fears, makes you let go of the artifice, makes you feel like anything is possible, makes you feel;

the way this buzz goes deeper, into the curves of your being, winding through your veins and vessels and tunnels and channels, climbing through your cochlea with a vibrating message: you are alive;

the way the sand digs into every part of you and forces you to be present, to feel every granule, every atomic angle, measured out;

the way the clouds open up just enough to show you a sliver of moon, of reference and reminder on this glint-edge of spoon;

how it makes you really feel the earth, the roundness, the expanse, the way she takes full breaths, the way you could just fall off the ledge, disappear and be swallowed up into the depths.

we step into the tide and feel the grains and rocks and tease of seaweed and slip-slide of shells. we talk about sharks and the recent attacks and how the ocean is their natural habitat, and we are the real infestation;

we talk about death, and life, and family, and memory, and poetry, and cycles, and the canals we all move through, and the sounds, and the barriers we try to put up, and the way liquid light still pushes in;

i think about you, standing next to me, sitting so close to me in the sand, breathing this same air, sharing this same lens and space, like a kind and sacred hand being offered up for us both to hold;

i think about you, sitting in that chair, looking up at me and into me while i act out my script, play my part in that beautiful-tragedy, soak up your smiles, walk shaking circles around that stage of words.

we talk about how we’ve been here before, and how we’ll be here again, when we’re old and still time-less and still connected.

i slip out of my coverings just a bit and feel the moon and water on my skin, just enough to make me levitate, forget land for a moment, all the ties that bind, all the promises and commitments and labels and losses and lies left—

you, like the night ocean, have that effect.

and in the midst of all this thinking and talking and surging and being—a miracle right at our feet! tiny slippery white flashes of light—riding in on the tide and seeming to fly right off the crest!

like the floating particles in the eye that you can’t really see or look at directly—we try, and then they’re gone.

we squint and bend down closer to try to make out their shape, follow them down the shore, but we can only see faint patches, glimmers of light, scurrying schools of squarish white blobs, round at points, shifting together and then apart—so rapidly we can’t pin them down.

but we know they’re there. we don’t know what they are, but we know we saw them. we’re glad we’re not alone; we have each other as a witness that this phenomenon was real, is real.

we wait for the next sighting, for the next mystery-swarm to come through; we’re amazed and six years old again and true.

we’re glad we’re not alone. we’re glad there’s always a miracle when we meet.

here i am, perched on the edge of earth’s balcony; and the show is free.

arrive alive

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always driving,
always moving,

running to meet point-less
dead-lines, absurd expectations:

rushing, rushing to our graves.

this time i happen
to be headed south,

past neon signs with casualties
counted and engraved:

657 so far this year;

past the severed alligator, under
the glassy big-brother eyes,

funneling down to the edge,
straight into the heart of

gun-shaped dread. i’ll wait until
i get there to start drinking,

numbing away all the things waiting to bite,
until the laughing takes us right into the

crying. it’s all the same out-
pouring in the mind’s eye,

tucked up on that cloud
shelf in the revolving sky;

just harder to put your finger on.

pieces of memory paste themselves
together as i maneuver in and out of states:

last words, last touches, collages of conversations
from ten, twenty years ago, from count-less lives ago—

before we knew what we were be-coming;
before we knew how it would all end.

i keep looking over at my girl sleeping safely
on the seat beside me. my eyes are wide prayers.

the bittersweet dark is settling in as we
arrive alive under the last exhale of sun;

arrive to your absence, to the stomping pulse
of grief running through your girls,

to the very same places where we
once romped and rallied for joy.

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mother meek

For Erleen. May your beautiful mother-soul rest in peace.


it took you two minutes to read me,
to tell me what i sound, smell, taste like;

it took me two centuries to come out of my cave
and play, a web of shining sound hanging

from shaking teeth. i am slave,
manufacturer, warrior, priest, king: all

embodied, poised to inherit the earth.
but it is the minor keys of the mother

being played out in the background—
ever layering, ever loving—

that will win out in the end;
the weak in reverse,

the binaries of her
music box—slight and

strong—turning, bending in
the wind, building the

tender-fierce frame-
work of the world.

this.

20150708_210010 (1)
do not be afraid of the bliss,
the tender-wristed trembling

this.

fill it;
fill it up

with the hallowed
breath given from

the deep-
down hollow.

open it up like the
gift that it is,

and let it
in

without knowing
what’s next,

the next breath,
the catch.

stop running from
your own pleasure.

cross the pond of numb,
to the other side;

swing wide your lantern
of shadow-light,

let it burn long miles
into the night.

stop running
from the free:

from the carved-out
space of be.

stop breaking
into slavery—

again and again,
stealthily,

saying: take me,
tie me to the post,

to the tree, to this
prison of madness.

what is this moment?
what is it worth?

what is it?
this this?

it is every-thing:

it carries you, tired child—up,
up the spiral stair-case to bed.

red has no regrets

red has no regrets:
suicide is weight-less.

the mess of grief captured
else-where where color is not.

in this giant living collage, the
collective blood pasted together

makes me appreciate
my own need:

slowed down
into stills.

radiate

sun wing 2

the longer you stay away,

the harder it is to return.

 

six degrees of separation

become six millenniums.

 

you take the long way home—

kicking up sun dust,

 

rust on your wheels, the

spindle of your spine

 

still turning to look back,

to keep weaving. your solar

 

plexus is on a slow-burn, couched

between your procured wings;

 

every thing is buzzing

on auto pilot

 

as you bring your ship in

through the streaks of dusk:

 

as you follow the yellow slick string

tying together this runway to infinity.

 

the leaving and the coming back is

a call and response you cannot

 

refuse—like falling on a cusped bruise:

you feel your flight from the inside out,

 

sitting cross-legged in your own sky, playing

pick-up-sticks with the long tender lines of light.

sun wing 1
 
 

Photographs by Joe Occhuzzio