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.

annealed

i was fired for the first time

on poem-in-your-pocket day;

 

or rather, let go—dropped, free-falling.

perhaps fired is better: lit up, burned,

 

refined. there is no paper in my

pocket, but there is always a poem;

 

and even on this day, i am

going to write myself out of

 

my misery-worry and ride that

sudden drop of uncertainty,

 

that guttural buzz of

—anything can happen next—

 

and it will. and it always does.

next year at this time, on poem-in-

 

your-pocket day, i’ll be in a brand

new place, filling up my brimming

 

pockets with brand new

words, words, words.

the dark side of the day

i burned my hand making a tuna melt.

i suck on the spot, pulling the skin off the

middle knuckle bone of my right hand into my

mouth. it’s looser than it once was, less elastic.

 

see you in the new year we say cheerily, as if

things will miraculously improve, solve

themselves, by the next time we see

each other—just by a calendar flipping.

 

it’s the eve of my birthday and i’m here to

say that nothing ever really improves;

we just find more ways to manage the sad-

ness, the loneliness, the expectations, the

 

inevitable aging. old friends drop away, new

friends are harder to make, and the dull ache

of an old flame is still there, somehow sustained

like a red poppy in a field of unanswered questions.

 

conjure

20150409_125727

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.

20150409_124313

stretch the spirit-head high

i wake each morning

to a sun-filled kitchen,

familiar cup of coffee;

 

i feel new.

 

but by night-fall i am

in mourning for

the old.

 

i know, this too shall pass;

which is its own

 

kind of sadness.

 

i slowly ease in and dig my

shell into this fresh sand:

 

letting the tiny grains

patiently move me along —

 

millions of time-wise

crystalline hands.

 

i keep one eye on the tide,

stretch the spirit-head high

 

to the deep-wide horizon.

20140604_163257-1

new-born

what is it about the morning,

the fresh-quiet newness

when you can take it in

 

slowly and think on it

lovingly like a careful

caress to the head,

 

the scents of every

thing coming alive

and together,

 

the sounds of winds and

birds and chimes and

children and steel-will

 

machinery gearing up and

moving the water and the earth,

birth-rising to meet you and

 

your vulnerability as you step

off the cliff once again and 

fall into the novel possible?