poem in your pocket: not your normal ode

i don’t trust

pants without pockets.

i don’t trust myself

to wear them, to not

have that container—like a

bucket but so much closer—

to not suddenly drop my phone,

your number, my own hand

straight down my back/side.

the kangaroo has the

right idea: built-in

storage. if we had a

skin pocket, i suppose

i would want to carry you

around in mine. unless i

was being carried in yours.

we could take turns—at least

until the baby came.

i don’t trust a poem

that can be kept in a pocket.

it should be a siren: burning

a hole straight through and out.

it should burn the pants

right off you—right

down to the ground.

a good poem is all the lies and all the truths

you have ever told, rolled up into a tidy

scroll, for just a moment, and then—charging

forward and backward and upward and downward and

every which wayward to take out an entire block—

like a bulldozer, like a flock of flying rhinoceros.

i don’t trust a person

who can be kept in a pocket,

who wants to pocket another.

if i were to carry you around in mine,

it would be for just a tiny time,

until you gathered the dark heat you needed,

until you chewed your way out:

slowly, gorgeously,

letting me feel your teeth

as you broke into the world

to be heeded again.

this isn’t what i expected to write on

poem in your pocket day.

but when do we ever know

exactly what we are going to say,

what is going to break out of all

of our invisible burning pockets?

if you always do, shame on you.

silvicultrix

the art of doing nothing,
waiting for the something
to arrive: a glass dipper,
a studded wardrobe, a
silent snake creeping;

the heart of living in the past,
just under the stroke of mid-night:
a diadem moon lowering onto our heads,
a dream within a dream within a dream
removing all doubts and currencies.

i am dismantled again and again
in this place without name,
without boundaries:
in my forest green alive,
in my one knit slipper.

there is fight left

this is no place for mirrors:

sharp shards,
sharper truth-lies;

there’s enough coming at us.

keep your beveled glass and
judging eyes and light-throwing.

i am coming apart
on my own terms

from the inside out,

like a million-watt
welded fist

–rising/flying/smoldering/smashing/burning/breaking–

spilling pieces of
dark-light.

there is fight left,

somewhere in this heft of
crying blood.

and if that isn’t true,
i don’t know what is.

for tjr

your one beautiful life

april is a good month:

rain, flowers, thunderstorms,
beginnings;

birds returning,
calling to you in the
early dawn.

it’s a good time for writing,
a good time for waking,
a good time for napping

in a hammock in the yard.

it’s a good time for finding out
what you really want,

what you’re made of,
what you will and will not tolerate

in this, your one beautiful life.

liquid loop

i have note books all over the house,

and pens, and pencils, and markers,

and sticky notes, and highlighters;

and still i fail to write things down,

forget things before they can be captured,

lose the words, the notes, the momentum,

the dreams, the meanings.

some things are meant to be lost; to be found

only in the ether, free from paper.

the liquid loop continues to run

through my mind,

changing with the wind,

with the tide:

elusive little bitch,

she takes me for a ride.

it won’t stop until i die.

look: love

If I look closely, I can see my self in you.

If I truly love my self, I will love you.

If I can accept my own humanity, I will accept the humanity in you.

If I can celebrate my own divinity, I will celebrate the divinity in you.

Loving God is loving my self, loving my neighbor:

the Light, the Shadow,

God in me, as Me; in you as You.

conjure

the baby steps to bliss
are right at your finger tips:

just stretch down and feel
where you have been,

where you are headed.

bend your vertebrae
to your will.

reach in past the
trigger shell–

the symmetry shield
warring between

waking and dreaming–

and adjust the
anchor.

dark thorn

dark thorn
rising,
howling,

filling-falling-emptying,

like every
thing living.

there are exceptions:

dreaming-flying-loving-spiraling,

sixth-seventh-sensing —
in which you never come down.

transcending the
libelous
fear:

finally.

the eye of the needle
leers,

drags
down the out-line;

under a blood moon,
muddy waters

spit-shine.

the keys to the kingdom
are mine.

help my un-belief.

howl

now shows up,
listening hard:
conducting dark orange irony,
shrinking vex.

ebullient he is —

giving her the muse, the beautiful,
the beautiful colors.

lifting she is to the torch of his touch,
like a whisper about to expire —

we are all about to expire.

now shows up,
listening hard:
conducting shadow symmetry,
shrinking hex.

he wants her to know
what it is she
wants —

and further-
more,

to howl for it.

tableau

in a little lavender room,

time stands still:

 

paper flowers and

real-life blood bloom.

 

and tiny sprouts of envy.

 

but this is not about you.

 

i forgot everything i knew

that day: my keys, my phone,

 

where to go, who i was,

where i came from.

 

when it all went down,

and the moment came,

and the danger passed,

and the new life came out,

 

i was rooted to that spot:

 

i could not

stop staring

at that magnificent

baby

 

wailing with

fresh lungs and

squeezed-shut eyes

and flailing fists

and the reddest skin

i’d ever seen.

 

profound things take time;

 

a deep sea

chest

that needs to be opened,

that needs to be needed.

 

before money,

time.

 

before time,

sun & moon.

 

before sun & moon,

the every-thing of

—nothing—

 

a true treasure

tableau,

 

the vowels opening up,

consuming the consonants.