Having ...

( if you want a song playing in the background - watch this for 1min20, then start reading
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MejbOFk7H6c )

We have to imagine

          what we want

Within the bounds

Of evidence:

          I know you're sleeping.

                    That's why you don't

          feel hungry think-

                                    ing of me like

                                         I imagine you'd like

                                                                      to. For we

          Can't control what

          We dream, asleep:

          we can only plow

               the topsoil into

          The fields we want.

                         All the rest is

          Deep and set, dense like bed-

                                             rock (it quakes

                                   When it has to

                    & stays def-mute

Otherwise). Drills can make

               Wells, but they

               fill with blood. So

               We imagine:

On the surface, I see

          you smiling,

               Wanting to fly

                    Over and say,

       “God, Josh – you're lovely. How

                               Could you be

                          alone, slipping

                         into a dream? ”

All it takes ...

All it takes is a microbe –

Just one that lives,

          That knows the way

          To my brain.

     Or through these muscles.

( Or more, then: one of each.

They could grow

total and glorious

together: )

          Making my brain swell –

          So my mind doesn't know

          Why I am slowly more

          And more afraid

          Of an ocean that used to

          Make its tiding heart sing,

          Of the water that was

          The only thing

          Pure enough to

          To crane this back

          Aright on a

          burnt day.

          ( In 3 to 7 weeks

          That first begins.

     In 7 to 21 days

     This last leads in: )

     Severing the link between –

     My muscles do not hear

     My brain calling “relax”

     And, irritable in that silence,

     They pull: my stomach cobbles;

     Neck shudders; chest begins

     To tear, lock by lock

     Of red fiber; then my back

     arcs in an untempered curve

     And, at its

     furthest angles,

     cracks.

( Timed right, I could feel them

Coming together: )

     Breaking me, the animal –

     Taking my air out

     In spasms of uncontrol –

          While making me an animal –

          Beyond thought or reason,

          A living lash of soul

          Upon the senses (the peaks

          Of giddy quivering and

          burrows of sad weight

     that made me). If tetanus

     ever collects my flesh,

          please donate

          my mind

          to rabies.

Sticky note ...

                                                   Never forget

                                   where you are

  when you notice
that your hand

        has been

              settled

          on your face

for 10 minutes (

   or an hour).                 Never

         let go of the times

that show you (

 how far past

                           knowing it)
 you are here

 with yourself.

 Go to a mirror

 or a wide eye &

                                         look – or just

              reach back

                          up &

                               feel

                          your face,

                         still red warm,

                          warm and sticky,

                            contented.                                     Remember

                                  what you do to the things

                                         you touch: the things you touch

                                                                                                       Remember.

One little now ...

          [A cautionary tale. ]

This is like the sound inside:

[all] to a point: “Stick it in.” Pull, rend, score, dig, beat,

  claw – “No!” Suck a breath. Give it back hot. Laugh.

          [nothing] Huff. Roll eyes right, up. Swallow.

          “You're weak.” Shame. “Poor me.” Stupid.

    “No.” hate. Fault. Crack a neck joint.

  Apologize. Shake head. Blink.

[just] Roll eyes left. Wrist crack.

Hungry. Lick lips. No,

Thirsty. Have to pee.

Laugh at the design.

[new] Air. Hair moves, tree

  moves. Sign creaks, hinged

    on a traffic light bough. Could fall.

          [old] Won't. As with me, as with trees, some

          flex tips a sign toward enduring. “Could do with

  [too far] Some oil, though.” Lord, I think sometimes elegant,

useful truths. Still I am too stiff; I do not bring oil. I am

[& all] such a waste of me. Stick it in.

Stand slowly ...

I waved goodbye – that was the arm she bit.

But the surface was only the glance of it

(two holes bleeding & a dog sitting, calm –

I knew she wasn't, well before I stood):

“She must sense something about you –

She would normally be barking, snapping.

I mean, she's never bitten, but – you know –

She tries to keep unfamiliar things at a distance.

Found her wandering in the desert when she

Was 10 months old – nobody knows for how long

Or what happened. But she's very withdrawn.

We've been doing acupuncture, jasmine,

many things. This is impressive.”

“Yes – she's very tense. I can feel it.”

Still, I stood to leave like she was a calm dog –

And on the surface, to anyone far away,

She was. And faster firm than my arm was soft,

She touched me with her eye-tooth hooks.

The top-side is fine, but the hole

By the flexor tendons aches.

Perhaps she just wanted

to pass along the feeling –

We connected, and I think

I catch her meaning:

“It's deeper

than it looks.”

Cramped, quiet, powder-dusted cannonball ...

Hate to wait;

Hate being patient.

Does that mean I'm not?

Or just that I wait (too much) a lot?

     Hate to ache;

     Hate being stoic.

     Does this make me weak?

     Or does 'stoic' feel and then not speak?

               Hate to want:

               Hate being lonely.

               But before I had friends,

               I didn't miss them: lonelier? Depends.

                                        Hate to not:

                                        Hate unfulfilling.

                                        Am I wasting in this hate?

                                        Or might it fire me out – beyond my rusted weight?