The Garden...

When my ex looks sad,

I feel sorry for her.

                                                        Then she acts mad, and

                                                     I feel relieved that we're apart.

Then my ex texts “I miss

you,” and part of me lights up—

                                                   like   “Yes, I miss you, too. And

                                                you're always in my heart.”

When my ex grows distant, I

find my thoughts flying forward

                                                        and finally I can look into

                                                          a new date's face, lost in their eyes.

When my ex goes silent,

  I may still have conversations

                                                    with her echoes, half-transparent

                                                    in my mind. 

                                                               These are goodbyes.

When my friend says 

                                                      “Your ex is going

                                               to lots of ballgames with 

                                                     her new boyfriend,”

my fingers rush 

the search keys:

                                        “Aggh—somewheeere...

                                                             here's a link.”

                                                                                                         He has kind eyes, 

                                                                                                           a truck; likes sports

                                                                                  and drinks: all things I'd wished with

                                                                                                   love she'd find out there, 

                                                                                                             outside of me.

(At least, I think...)

When my ex is happy,

                                                        in my imagination hole,

                                                  part of me starts feeling chilly

                                                  and drawn back once again.

Of course, that passes, 

but I still translate

what it means for me inside: 

                                                        that I never stopped

                                                            watering these roots, 

no matter how many    new seeds and shoots      have crisscrossed my soil since then.

At the End (come the plow) ...

What would matter,

when     taking a life:

if    handed a   hatchet  and

told,          “This needs to be done.”

Of course,                            swiftness matters;

striking deep,         bleeding quick.

But                      past that,

one thing matters. One:

Where is your heart

when its blood drains, when

conscious          goes black? That is

our last gift                  in life:             the passing.

And if I'm       there, holding

flesh when it cools, then

I want to lower you

resting,   not     crashing.

I won't care            about                  “justice”           then,

or vengeance or    punishing    shame.

I'll care about life, when life I take—

not how you lived before—

                   how you end today.

Life is ever only a single-sighted folly;

Death, often pressed on bodies craving to be.

So, to kill kindly, I'll melt your and my distractions—

so we're see/hear/smell/touch/tasting—before I send you away.

Which raises, in my passing,                                    what would matter to me?

I dream I would call on all of my days,

and drink one last time every smile I can see,

every call to my ear, every         warm kiss        on skin,

surprise scent on breeze, and tingle over tongue.

Then I would return—to be here, to be now—

If I were the worm, and you were the plow

                                                                pressing in.

Ending a life is,     a simple    basic deed:

let out enough blood,      keep out enough air,     or

cut enough connections that a center

un-spools     its bound-up nest      of will.

And simple,     what that brings:            a dreamless rest?

A dissolving latch      

between eye

and vision,

    lung and 

           breath,

       muscle and 

                strength, 

 neuron-banks      and

                                           a 'kill.'

Loneliness...

She wanted the right man.

                                           “I hate

                  shallow and judgmental fools,”

she printed on her profile. 

                                           “No

                  douchebags please. Here I wait.”

That right man glanced over—prepared

to embrace her interests, humor, soul—

“Such perfect words!” he swooned, “I know

I must not leave her waiting there ...

With such high standards, and confidence

that her purse-lipped selfies alone now inspire

me to write 

                                         'I love your personality! Your fire!

         For I TOO am filled with hate for hate! 

      And I sense

   That together, we could non-shallowly parade

   through our city, shaming all bags-of-douche

   and flaunting before them the flawless truth:

   that we are non-judgmental, for God has made

   A woman like you, and a man like myself,

   who grow more in love each time we confess

   to each other how humble and righteously blessed

   we are—sometimes victims of someone else,

   In which case we'll be cruel, but it's justified—

   but when times are hard, and life is demanding,

   we pick up our toolbox: proactively rebranding

   our challenges and needs as faults in those outside.

   And that is how we stay happy together.

   We never fight, nor point out what the other lacks—

   I mean, true, Tammy: your profile begins with attacks—

   but in a long-term relationship? 

