The story ...

This was my morning:

                   I went to a Magical Creatures fair— 

      where music sifted through wrought iron stalls—

was fondled by a randy hare,

then followed an elf to where the fennel calls.

I spotted a rainbow tucked away

and new I'd find there a unicorn

  that I'd seen settled under its glow yesterday,

        held that bright beast gently near me by her horn,

                        smelled her hooves (fumes of strawberry field),

                                         her mane (like cords of woven silk).

                                                           In close, I could hear her soothing breath

                                                                               like carbonated, fizzing milk.

Others say, “It was just the farmer's market.”

Those musicians were just beggars playing tunes.

That sign “Fresh Rabbit” was over a carcass.

The old lady pointing to the fennel, was who?

Just another person, on just a drizzling day.

But I refuse—I Reject—that brutal, gory

Crushing of droplets into some flat-damp gray,

When as beads, they were sparkling. That's my story.

And it all began with a note from you, really.

That bade me look around, hunt for something

To send you—whatever I could find, storied and silly—

that lit up my dreams, gave my wet morning wings.

Moral compass ...

You know what I love about gods?

How small they can be—

A perfect thing.

                                       A wet seed splitting, unfolding

                                   Its green tongue;

                                                                    a pink scar

                                                              Blending a red-torn knee.

               A white beam through an eye,

            off a hill of sand,

                           from a star:

Close and brief; right here, then gone;

Unstoppable on its right day

                                 and built just to die.

You know what I love—really love—about you?

When we play, that feeling:

                      total, and simple-right,

Like all the soul-virtues that faithful

rituals chase (     with a hymnal tone, in a common prayer)

             Spill freshly from where we touch;

                                                            pure light.

The Afterward ...

You break my scales, 

                   shooting past 100's like they're 75's;

I exhale

       and my lungs still feel full.

Sitting on some monotone couch

                                  by you (

                                       You—more brilliant than a chem-lab fire)

Leaves me so goddam jacked 

                                        to be alive,

                                       I forget that my life

                         was never dull:

Everything fogs but your face

                    in my view.

Then it's late—like that—

    and we're tired.

So I go to my bed,

            10 miles away,

  Lie down sighing like a

                 metal-shop stove:

                Black-calm, red-hot,

       making glow what I inhale,

     Fuming toward the night sky

            (mouth stained with sun).

                              I fall asleep to

           my own heartbeat's play,

Jumping toward that vapored 

   ceiling (love-

     love-

                love):

          How did I ever

                      just sit beside

      the rainbow

           through

                                 that pale gray?

You— 

every-color in a band—

                   I'll imagine you less,

                                        once the mist goes away.

Signs of wanting ...

I really don't want to want you.

So I've decided not to.

I'm putting you in my friend box.

I curse a lot when we—                                  talk.

I touch you only when we

Bump briefly. And Never gently:

A firm pat, an elbow-ribbing,

                 Like any friend'd be giving.

I talk about people I'm dating.

You give advice—like, “Sometimes waiting

Is better, to find that right one.”

I seek your flaws while that fat sun

Turns all of you into a warm glow.

I look away,                                            “Hey, did you know

                                                      I wrote a new song?” 

“Yeah, who's it for?”

                                      “Just—no one. I was up late;

                                         felt bored.”

You mention that your birthday

Is gonna be the very First day

Of you being three decades alive.

I say, “That's great; way to survive.”

You push me, then: “You asshole.”

I rock forward, like your hands were lassos,

And then reach past you for a drink.

I smile.                           “You curse a lot around me, too,”

            I think.

Hole-y

There will be this moment in your life—

It will burn inside your nostrils,

It will lubricate your eyes—

Where all you want

Has nothing to do 

With you.

You will not want food, nor fame.

Not strength, nor “my name is”

Just someone who

Likes the flesh you

Cannibal'd together

Enough to—

Hold you like a second skeleton.

To lift away the ground you

Balance on. To cradle

Your pulse until it

Fades down low

Then gone.

When this moment is <<now>> and hurts, remember:

I wrote this with my pulse smashing, my

Eyes streaming hot. And if you'd

Been in this grotesque room—

I'd have gladly poured

my soul all down

the empty well

 in you

The balance ...

You are dirt.

You are star fire.

You are everything you hate.

You are everything you desire.

You are the water you drink,

You are the tears you cry.

You are a sprout from others' deaths.

You are a single breath, blowing by.

You are a precious-held collection.

You are a generous donation.

You are the forgotten depth.

You are the awe-striking elevation.

You are imagining you owe,

You are dreaming you deserve:

You were born to take, and grow.

You are blessed to give, and serve.

The horde ...

There are so many cool people in town.

      Strung out/

                  along/

                   between

Habits and activities,

Bling and fetishes,

Wikipedia pages and talent shows,

Glancing sideways cooly to see if you noticed

how they:

can take a smooth, deep drag;

        describe how it feels to be moved

        by the words of Camus, or DF Wallace;

can name all the shafts and strokes of an engine;

       fire-breathe into thirty yoga binds,

       finger-slide into fifty extended chords.

