The 'infinite' bias ...

I want to believe

I have infinite time.

I don't know what I'll

Care about, with no belly

For hunger,   no   blood   for

Passion, no mind for  calm.  But,

I still want to believe that I'll always,

      ever, be on.

I can't see to my tail—to the day I was

Born—and that's fine   (warm placentas

Disgust me).     And I hardly remember

My father's   mom's   eyes.  But I still

Feel  her   press,   as  she held me; it

Remains.  And  I  feel so relieved—

Dreaming  that in  heaven she's

Still taller than  me, and she

Waits with those arms—

I believe.

I have to believe

We have infinite

Time; I love

And have

Loved

Too

Mu

  ch

     To

           Ac

                  ce

                       pt I

                             Ex

                            is

                             t O

                                  th

                                er

                           w

                         is

                          e

                              .

Value versus Impact ...

                 Murder                                                   and suicide
        often come                                                                  together—

      as acts,                                                                            of course,

    one comes before                                                               the other.

      But I think                                                      their under-thinking

        is common,                                                           and sensible:

           Once you devalue                                                  a life,

                  every life                                              (for you)
                        has an equal                   (neutral) pull.

                              All are real,
                                            but worthless:

                             Noises            seeking silence,

               Desiring peace                   while clinging to 

           their pulse's                                              violence.

       That's one thing                                                   I wish

    Suicides wrote more                                     in their letters:
“I'm tired                                                                     of living,
 and I hate us                                                              altogether.
  Which makes me think,                                       by the way,
     I'd love the whole,                                             really,

           if I loved myself                                    today.

                     Kisses; sorry for the mess.
                                   I wish the words
               didn't feel so           disingenuous.”

          Isn't that                                  beautiful?      
         It's the least selfish                       thing

           about a killer's                        lonely
                riddle:                     Knowing

                     that when       you die,

                          or make us die—

                              everyone

                                 dies

                                   a
                                little
                                   .

Freedom come ...

Children beg to play

In fields made of pits

And stitched with sharp sticks.

So parents shudder, “Aaayy!!

Be careful, love...” as

The light lows and thins.

But the children laugh. For

Their hands can break a blade

Of grass.

Their feet can unlock the bonds

of sucking mud. Their tears

Can make giants kneel—in love.

Parents fret, freshly remembering

Their own quiet losses onto

These brakeless creatures

Who are finding, first-hand,

The world's sudden

Nature.

But old, slow persisters—

Wrinkled so their scars are hidden,

Warmed by gray mittens—laugh;

Loose throat-skins

Catching on their breaths,

They ask:

“Now, how did You learn

What it takes to survive?

First your bone broke,

Then your friend died.

Remember that? Stumbling on

To where life has its ends.

So let them rip,

And heal. Let them

Drop, and feel.

Let them go,

And come:

Too Fast,

Too soon,

Too Confident,

Too dumb.

Let them own that

Pain past the edge.

That view off the ridge.

That bitter smell, disbelieving.

That ache-sick-sinking feeling

Of loss and preciousness:

Let them find out every

Now is an end begun.

For owning that—owning that.

Owning that is 

freedom come.”

Pool of senses ...

Everyone watches that insect

missing a leg, missing a wing.

                            But then looks away from amputees,

                   burn-skinned us's—too close of a thing

 (“Not me!” we want to say).

Really, it's a sad, safe life that

leaves a body whole.

We drop pieces behind us, wear parts away,

like words repeated until no meaning holds.

I only ever skinned my knees

   because running became fun.

   I might burn out my eyes one day

                      looking at the setting sun

                (and that would be a well-spent day).

                                                            I say “Hello” to a neighbor. “Hi”

                                              croaks back. A stiff morning voice.

                        I take his day's first words into my ears.

My memory will go, but for now it remembers this.

And what of my limbs? Not me.

Me, a pool of senses.

Clone them all? 

                         Only like me.

Or carve out my throat? 

                 Was me

        (and then just a still thing, 

                                      senseless).

A warm place...

“There's nothing business about this beer.”

I have to remind myself.

“Sometimes people just like that I'm here,”

I have to remind myself,

“Something about this-I-am is good,

Beyond what I've come to see:

A part beyond useful, helpful; that's

Enjoyable. Here in me.”

