i think i missed you

we wake

to create;

 

we carry some-

thing from the

 

night: thick

on us, in us—

 

a thousand stories deep

as the crow flies.

 

we were meant

to meet there,

 

you and i—

but

 

i think i

missed you.

 

i think we are

living the before.

 

—or—

 

this is my body,

broken for you,

 

like in the

hereafter.

 

we are here

to make some-

 

thing new:

but we know

 

it has all been done

under the heavy static

 

of sun. we traverse the

taverns, ear to the ground

 

for a philistine,

a dervish,

 

something royal

to stir us up.

 

we become the swine

digging in the pearls;

 

it is our

communion.

 

we sit on the dock

and wait; we believe

 

something is on its

way—a ship, a revolution,

 

a stay; a drunken glacier

swaying toward us with glee:

 

to allay our fears, our need,

our repeat existence.

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i think i like a poem (that’s not for reading on a cell phone)

i think i like a poem

because it makes me slow

way down and be in the moment

and really take in the words, thoughts,

sounds. i think i like a poem that makes me

smile, cry, shake, blush, swing from the rafters.

i think i like a poem that’s the first poem in a new

house, fresh word paint spilling out onto the walls, floors,

ceilings. i think i like a poem that opens me up like a dream-

catcher wheel, spinning around and around until my deepest guts

are revealed and my heart is at the mercy of the meaning police vehicle

rolling through at over 44 mph, i think; i love; a poem; that makes no sense

to anyone but me--and maybe to those three who know who they are and who

keep me on my toes through the lovely pain-staking pains of staking these claims.

 

gallery of the unfinished

the miles move like the years;

the trees climb themselves.

 

when you go, the absence you leave

behind will not last long—the mutable

 

shapes fill in. if you want

something to last, say so.

 

the world takes care of itself,

but will also love you back.

 

 

anansi

i found a spider on the kitchen

floor: hairy and black.

 

i asked it to let me see my father again.

but first i trapped it under some tupperware

 

(a clear container so i could keep an eye out,

watch it climbing the sides, trying to escape).

 

i apologized for detaining it, until a guy could

come by and set the spider free in the yard.

 

yes, i am afraid of the things i love.

yes, i am in love with the things i fear.

 

it is not above me to ask a man for help;

after all, i brought him into this world.

 

i dreamt of my father that night—and every

night thereafter; like before, only happier:

 

he was himself, mostly whole, mostly

glad to be with us again; longing to stay,

 

but always having to leave by the end.

mornings always bring the farewell.

 

i visit death so often it

has become a furry friend.

 

 

 

basic needs

what happens when the

auto pilot stops working,

 

when there’s no longer

comfort in your mother’s

 

voice, touch; when the words are

hiding and it’s all too much and

 

all you can do is roll up into a

child-ball and wish for an infinite

 

hill? will the words i love you

ever hold meaning again?

 

will this vessel be loved, be held, be

filled, regarded, respected, wanted, seen?

 

these are the questions.

these are the basic needs.