Scanning the room with pout-lipped detachment

for someone:

to think interestingly by,

    rev confidently with,

    modulate pitches around;

    talk culture at, make art across,

    play games against, run spice-blends by,

(or at least kiss, and not be alone beside).

It might take years of practice,

of copying in quiet,

but we could become part of this

spool that wannabes admire from a distance:

       strung among,

        strung into,

       strung between.

And we'd laugh one day,

mastering it all so we could belong,

only to find—as an expert—we love nothing more than

saying “Welcome” to an excited beginner.

We were always part of the spool.

It's a string that WANTS to be whole:

         every yard,

         every strand,

         wrapping around

books spines and tailpipes,

water bladders and Ginsu knives,

climb harnesses and loom shuttles …

just to feel the press of other strings;

to be united, bight to bitter-end.

And you will laugh, too, beginner—

parrot, poser, player, loner—

the day you realize

you were never

a different string.

Can't take credit for your best self...

Some people are work,

And leave me thinking,                      “This? I deserve a wage.”

Some people are jerks,

And tempt me to believe      “There's good reason for my rage.”

Some people miss the point,

And I find myself waaaaving it at them,                  jerkishly.

Some people disappoint,

And I find myself bitter, so friends have to do work on me.

But then some people give,

And I find myself tempted to share my own overflow.

Some people let others live,

So I fall into stillness beside them, slowly letting go.

Some people teach me kindly,

So I start seeing myself in those who need—

                                       “as I once needed, right?”

Some people laugh widely,

And I lose myself, 

               just longing to give fuel to their light.

All of those, and none, are me:

                        “You mirror, 

                                          you trampoline,

you sponge drunk-fat 

                             and empty-squeezed;

    You face echoing faces,    you loop

                returning strain and peace,

   You light charged by 

                              the oldest lights

    and at 

            each moment 

                           spilling anew.”

Practice makes perfect...

“Maybe I'll see you tomorrow,”

The boy said to his mind,

Not knowing where he was going

As he faded into blind...

Outsides didn't matter: pink >blue >dim skies

Through the window screen,

Or parents arguing >laughing >shushing

Each other, or blinks of red and green

From chargers and devices on his

Cord-crossed bedroom floor,

Or memories of news-briefs clacking:

“Heatwave?” “Depression?” “War?”

Insides didn't matter: his dreams

Might be god's or his own.

Still, every sleep was a practice death:

Eternal and alone.

"I'd like to return this compliment?"...

I miss the toilet sometimes—

marking the metal stall divider,

the hidden brick corner off Main Street,

the mossy tree trunk, the open ocean,

the infinite dream in a warm sheet

that felt better before it was wet—

I miss the moment sometimes—

when your eyes say “you're not him,”

arms fold “I'll keep these to myself,”

mind drifts “I'd like to be somewhere

else,” smile crimps “this is the

closest to our lips you'll get”—

And so I catch another compliment—

“You're great! talented, so kind,

disciplined, I could never, wow...”

consolations that hurt my ear, as it pools

the trickle from their awkward silence

“...just not someone I'd like to be near.”

And often I dream I'd say back quickly—

“You know I miss the toilet sometimes,

right? I am a tiny rough-draft, tripped up,

mis-stepped easily, and that's okay. Someone

will share tea with me sometime, then find me

ordinary, non-wow—and hug me anyway.

Standing on chairs...

As with films:

   A hundred that I bought

   and could justify in detail...

   until I watched this one—

   brilliant, foolish, and beautiful— 

   that made more than half

   of the rest seem dull and

   forced, a waste of time.

So with books:

   Sorting boxes full, I took a break

   to leaf through one—

   re-discovering a trail of words,

   a needle to the nerve of some

   clinging sense of “worth saying”—

   that made other piles of pages

   land like rough-drafts, empty hulls.

Same with mates:

   people I pretend to fit with,

   over and over, knowing

   my glossy front cover only ever slows

   their inevitable going—then comes

   a face like you, who makes me think

   the globs and folds beneath my skin might

   be worth keeping, too.

Pocket Shanti (peace)...

The middle of the coin—

                                              faceless, filled-in,

                                                           sideless in a roll or spin.

That's where I'd like to be.

In between “Give! Mine!”

and “I belong in the trash”

                              Is a place where

                                                                 I am here with you;

In between rejecting a

stupid, unfair world

And rejecting my

ugly, weak self

                  Is a place where

                                                            things are born naked

                                                             of debts or promises,

                                                     and merely are—together.

In between bitterness

and hope

         Is a place where

                                                           all things are growing;

In between rejecting dreams

as tricks that lift me only 

to drop me down,

And worries as pointless

interruptions of soothing sounds

         Is a place where

                                                       one constant opportunity

                                                      is cycling (is my halo) by,

                                       too all-over-the-atmosphere for me

                                              to catch most of it before I die,

                                              so I watch it, better and better,

                                           learning how to dig my fingers—

                                                                 as the lathe of this

                                                                  sun-stroked earth

                                                                        keeps turning.

