Mom - late 60's ...

                                                            Like
                                                  a        hanger hook,

                                              My                        chin's
                                          over your                  shoulder;

                                         Like   
                                         brittle
                                          pond
                                            ice,

                                            Carrots
                                                 in your
                                                    mouth

                                                       Echo
                                                    through
                                                   your jaw,

                                                 across my       face;

                            Like bread    under     
                                           mold,

             You are         my mom.

    You fall                                                                     asleep;

         You don't                                          want me to go.

                  You think                            I'm young;

                         I think                  you know

                            Our inclines    are

                               Inverse,
                                     but   still

                                    There's
                                          where

                                        We're from:

                             I was ball bearing-eyed

                                         Then you splinted me;

                                           scrape-kneed
                                                      and panicked

                                               So
                                                   you
                                              hummed;

                                     Oil-faced,
                                              confused, and

                                          you said
                                           I was art;

                                                Far from
                                                       your nest

                                                              but
                                                         you'll always

                                                             be
                                                       my
                                                       mom.

Hail to the king ...

“What do you want out of life?”

                   “Big to small?

In the end,    I    want    to   feel like 
    I found  my  nature  and fed it;

   I want  to have that fullness 
      in my chest when I fade away.

               And I want to be a good teacher.

        Better than what is appreciated – 
     I want to be near impossible – 
    I want to catch every small twitch &
           spark a learner brings or slips out
                and set the air quick with thinking.

                                     I want                to have a dog in my pack.
                                           I like most              all the ones I've met –
                                                   I'd like     to have one who walks
                                                 with me,    not by me. My dog,
                                               And me          his person.

                                                              I want to      kiss you, if that
                                                             other guy   wanders far enough
                                                                   afield.  If you smile at me
                                                                          Just right, I want to jump
                                                                   into that space and fill it up.

                                                               I want to get home tonight
                                                     Without any injury, easily,

                                                     And open my bed, get
                                         Warm and dream distantly
                                      of all these things
                                                         and breathe out.”

Bucket checklist ...

                                   Now, I've never

                       pulled the  lever

                    That would toss me           through the sky.

                   Just a pilot

                    in a cockpit,

                         Crossed my heart and           hoped to die

                                                            After landing

                                              my demanding

                               Steel Junebug on her strip –

                          She won't stop shaking.

                         There's no braking

                            In this air:              we'll take a dip.

                                        This is tough, love:

                                   there's so much of

                                You around me,        sound machine –

                                                            Little flaps

                                 and snaps,

                             Altimeter (that's falling           

                                                                 from the green) –

                                 and I'll miss you.

                                   I would kiss you,

                                          But I need this      mask for breathing,

                                                                   So I'm tightening it

                                                  (so frightened.       shit.):

                                             “Goodbye, my dear – I'm leaving”

Make     s           me                          bris  tle –

                   this     ,           this                     whistle      (

               That I           used to      hear just                       faintly

                     Th rough     your                          chassis) –

           now      the     blast   

                                            is

             Overwhelming, 

                                        stormish,      

                                                  saintly:

                                               All is open.

                           Pull

                                             a                

                rope                

                         and

                Bear 

                    the 

                 drag – the sheet I leaven

Coughs 

       “I've caught you”

While I watch you

    splinter, 

            fire-streaked, 

                      through 

                          heaven

                                 .

Wellness ...

                    After      a                     five  -     day                cold

          I almost     forgot    how                               to run:

slapping      my   feet                                       on the           wet beach

  like         an      obligation,

                              watching the   birds,        smiling  at    girls

       like,                                           “yeah, I enjoy this” –

            But    really I     was just     remembering

                   that I    used   to.

          “This    ground           feels   clammy,”

       “Do we have    to make it       out to the

       point today?”      and           “Oh god, then

         there's             the run    back,”

             I was         ignoring

                    myself       say.

       Then      the sun went    down,

  And the birds  were hard     to see,

   And   the rocks   were sneaking

      up under    feet      like kids

            who'd jump on

                              my back

             if I lay down.

      “Wake up, Josh!” So

     I skipped home high

… for no one

    was a-

         round

                    .

Frankie flesh ...

            Fickle was a pickle

               Who couldn't make up his mind:

            “Am I truly firm, or juice?

                  More cucumber or brine?”

      Betty was a sweaty girl

Who didn't give a damn:

“You're sliceable and crunchy

And you'll taste so good on ham.”

   Louie was a loaf of bread

         Who didn't want to dry.

“Don't slice me please!”          “Yes, beg,”

            Said Betty,             “you're moister when you cry.”

               Gladis was a head of lettuce

            Who'd started going brown:

               “They'll never throw me all away –

            They'll just keep stripping down.”

         Mustafa was a mustard jar:

            “They'll never throw you out?

                  I've been on ice a year, but

   Rarely more than shoved about.”

       Bright Nicky was a knife blade:

               “You sandwich-bound ingrates –

                  Distracted from your simple aims,
                 As Betty is now … too late!”

Nell was a stove-hot needle.

Teddy thread synched in her eye

       While Billy blood  

                             blessed 

                                         the 

                                          damned 

                                                       sandwich:

                                           “... and trashes 

                                                                   to 

                                                                       trashes – 

                                                                      good

                                                                              bye.”

Limbo ...

The space … makes addicts of us all.

           Obsession is the only cement

    Can infill the difference between

The amount I can theory

 And the truth that came/went,

             Small and marvelous (

            a hundred maybes flowering

                     In the space between

                   the chase … and the

                           devouring:

                             I'd like to have you,

                            real as you are, 

                                                  but can't

                                  stop you from may-

                                  being a 

                                              monster ...

                                           and 

                                                a 

                                                   star )

                                                             .

Coming down ...

                                                                  London Bridge

                                                     With a cold

                                               The railroad track

                                            The mountain

                                         To my level

                                          From a high

                                           The wall

                                               The water fountain

                                                            The itsy-bitsy spider

                                                                      The shit-storm

                                                                          Bitter rain

                                                  Off a high horse

                                       What goes up

                                    must (we know) again

                                          Like a bolt

                                               Hard and fast

                                                           With my foot

                                                     “Thou shalt not pass”

                                                      A castle on sand

                                     An aisle, hand-in-hand