So I'm starting to teach myself,

As for a sullen child I might do,

“Just stop! Don't cry, don't doubt;

Say and know: who cares for you?”

          Who loves you in a quiet way?

    Who supports you imperfectly?

 Whose smiles do you remember,

Cast toward your eyes, for free?

“Even as you doubt them, they

Wish you well.                                       So there's a start:

                                                   Wrap their stubborn love for you

                                                     Around your stubborn heart.”

Why they discount day-old bread...

                                            “Fresh” out            of a relationship,

                                          a day                                          or two,

                                     You still have                  the echoing feeling

                                  That someone                         will kiss you soon.

                               But then,                        you're not “fresh” anymore.

                     Distinct from                        single, stable;

                    nor loved                              and bright.

                    “Don't tell me                           to get some sleep—

                    I've been singing that              song all night.”

                    Thinned (but not hungry).                     Restless and low.

                     “Fresh,” you can still                taste those words,

                      “I love you”—

                       But then nothing's by you,

                        and all seems             above you.

Bavacakra (wheel of life) ...

               "What is 

                        not me?"

     Don't ask that question 

                                    much.

I ate some food,                and I

shook some hands,           while

breathing     in a crowded room:

Her                 palm, someone's 

out-breath,   a plowman's pull.

All into   my skin, my lungs, 

my stomach  going   full.

  Little     points-of-

                        trade,
                               where I
                                        grow-                  or-        fade,      as

                                                         the         world comes to touch.

I was thinking                            so hard                   about where to draw

         The line—                      I didn't see anything          between the time

                                               I left that driveway and now,       this midway,

                                              where the road                   switches pavements.

…............................................................Rrshhhshhhrshhh—psshssshssspssh..................

                                              My! …          Was I even driving?               (if I

                                                am presence-of-mind               and       such.)

                                                I was definitely                               thinking:

                                                       “What is me?”               Don't ask

                                                            That question          much.

Botching a hug ...

I'm an Olympic-level hugger,

Usually average an 8.5.

But I fumbled you yesterday, a 3!

And I think that I know why:

Performance is half preparation;

The other half, presence-of-mind.

And I didn't know we'd be hugging;

Plus I'm weak at this 'Casual bind'.

See, my handicap is, I like you.

It trips me up when “Let's be friends”

Turns to falling in your eyes over table-tops

And taming butterflies in my head.

Now, of course—no excuses—I fumbled,

With a weak 'One-armed chin-drape.' So stiff!

But I promise, next time, a good 'Wrap-squeeze'

Or, if I land right, a 'Flat-palms half-lift.'

At a 7, your skin will feel warmer.

An 8 will make your muscles relax.

At a 9, you'll find yourself smiling.

And a 10 will br-ring chimes up your back.

As an athlete, I know my own limits:

I won't promise 10's, next we meet.

But, at least, I'll set stage for a 7.

And then train, all my heart, to increase.

Green eyes, blue eyes ...

{That day I learned my ass could break a hairbrush, 2015.}

My veins fill too tight.

I feel like a headache's coming,

Just dreaming about your hunter eyes

quick-twitching (to keep me running).

I  spent years not-sure if being

hunted'd make me stronger

—soon.

Now—

I'm nervous; heart-skin feels

stretched-thin like a water balloon,

Just wanting to step closer, so your

eyes will blur, too soft to attack again.

I spend this second remembering

how in-love, I was stronger

then.

Tinder-man ...

So.

This is me.

I'll see how long I can go

before—sorry.

_ _ _ _ _ 

I see you like chocolate?

                                                           Yes. Lol

Mm, what's your favorite?

                                                             Probly dark, with almonds :)

Mmm, chocolate and nuts. Yess.

                                                      I'm such a sucker for sweets.

Mmmm-my cock tastes like cotton candy—would you suck it?

                                                     Um. No.

I Could stick it in your bum?

Then you'd have nuts in your chocolate!

I'm kidding.

You're not that hot anyway.

Fucking tease.

I'm sorry.

This is me.

Hoarder...

I was lighting

the stove for tea

this morning.

Match-head broke off

with bright red

in its gray.

