Virunga ...

             For money,                                                              they'll put holes through a home.

But I raised the apes                                                                    whose beds

                                                                                                       They'll bore. 

So I'm loading   a gun.                                                                      And

          I will catch bullets                                                               until I breathe 

                                                                                                      no more.

                      From a distance,                                                 what is a gorilla?

           Nothing but black leather                                            shuffling.

                                For an instant,                                      what is a gorilla?

                      Nothing but pounding                                 and huffing.

                             Without touching or                        watching them 

                                                                                             closely,

                                  Primates' lives seem 

                                             too shit-filled to

                                                                          Treasure. 

                                    When oil, ore, stones under-earth

                                     can be traded—their whole weight

                                         —for pleasure.

                                           But from a touch, what is 

                                                                           a gorilla?

                                        Loving and playing, 

                                                              intelligent power.

                                                For decades, what is 

                                                                     a gorilla?

                                               Growing and learning, 

                                             month,           day,    hour.

                              In an instant, from a distance, a man

                                                      Can aim, can make a gorilla 

                                                                                                  fall. But if

                            He never comes closer      with his senses

                                                                                       Than that, 

                                                                                            is he being a 

                                                                                           human 

                                                                                       at all?

Myself in the distance ...

Green shadows                                              gray                                   away,

            lighter and                              lighter                                  until

                   the fog seems             everyth                          ing.

          Each           tree is just a tree;

             every             row, a row.                                            Yet

                        the more       I see                  of        all

                                     the less             of each      I   (think
                                         I)                     know:

                                         I see      leaves,    so  close

                                              on the   nearest    one—

                                             smooth-topped  and

                                                 fuzzy-backed,     catch                       ing

              a                              veiled sun.    And   dry                ing

                lo       wer-           branches, thin   and

                  brit          tle           brown, that

                       must itch      before                    they

                              fall off,    I'm                imagin    ing.

                                      One   known    tree. 

                                                              Short,

                                           by the    measure of 

                                             those at its side. 

                                              And

                                                       me. Not even 

                                               tall enough

                                               to be        part of that 

                                                      towering line.

                                             I could cut them all

                                              down; make them

                                            square   towers. Still,

                                           what       a small life

                                                                    is mine.

Dominestication (song) ...

If you want love,

you've just got to remind me,

what is my name?

And are you gonna tie me

up with them chains

all along the ceiling?

Call me insane,

but I get a loving feeling

from you

when you

whisper

to me

bla-l-la-l-la-l-la-lah.

What's a safe word?

And will I have to use it?

Are you a bird,

or the cat who would abuse it?

Girl, I don't mind

flying in the deep end

long as I can

recover by the end of the weekend.

I want

you more

than my

perfect

skin.

[instru.]

Take off my tie,

and everything that's regal;

I never feel good,

until you strip away what's evil

You grab a knife;

I'm afraid you're gonna land it

into my thigh,

but you just make me a sandwich.

You turn

my heart

up red,

like a

stove.

You're al-

ways on

top 'cause

your a-

bove.

Is this

pain, or

Dharma,

is this

love?

Motivation ...

Whether or not     I    disappear

into the unimportant    and      forgotten

in the moment,      the month,      the          year

after my mind    and/or body     goes    rotten;

whether or not 

                          I win that      

                                     annual prize,

and steal applause 

       from award-night captives

forced by free food 

                        to lend me 

                             their eyes

while I say something 

  gratefully vapid;

whether or not I kiss 

                       that peak

of my potential 

                    to be so 

                        inspiring,

             to woo a village 

                 through the words I 

                                       speak

             toward more calm 

    and undesiring

                              innards through 

                     my face and fingers –

still I'll have cast forth 

a life of trying

                                          to best myself, 

                                           which will linger

                                                          behind me

                                                   like fairy-dust 

                                                                for

                                                       those                later-

                                        to- dying.

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.