Common Cold...

The permeable self,

a counterpoint to loneliness:

        You-you-you       and          me-me-me are

flaps running laps        on                 a union lung.

I sneeze, and a       glom of                     your eyes

channel             toward my                             gums.

“Bless you,” bless me:

shame-trained      so                                            long

that      being with                                               feels 

like  being                                                overcome.

What other                                       parts of self

surprise me                    when         they hit?

Sensations        I feel       drawn into

And tensions I resist,

Echoes of                                        touch I hunger for

And aftertastes I spit.

                                                                    If you-you-you keep 

                                                                    all these too,

                                                               where did loneliness sneak in?

                                                   On the flipsides: allergic fears

                                      and cowering cradle-age memories—

                       throat locked-up and touch-numbed—

       where distance becomes disease.

Someone else sneezes.

               A pigeon's gray cape.

                    A flag's lapping tongue.

                        A breathy shuddering tree.

                           Everything, such us—us.

                           Spreading large on the universe's breath.

                       A glom of eyes go there, here, off,

                   But no pair goes alone—

     All following noises,

         Sniffing through noses

          Each other:

       Thusly and so...

Certain Bodies...

In the dance of a crowd,

going around-and-to,

most bodies are easy to pass—

but then there's you.

Certain bodies

have gravity,

and take work 

not to press into:

I shook your hand,

that looks, in a photograph,

like any person's hands (skin with

hard nails, funny folds, palms damp, knuckles dry).

But wrapped in my fingers it felt strong and—I don't know,

real?      Not   inert        clay

to squish            and             pass         by.

I stood so close that

your head,               for a long breath,

was floating                             timed with mine

(two tree tops,                                    caught in a breeze)—

I was so present then;

I didn't think of Me as there,

but a gooey part of the Everywhere,

with You. I did not fear its end.

For a day or two, I

carried that calm inside,

that your body sprang in mine

(right as nature, boundary-melting

as time), but now—like an infant,

when a song stops—

my thoughts grow loud;

reaching, divining, for

your magnetic peace

as I dance through

a blurry crowd.....

The Saddest Mammoth...

I saw the end                                 in my parents' eyes,

long before I fell today.

They looked at me as if 

       “We made you for a world 

         that will not stay...”

I did not know what I was missing,

Just watched the water—

                                          sometimes enough

To shake the chamber 

of my deep nose in rapture—

But never to fully purify that sour, foam-lipped slush.

I saw the pattern,                                    like my parents had;

Continued watching,                                 like they had done;

Wanted to make a child,                                 like I had been.

But she and I were too,      too weak      to create another one.

My parents did not    simply die;             they tremble-legged

And face-first              crumpled,

Rolling up their                dust-yellow                         eyes.

  Then others'                             children,

    too hungry                      to grow.

     Then my cow,

      who'd made me                                                        a bull—

     I watched her fur split      

                                                like   soft fruit             under flies.

          And then I felt                    what I had                     watched.

           With no one                     watching              me           to learn.

           “So a mammoth                                                              breathes;

            Breathe beyond          my                                 life.           Last...”

             No: I slumped         over                                     mixed   bones,

               Final                                                                   in    the herd,

                           And        dizzied  down       to join them,

                                                  Every other in the past

That Altar was an Outhouse...

                                                                                             You said once,

                                                             “None of us are heroes.”

                                    I think that's where heroes start:

Watching day-after-day of my falling shits

A hundred times outweighing the flesh called “Me”;

Tasting      too      many     repeats    of

“I know this is going to hurt you, love,

But can't help it, just have to see...”

This back-piling self-disgust that

Will finally rob me of rest,

push my accident of a life

To crawl exhausted

Toward the peace of

Simply serving

Some  one

Else's light.

Heroes all seem to know what a violent lie it is

To deny their overwhelming mass

And exalt their brightest part;

Only frauds seem to forget their shit,

                           And believe “I'm a hero”

                                                           In their heart.

Collecting...

I used to collect lots of things:

bottles, 

          books, 

            toys, 

       caps,

yogurt lids (dozens), 

water jug spigots (hundreds),

radio-show recordings, 

        lingerie catalogs,

Halloween masks,  

birthday cards,

  fingernails (for a few months),

           workout sweat (one summer),

        a can of chains, 

 a drawer of blades.

          Photos of my sickness 

                  (these muscles, those ribs).

                  Measures of my time 

                         (pounds lifted, percent lean mass):

             There was always a 

   reason  (

                                                  lids fly like 

                                                            frisbees, bottles whistle,

                                                  I can breathe through 

                                                            a spigot,

                                                  fingernails shk-a-shk 

                                                            in a can, sweat is 

                                                  oily tea-colored inside 

                                                  a glass bottle

                 ) always a reason

                   to hold on.

                       But I never convinced myself 

              with things:

                       that I matter,

                              I'm content,

                                want to smile,

                              today was complete, well-spent...

                                                                weightless things, the opposite

                      Of metal plates 

                           or     plastic disks     or 

                                      salty drips.

                                                                       So I still collect:

                                                                           In-breaths,

                                                                    long hugs,

                                                                     quiet 

                                                      moments

                                          where trees 

                                      shake

not at all like sickness.

I carry them in 

my heart.

They aren't heavy