Fell on the newspaper:

black-white        turned to

                       all sorts of color;

                started flaming,               then

               ashing                                 away...

           Which would have been 

fine,      if it had been one                              on the table,

                  not  one                       on      a stack—

                       Sunday Times, magazines—

          the closest pile, with

   a horde behind it:

each taller, yellower, 

         longer      unseen

                                    (less touched,

                              more       permanent,

                             the             further down

                               they                           go).

                                        I threw water—

                                so exciting,      I had to

              catch my breath,          remembering

    child-hood;              the fresh income of play—

on Everything:                             years of “To-do” with

nothing done, except                                shift and reorganize

 the tops on piles

   that never got smaller,

        and weighed.

      That little fire 

    made the.      dent

     I never          would.

       (Always             was

               a good         frugal boy,

                       but in 

that 

instant...

“God! I am done

saving! I am done

owning! I am done

being for these things

of mine! I am not my

rubble's keeper; I want

no stores built up for me

in heaven. Just this skin.”

).

    So I began:  Not to sort,

nor to pack. No labels, no

values, no 'saving' pile;

just one type of thing,

in one direction:

rubbish.

             *

My stores got smaller,

smaller; my space

bigger, bigger.

Until I was all.

Prelude to a request ...

I live in my world

alone;

      My body, in this world

          together

                       With killers, and

                        mothers;

                       With my acts and

                       others'

          colliding and

          forgotten

like

stones.

I think about how right

I am.

         And feel angry at those who

         oppose me:

                             Who question and

                              doubt-face;

                              Inch back, then

                             about-face

          and leave like

          a tide

Off

the sand.

So I doubt, in the space

in between

                  My thought and next thought,

                  all I know.

                                    And there, for an

                                     instant,

                                     I want just to

                                    listen:

                unright, un

               wrong,

and

unseen.

I live out this body,

like you.

               We live out these bodies,

                in common.

                                    So if I'm right, maybe

                                    you are—

                                    And this gap is

                                   our scar.

              So Please,

     "help me be 

here with 

you
.”

Song of Why ...

{Melody - Click Here}

Why do people love?

                           'Cause it hurts to be alone.

And why do people care?

                         Because your pain looks like my own.

Then why don't people help?

                  'Cause sometimes it's just too far to go.

And why do people hate?

'Cause you can't love what you don't know.

                                 This life is fast and delicate,

                                     so we flinch and dodge to deal with it—

                                      we put our faith in shields and capes.

                                       And we want to believe there's some escape:

                                      to heaven, or something permanent;

                                   to a perfect and honest government;

                                to a safe and accepting society.

     

     What else do you need to know from me?

Why do people laugh?

                   Because we can't hold on to joy—

             It pours out and warms our friends,

… the same way that fear destroys.

And why are we afraid?

            Because we want to stay alive

       and, sometimes as we cling, forget

the reason we survive.

                                 All living things, the large and slight,

                                    they reach for something—plants for light,

                                      and bugs for leaves, and birds for twigs.

                                       These acts are small, but lives are big:

                                       for every goose is too a flock,

                                      and ant too a hive, and hollyhock

                                   too a field of flowers and grass. All kinds,

                               they carry each other: 

     I'm yours; you're mine.

Then why do people fight?

                             'Cause we get lost inside our selves

                           and pretend we're heroic victims

                who've earned more than living well.

       So we fight to prove we're best:

            most right, most strong, most good.

                 And then we take that space, that prize,

                       that praise—and hide the blood.

                                 So people will tell you histories,

                                    full of wars that made men enemies,

                                      and they'll say “This was the better side”

                                       where fewer were cut down and traumatized.

                                       But these made-up lines hide bandages:

                                     how we've blended traditions and languages,

                                  how the best any battle has ever done

                            was show us life is precious, and all are one.

So why do people hug?

                          Just to feel each other's breathing.

And why do you watch my eyes?

                                                      'Cause one day, I'll be leaving.

                                                           And on the day I close my doors,

                                                      I'll have nothing here inside me

                                           except echoes of the breaths I've felt—

                                  and your shining eyes—

                        to guide me.

The 7 stages of silent sages ...

“The divine is in us,” begins the sage.

“Then the less I leave in you, the more is in me,”

decrees a despot, and strikes him down.