  I'm sure you would never...'”

He laughed, and then deleted it all away,

“Don't be a douchebag, she did say please.”

On her end, she saw typing dots … then they ceased.

“Pff,” she balked, “Another fool, another day.”

Niceness...

                                  Sure,       we        will

                  suffocate

on our own

pollution—

Not because of

selfish  short-sight

(we see where we're going)

but because of “nice”:

Not wanting to step

out of affiliation-lines

and say, “This line moves

in a useless 

                   direction,

wastes healthy 

                       legs

and precious 

                    time.

Who     started

this line?    We

should

be     done 

with it.”

     And because

      minority madmen—

       not impulsive or      naive

        (they know what they do:

          leeching     infant

                 tomorrow-veins

             to         invest         in a

                MASSIVE     FOOT

                   they can    lift-and-

                      drop,          to feel

                        power,    to echo

                            infinite

                               through    the

                                        universe)

                                         —    They

                                             know.

That if            they

act     like      those

in          the    line,

smiling           and

well-dressed with

polite   questions

   and         happy

handshakes, they

     can     control

that              line.

    Because     no

one nice  would

     ever       dare

            step out,

      to challenge

       a    smiling

   big          foot

hand- out   guy.

Small Planet... (purpose wants no praise)

They told me I'm a bright star.

But what do astronomers know?

They don't feel the pressure inside:

The weight of being a fire-tide,

The coming collapse, and

The big black hole.

If I pull my neighbors in spiral-tight,

or let water on their pink-rock skin

Turn silver-gray and crystalline,

Or flare their plush plants wilt-brown thin,

What do the astronomers feel?

A little lens-light around

Their retina-wheel.

I don't bulge large inside this dance

For love of hearing, “Oh beautiful light!”

I persist because this is my face—

Gathered together out of dust and grace—

To know of nothing, but to burn

in place. Because it's right.

Anything more is a lab-coated dream:

Logging and tracking, then to say what “should be.”

But where is their child? Nowhere near their lips.

Their lover? Loosing memory of their finger tips.

Were they born to squint at my light like this?

No, NO, no—they were born like me:

To form, catch fire, and then (with bright cores)

be. Not know, not say (those gases

burn away, small planet) … be.

If I say one thing (Who you gonna love?) {song}

I was—skating along,

Minding my own business,         but

Then I heard a dove—coo by another dove:

In a world full of pain,          and

Joys that you share with us,

Who would keep ne-earest;

Who you gonna love?

             Would you love someone who

             Straight-up abuse you—

             Blame and accuse you, Tell you you're dumb—

             

Or 

                   would you choose a face who,

             When they lock eyes with ya',

             It's to learn the insides of ya',

             To see where you're from?

So I'm—skating along,

Minding my own business,      but

Those birds keep poppin' in my brain, ticklin' my blood:

In a world full of pain,       and

Joys that shake us apart,

Where do you rest your heart;

Who you gonna love?

             Would you love someone who

             Doesn't understand you?

             They might hold you hand, b't their arm's a million miles long...

             

Or 

                   would you walk a room with

             Someone who shares that scene;

             Even no words or touch between,

             They know the page you're on?

So I'm—skating along,

Minding my own business,           but

“Who you gonna love? Who you go-onna love?”

In a world full of pain,         and

Joys that you hold inside,

When do those wings go wide;

Who you gonna love?

             Would you love someone who

             Doesn't accept you;

             Tries to fix and correct you, tells you you're wrong?

             

Or 

                   would you brave these days with

             Someone whose humble sight

             Knows there's a million ways to 'right';

             T' harmonize with your song.

[instrumental:]

So I'll keep—skating along, just

Minding my own business,       but

“Who you gonna love? Who you go-onna love?”

In a world full of pain,      and

Joys that you share with us,

Who would keep ne-earest;

Who you gonna love?

I said, Whooo—

you gonna love?       

                              Darlin',

Who—

are you 

             goin'—

                       to-o

                          Lo-o-ove?