Priorities ...

(Battling the flu. Thinking of Lao Tzu's Tao Te Ching, number 5: 

“Heaven-and-Earth is impartial; / It treats all things as sacrificial straw-dogs. / 

The sage, too, is impartial; / He treats all people as sacrificial straw-dogs. / 

The space between Heaven and Earth seems a / Bellows: it is empty, and yet it is inexhaustible; / 

The more it works, the more comes out. / Whereas more words count less. / Better to hold fast to your center.”)

Giving up

Inside the flu—

Nothing so natural to do

As slow my heart, unbind my head

In a bundled still, in an anywhere bed.

I fell asleep on the floor after lunch,

Rug wet by my opened mouth.

Didn't mind much. I wasn't

mind-into anything really:

I still liked my room, but
The space seemed silly;

Still collected music,

But it hurt to listen;

Still called my lady,

But we weren't kissing.

I speak this dream to no one, still I let it enter.

Better to be silent—and hold close to the center:

My tongue's a spoon, my hand a cup,

Everything pours in after

Giving up.

Relationship Dissolving: (a character study, in 3 acts) ...

9 MONTHS UNTIL ...

“Rotten Cherry (or: professionals and amateurs)”

We both say        “I love you,”     but

We mean        different    things.

She goes,                                                  “There's no other man like you,   for me.”

And I go,                         “There's never been     anyone else.”

She goes,                                                  “You have to be less sensitive.

                                                      I've Never been with someone 

                                                where nerves was a problem.”

And all I can say 

back is second-hand scholarship:

                                                     “Sex is a reflection 

                                                 of the relationship.

                                     Maybe it's the way we—”

And she goes,      “No, it's not. Christian and I

                             had a horrible relationship, 

                                   but the sex was great.”

And I go, 

                                                    “Oh—oh.”

5 MONTHS UNTIL...

“The Break (or: feeling apart, before being apart)”

When we first started out,

        I believed this was true:

              “I'm just not good enough for you.”

I was so immature

         and had so much baggage;

                 so little experience, 

                                      and so poorly managed.

Now I manage my tone,

         I keep still, and I see

                 a thrash rising in you 

                                             as it's fading 

                                                               from          me.

You are so good in war,

         but so quick out of peace;

                 what I needed

                                  from you then, 

                                      now I want     in you

                                                                                 least:

When you judge and you doubt

         what I am and I give,

                 when you 

                            “I just    don't care” 

                                    at my         “Live and

                                                                           let live,”

When your name-calling cuts

         meet my guard dropping down, I

                 feel      peaceful—

                                  like   a     fighter 

                                        forfeiting

                                                             mid-round.

Peace from what? From out of us;

         for your fists lifted me

                 to such 

                       a sharp,    clear-  eyed 

                                                     calm—

                                       that I've let my

                                                      grip free.

… THE FIRST MINUTE.

“Love (the beginning)”

I knew it when I walked out the door:

                                                                                      That's what being in love is like.

Not knowing how good you have it.

                                                                                      (That's what being in love is like.)

Feeling like you're perfect.

                                                                                 (That's what being in love is like.)

Because she believes you're worth it.

                                                                        (That's what being in love is like.)

And thinking things could be better;

                                                             (That's what being in love is like.)

That, perhaps, we slow each other down, together.

                                                        (That's what being in love is like.)

Saying, “Maybe we should take a break for a bit.”

                                                      (That's what being in love is like.)

Hearing, “Do I love you too much? Am I mean? Am I shit?”

                                                         (That's what being in love is like.)

And trying to pretend, “I didn't mean to say—”

                                                                  (That's what being in love is like.)

As she breathes, “Let's never speak again, but I love you anyway.”

                                                                                  That's what being in love is like.

Reform of a micromanager ...

It was midnight. ...

No, that's a lie;            the time was two.

                                     It had been midnight

                         two hours ago.               

                           Now that is true.

I was in the kitchen. ...

Well,                           I was looking through the hall

                              at          the metal refrigerator

                  reflecting on the kitchen wall

like a spotlight in the darkness (

Well, in the dim-lit corner space

that I seldom ever     bothered with.
Such a dull   and empty place. …

                    But then,       it was exciting –

                                                with that light, 

                              and a little move

          where the fan flipped air

at the chandelier, 

                            making light beams jitter, too).

So I stood up, 

                                                    and I stepped

                                                       in close. 

Then I stopped; 

                          my eyes couldn't see

                        the dancing light. 

So I stepped

back again, 

                  and it rolled 

                right off 

            of 

  me.

They call the toilet a throne ...

I know what you're     thinking.

     But it isn't   true.

There is no      escape waiting

                outside of you.

      You may think        it's your phone

  that slows you down.

        But even your    face

can be distant,        and static-drowned.

  You may think your     rusted car

                                           makes you seem   cheap.

            But there's a thief-owned lawyer

who drives a crimson Jeep

You may think                                                you could do

better than                                             your  lover.

But you'll always be                     the   closer

half under your                    bed    covers.

Did you taste that, feel this, mean it? Maybe

not today.        Tomorrow, though.

For what is this, or that, or it?

Not you:         that's for sure, 

                               you know.

The corner ...

Sometimes I hate the corner,

full of things, half forgotten,

silverfish-gnawed and water rotten,

turning into surprises, wrapped

in skin flakes, hair, and that—

that unspoken dictate, “Unmoved,

old-parts of us decay, making room.”

Sometimes I love the corner

in a moment of lifts and flings,

where “I remember this” briefly

as I dust it off, imagining—

The fresh-cell crunch of a hand-held

lilac blossom, purple, with

a green bug blotting the midst

of a single-day luminous, sheltering

bract. In a panic, I asked “Mum,

can I run back quickly, to where it's from?

”“Where—back in time?...” She laughed, 'No,'

and smiling held me—so “Let it go”

I said to my grip. (But yes, ma,

there I meant)

                      I let it slip.

                                       it went.

The turn-around stick ...

Phoo,                           phoo, 

                     phoo,                        phoo

my feet on dust. 

                                Don't       look at them much –

                                                          only when 

                                                                             jumping the curb.

                                                                    Mostly I see my forward hand –

                                                       loose like a swollen jaw,

                                               dripping off the pinky,

                   a stalactite off my back-swing.

                                                                                Also the ground upcoming –

                                                                           six or seven strides ahead

                                                          is about right to plan for.

                                        And in my head, I see

             the turn-around stick.

Planted by the fresh black

                  asphalt patch, conspicuous

                                    as a skin graft, where

                                               I used to hear cars hit

                                                                                            thum...

                                                                           thum-thum...

                                                                                                  thum...

                                                                                             thum

some dodging, some not,

                    the crumpled hole.

              Its sound would call to me,

                             5 miles from home,                               “here you'll be

                                                                                    far enough, done.” 

                           And I could touch

                                   that stake, leave a finger-drop fresh

             on the wood.             Then, SHHhhhh...

The balls of two feet 

                                            semi-circling.

                             Ten toe-pads grab-grinding.

                                                      And in 

                                           my head,                            

                             home.