“All religions are same,” continues the sage.

“Yes! They are not-science, not-science, not-science,”

chant the atheists, and strike him down.

“All life is shared life,” whispers the sage.

“If you want to upend the economy,”

snaps an investor, and strikes him down.

“Do they not see?” cries the sage.

“Of course we do,”

barks a Nazi, and strikes him down.

“Not see? Nazi!—that was clever,” laughs the sage.

“But offensive,”

writes a sociologist, and strikes him down.

“These offenses we feel are only tremors in a dream,” breathes the sage.

“I feel strapped to my own shit, literally; that is no dream,”

cries an infant, and strikes him down.

“Shhh! Listen. Did he say something!?” hush the students.

“,” pauses the sage with clear eyes,

and strikes them awedly.

JK Relationship Principles ...

(throwback - May 2015)

*Shout only to cover distance.

(without a careful voice, even kindly-defined words

burn off their kindness)

*Be honest with yourself about what you are saying.

(A demand decorated with 'Please,' a critique decorated with 'Thank you,'

are still a demand and a critique.

Only the simple center,

what you really mean,

resonates in your partner's heart.

So if you want to show them love

and appreciation, do it there)

* When the air feels still, ask about feelings.

(You don't have to talk about hearts when they're in sync,

but if you don't know where

your partner's heart is—

call out to it)

*When eyes look distant, talk about dreams.

(unspoken hopes

grow into discontentments;

small, hope-rewarding plans

grow into joys)

*When touch turns tedious, dedicate some time to making room.

(Moments spent in solace

revive everyone's desire to have company.

Cherish the edge of missing your partner,

so that you will never take their hand for granted.)

*You have a choice: be honest to improve this shared world,

or be honest to spread your own frustration—

endeavor for the first.

(When a puppy pees on a rug,

if you lovingly show that animal

the proper place for such acts,

it will see both your love and its own special duty.

Or, if you shake that animal vigorously

and rub its face in the mess,

it will see both your violence and its own failure to please you.

Both are honesty; one is kind.

And we are all puppies.)

*You have a choice: listen to learn more deeply about another person's experience,

or listen to find an opening for telling your own story again—

endeavor for the first.

(The longer you pay attention to a person,

the more you realize how little of their complex inner life

you can see from the surface—

you will always be a learner

in their presence.)

*You have a choice: believe that your partner knows little,

but wants you to be happy;

or believe that your partner knows everything,

and does things because they enjoy your anger with them—

act accordingly.

(Only those who claim to be mind-readers

can be held accountable for honoring your thoughts. So …

Forgive and accept slips that are not worth mentioning;

explain and redress acts that are unacceptable.

There is NO third category,

of things that need to change,

but need not be mentioned.)

*Say your piece on a topic once in a day;

from there, build on your words by actions.

(Conversations are like roads,

meant for traction.

Don't circle;

go forward.)

*Place sneezes and gas-clouds, dropped heels and swung elbows, mindfully.

(Every road in a partnership bends toward the common center:

just because your partner wasn't there

the last time you looked,

doesn't mean they aren't there now,

or won't be there soon.)

Short Poems: "you and i" ... (Nayyirah Waheed spur)

every day begins

by crushing things:

i want you this much—

bitter,

need you this much—

cream,

am you this much—

sweetsour,

closing eyes, and 

swallowing.

– breakfast

                                                                           *

every time

i shout “you are wrong”

louder, to cross the distance

i am laying out between

our breaths.

– wrong

                                                 *

now is the time

to cease breathing,

to hold nothing,

and un-learn:

grasping makes 

a closed-empty hand;

feeling makes 

a calm-growing wave,

knowing 

that all pulsing cells 

are such—

liquid.

– swim

                              *

i can only pretend 

every haircut 

is not 

also the same dream

that i am peeling away 

this wrinkle-rust coat of age

to be left with 

nothing but lessons,

a pale-fresh skin.

– shaving

                                      *

i feel 

fingertips 

laying

loose arms 

across my back,

melting down-and-out 

every hard word (and its opposite), 

every tight wish (and its muscle), until i am 

one simple thing again: a bubble, 

bound to (and rising from) 

a universe.

– hug