Crying in the dark ...

(for Neil Armstrong, the astronaut and twice-child, 1930 to 2012)

Space –

I was never afraid of you.

It was Things in the dark,

not the dark place itself

that made me scream

to my mother, at 2,

full of wet hiss

like a rocket – blaring

life and blinded breath

against the space

(growing behind

my back).

*

What were you

thinking when I

came, in my pocket,

through you?

Were you thinking

I was small (I was)

and running on

a long-held breath?

Or thinking

I was a monster,

as all things

that come through the dark:

radio-voiced and

glass-faced, one-eyed

and slow-clawing

the breathless sky,

a mesmeric sloth?

*

I left only a print

of little shoes

in the dust –

never the deep concave

a comet would –

and a curious flag –

just some art

to make my

mother proud –

and went away.

Was I a ghost, space?

Bad or good?

I fell into my ocean,

cradled and screaming.

And lucky (I became):

how many

are ever born

twice into a world?

To cough out the plug

again and breathe?

Space – I will

come back into the dark

and scream no more.

Then

will you tell me?

Back from the kingdom ...

“Don't wait for fairy tale

       Girls,” a friend said from the pond,

                                “They only dip their toes in,

                                  Like dishes: cleaned, then gone.”

                                               I said, “But there's that story.”

                                                      He grinned, “I know the one:

                                                          The bull she kissed, who left

                                                           From here a mirror of the sun,

                                                             Covered crown to foot in fur

                                                        And gold, standing upright-tall

                                                         with hands as big as we – and

                                                     skin like cream: no warts at all.

                                                 But they never told us this

                                          (it didn't make the log):

               That princess stopped kissing her prince;

        He turned back to a frog.”

No niche ...

for Patrick Micheal Ewing (take care)

When I stop,

  What then? What

   Gap do I leave?

       A gap to be filled in again.

           I will stop

                Taking, stop giving:

                 Whether well or spring, air now

                      Where the mass was living:

                                    A broad gap, at most;

                                             A small one, at least.

                                                   In time, none at all – 

                                                                   I go in peace.

Name tag ...

                                                                               So many ways to the name I've heard

                                                                           (Spoken to me once, a whisper-word:

                                                                        First “Little life,” then “son,” and then ...

                                                                   Air-ballooned far and further still again).

                                                              It spread so far from that single name:

                                                             A question, a warning, a label, a claim

                                                         From canted heads and starch-rodded fingers –

                                                     A pro-forma stonewall, a ghostly ringer

                                              Raised like me (some quivering life, unknown),

                                           But ghastly and sub-complete, overblown

                                        And misunderstood – a game-piece. Not really-me.

                                    “Oh, you know, he's just him.” So you see

                               What these names do – make us sound

                         Smooth, clear, and tonal: notes above-ground;

                       Real ground, whose hushed weight – dirty, thick –

                  Acts more like we do (not the snap, but the stick).

               So yes, I forgot it (to remember you:

            knotted, ingesting, outletting, askew) –

    For what does the name of God but this:

Gives a shallow call through a deep abyss …?

What Sounds Good ...

I'm waiting for you to hang me. {crack}

So far, you've only ever

choked me, slowly:

“Sounds good!”

And then silence.

“I can't tonight. There's ___”

Never “I don't think so.”

“I won't ever. It's YOU.”

You're waiting for me to leave.

I know, but I only never

do. I have to try:

“Until next time”

Or “How about ____?”

And always, in a week,

back like new:

“Want to grab a tea?”

I feel you retreating

in that space, and I

hope – more and more

That you'll tell me

{snap/ pop}

what's already understood.

But “Sorry, I can't tonight.

There's a meeting,

I'm going to see

my family, my

friend's in town.”

“Have fun. Until our

next gap.” “Sounds good!”

Foe ...

Looking at you, still.

Don't know what to make of it:

     I used to shake

          for the sake of it,

thinking of you. I will

     Never forget the fight you laid

          Out, which made me choose

               what I only half-knew

     I conceived: I came

          To love, for you challenged me.

               When the road lay in peace,

                    I cared my least, for every

          length came delicately

               Safe- and free-seeming.

                    Your teeth set truth

                         in this, my eyelid skin,

               my womb-float dreaming.

*

What I am now, and here, was first

     Against your press,

          and then, God bless it, for

my kin – for better, or worse.

     You had me thinking up

          To the point of Still:

               faces on hills and all not

     turning toward my voice. “What

          Friend was I, you corpses!?”

               You had me saying

                    to the gray beyond,

          where the pulse divorces,

               Where the pressure elides

                    Its intended channel.

                         Your hands drove me,

               standing in line, bold, beside

                    Men (who 'til then I'd never

                         Tried to trace), before

                              a halldoor's bell, a child's song

                    that our thorns kept clever

                         And full-flushed, playing

                              On these open hills.

                                   My arms – quilts inside – grew

                         their snarlingest nails baying

                              Through your challenge, near these

                                   Soft and precious

                                        sounds, trenching footholds

                              round what I dreamed I'd miss –

                                   Only because you came.

                                        And now you lie

                                             pumpless, dying (un-

                                   intended) this field, same

                                        As I may: gladly.

                                             “Who was waiting

                                                  to soft-sing, warm inside

                                        your arm-branched chest, my Foe?”

                                                                 (I miss you somewhat badly.)

Decorum ...

He spends time to be lasting

(doing right on the day

by preparing the night before),

saying 'Hello'

to the first students in &

smiling to the last

from a well-lit door

while they leave

into the night,

a calm face

in their minds

before them –

little warriors

of etiquette,

puzzled warm by

some decorum.

Earthbound ...

My love was never any-

thing but carnal

In a heart that was never

anything but meat.

My path was never any-

way but eyeward

In a head set on never

any base but feet.

My throat cried never a meaning

more than breathing

To an audience never further

than the sound.

 They knew I'd broke by the squeal,

  the forehead cracking;

  And prayed I'd mend on the

   salted, muddy ground;

    And needed nothing but skin-

     folds to defend this

      Proposition, no reach but hands

        on my back to pray,

               No sense but earth on my knees

                       to close the circuit:

                                   skin on skin and warm

                                                        through warm, this day.

MmmmhBum-bum ...

I was sitting in meditation

  When I heard my pulse like

 from the same place

      you'd hear a groan:

    Deep deep down, coming up,

  Making you think

  of a water pump –

   Bringing dark dark

    coldness

       up to sun.

O ...

Selfish with hugs: I wrap

   Too tight, hold on

       Too long – even

             Pit bulls wriggle out of

                            These constrictions;

                                             Children yell, “Hey!

                                                           Let me go” and scream,

                                                               That play scream, “Run

                                                                Away: he's the monster!”;

                                                         Uncles I wrestle say

                                      “He has energy, good control”

                            (not knowing that I don't

               Want to let them go).

       I loan my coat to

anyone who's cold. I

don't wash it. Not yet.

First there's to wear it:

 To bear something

     That's more than mine.

                  Worth it: driving home

                         smelling like  my  best

                           (“best” – you know, the

                                one who understands

                                 How you mean under

                                 What you say out of

                               Who you pretend

                            you are – maybe

                             why she lets

                        me take these

                    from her like

            blood, fast-thin life,

            like I do) friend.

         She fades in time

    But I hold on as long

   as I can to the scent of

  further-than-me, because

    I do come back: just-me.

       & I'm done with me.