In between too restless

and so, so heavy

                Is a place where

                                                          every animated beast—

                                                             seven-legged spider,

                                                                   rot-sedated grub;

                                                   me that wounded morning,

                                                     me this gorging evening—

                                                        comes to dance around

                                             a core

                                      called

                                                       peace.

All and With ...

The first time I thought you'd die—

Looking into your life-bright eyes, then

Down that crooked leg that made you

"Less adoptable," then up the red-penned

Bullet-board of next shelter dogs to undo—

I gushed, with a soft, tenacious heart:

“If you go on the red list, I'll put my 

Body in the door; I'll scoop you up

And take you home. My love for

You means now-and-evermore.”

Volunteers weren't allowed to say

'Killed'; it was “The humane ending

Of an animal's life,” and I wrinkle-

Faced at this—I couldn't imagine

Kindness in a needle's arresting kiss.

But next week you were homed. So I

Leaned into strange fur again: over

And over, eye after brilliant eye.

Half we found homes for; half—

Still wander back, dark forms in my...

Maybe fifty dogs, from a thousand or more,

I loved so much that my heart

Started changing: laughing and kissing,

smelling the green and scooping

The warm—instead of fearing its rearranging.

Once my heart rounded its own back—

And, like the moon, could be bright

And black at once—then its love

Tallied nothing but now-and-here,

and all and with...'til it's done.

Crossroads ...

When a road 

      comes unbraided,                                       where do I look

            To decide where                           I need to go:

                Into my heart, up              to the sky,

                      To the eyes of an old friend I know?

                           Or perhaps I'll just 

                                  daydream 

                     and trust my               feet,

            Born to run as           they       were,

And own every                           leap,     'til the 

asphalt-weeds                                          whisper,

"This                                                road? It belongs 

                                                                               to her..."

Not-Young ...

I've missed some things.

But honestly, life's too all-around-me & fast

to not  miss some things.

Every scene ever behind my head

I've missed: I turned once to

catch the throat of a noise

or spark of a bright light and

simply swapped what half-world

was lost on the faceless back of my head.

Missed a few passing seconds once

where I might maybe have done

something super-precious,

and then missed hours

in the months beyond then

imagining “Wow, I could have...”

Missed so many trades of affection—

like, evasively dodged  them—

because I or they were shy, or proud,

or obsessed with looking like

we deserve “better”

(like anything's better than “real” is).

And now I'm not-young.

But honestly, life's too over-flowing & oncoming

to not race past young...

Breathing into...

He used to be quick to anger,

                                        Though that's something you'd never know.

I looked at him, disbelieving,

                        And this made him want to laugh—

Remembering 

fist-and-forehead cracked walls,

                            Old scars still inside, half mast—

As he studied my lost eyes

                       Asking oddly, “Where

                                                                              Did your anger go?”

                                                 Looking up and to the side, 

he Hmm'd

Remembering first where his anger  

 was from:

                       That tournament or test, 

or confusion that

        felt like a threat in his chest.

His fear called to anger

  “Come.”

He looks back in my eyes,

Remembering where his anger 

went:

                            To guilt after violence; 

to slowing a pulse,

Watching others'     kindred rage      in silence—

Being with           my   

        fearful eyes, 

         not-

against.

Paw Prints...

How do you court a lone wolf—

                With bouquets of open space

                        And ballads full of quiet;

                With photos of not your face;

                With meals left on tree stumps

                        and kisses deferred as thoughts,

                Cuddles pressed into pillows and

                        Affirmations bound in knots?

How do you howl, “I'd join you”

                                      Not sounding like the bark, “BE MINE”?

                With a hundred 

                        “If you'd like to's”

                                Left in a forest of 

                                        wandering time

Filled with dreamed-dripped conversations

        And smiles 

                to a face 

                        not there?

It's a lot like being single, 

courting

        A wolf 

                through the blue 

                        night air.

Threshold...

Somewhere between your chafed fist 

                                                                               and my face, 

                                                               I see a more genuine you

—no lies,   no polish, 

 all honesty—

                                                           And I begin

                         wading through feelings in the air 

coming off your skin:

anger not at me, 

fear not about me,

distractions not by me.

                    In that moment,                 

                       I love you.

              And you become vulnerable:

 

                Predictable 

        in the path of your eyes,

       the reflex of your twitches, the

              tempo 

                       of your chest.

                                                          I guide you gently to the ground,

you making many noises 

      that sop into

                                                     my fingers like a hum.

                                                And being so 

                with your soul,

                                              I expand my center, 

                                                           rise from earth ( 

                                 which my toes breathe through 

                                                 like root-ends).

                              I look at you

                   from the back of my skull,

                     from behind my mind,

                    from a place where we

                           are so small as

                          to be the same.

                                       And I 

                       strike you

                       to shake 

                              us free.

   So you cry, and relax

     into a peace.

                                                 And if someone had asked you,

                                                      in that moment of clear,

                                                           “A violent strike?” 

        You'd

     have said, 

                                 “Not 

                                   the least.”