The nameless now (like this) ...

“Give me your hand,”

she said;                                                         I thought

she was a palm reader.                         But

no, she'd fallen into a stale

Summer job.                   Still wearing

a plastic name-tag        from

that   movie theater.

“Your hand,”          she held out

her own,                 waiting firmly.

So I added my                palm to her

finger curves.                    Then she spun

away,                           taking back

her face          (but keeping

my hand in hers).

So I found myself

with that one                            arm kidnapped,

growing warm                       on her

waist.                          “And the other one,” 

she said,             reaching over

her shoulder,         expectantly

returning half                  her face.

So I gave up my                last palm;

she placed it on                  her collar,

drew it down                          along

her sternum, to rest     on her ribs.

At this point,         I spoke up:

“What's your name?”

She whispered                                   “This,”

her short-ribs humming:                       “I watch

couples,           day on day,               sitting down

in the same felt-walled                   abyss,

staring toward           projector lights.

But not really, right?                                They

all go in like this:                              for this.

Just for this.” An hour like them, we stayed.

Finally, I broke the lock,               “I have to

go. But                             what's your name?”

“Nope,”                                               she held.

“First?”                                                   “No.” 

“Middle?”                     “...Just,” she breathed.

“Your last name, then. It's—?”          

                                                                “This.”

I laughed, 

                                                but she didn't.

Serene.

                                   Still I hear her:

“Nope. 

         No.

                           Just this.”

Trinity (love, accept, understand) ...

                                                Here's a test, 

if you're up tonight

        wondering if your relationship 

             is really “working right.”

            If not, am I to blame, 

                      or are they?

                                                  That won't find you 

                             anything useful, either way.

Blame, shame, and insults scream

               “I desire! I was planning on …

                     when I look at you,

                          I dream…”

                                                          But in those self-sorry 

                heckling-howls, we hide         

                                     the pink-juicy needs that—

                     fuckin'—everyone holds inside.

Those vitamins that we all want. Right? 

         Place those in your hand.

                     Look there:

        "Do I love, accept, and understand?"                          Look out—

                                      "Do I feel loved, accepted, understood?"

                        This life is not about “Working Right.”

                               It's about feeling 

    (and becoming) Good.

                * * *

                            Love! Is that selfless, aching part

                                       that we call “caring” “attaching”

                                                 “Your heart? moves my heart.”

                                                                You'll bump into love:
                                   someone, sometimes,  forgets themselves … 

                                         lifting your boxes, your sullen cheeks—

                                                               just to keep you well.

                               This is so basic: a desire to simply see 

                                                you flower into what

                                   you were meant to be.

Acceptance! Is that deep-eyed, calming trust 

                               that you—as you are—are enough;

                                                                that if I turn to dust,

                                                             you will carry on, being

                                                     good and worth it in this place.

                We call that “tenderness,” “respect,” “a safe embrace,”

                                 When someone leaves you the whole field 

                                                 to fall, learn, stand up, grow!

                    Patient as you rise from the ground; eager

                    to hear what you've come to know.

     Understanding! Comes from dipping—again and again—

                      into your universe: “It's always different from mine! 

                                                          So what did you feel, just then?”

                                               You'll notice this when someone doesn't 

                                                                                catch your meaning,

                                                                 And instead of just shrugging

                                        “I'm apart from your act / thought / feeling,”

              they inch nearer by your side (without scales for judging)
                                        just to know: a piece of you, like me,

                                                     too full to ever fully see. 

         We call this “presence,” “empathy,” “home.”

                             * * *

                      So here's a test,

                         if you're up tonight,

                wondering if your relationships 

                   are really “working right.”

Look in your own goddam hand:

                     “Do I love, accept, and understand?”

                There is No One to hate, or reject, 

   or dismiss. Now touch your own lips—

                                     be the first

                            one you kiss.

Big Front Door (song)...

Trucks on the road, loaded with beams

Two houses high.

Kids always laugh

When power rolls by.

Parents, they sigh, woken by noise.

They're workers by day:
Victims, accomplices—

One and the same.

I remember

dreaming my life

was up to me; they said “A-B-C –

which spot would you

like to fill in?”

Back then I was blind, so I got in line.

But now I see …

*

I am love, I am peace, I am heart and will.

And I work with my friends, and we fuel your hill.

You have bought this machine, but we pull its oar.

And we've rowed; now we'll climb to your big front door.

You make the parts, I write the code,

and others take calls.

Stuck in our place,

kept blind to the whole.

Carrying pictures, cats dogs and families,

cut-outs of dreams:

to cool my veins,

and remind me to breathe.

I can feel that

choir of young eyes

begging me to reassure.

But I can't say “It's

okay,” to my

own tired face, into the glass

behind this door …

*

I was born shining-eyed, then you bought my time – 

even health, even sleep – are these hands not mine?

And you'll push and you'll drive 'til I taste that floor.

Still I'll come, and I'll stand at your big front door.

You call down the police; now they scare my son.

Then you laze and you thieve, and you call me one.

You draw lines with your words, and you beg for war.

Still we'll come, open armed, to your big front door.

I remember

when “One nation”

was a pledge I knew. We'd shout it, too:

All of us

together, calling

“Indivisible.” Our lungs were full.

We made it true … 

*

You can see we're in pain; you shout, “Earn your way.”

So we step on your path; you shout, “Private! Stay!”

Press me back, push me hard, 'til I'm an open sore.

Still I'll come, just to bleed at your big front door.

Simple truths, Fair and Right, you divide Blue-Red.

Equal hearts, you have race- knowledge- sex- Graded.

Then I call to the sky—and you curse my Lord?

So I'll come, and I'll sing through your big front door.

Yes, we'll come, and we'll sing, through your big front door.

Time capsule (poem on a dead Skype account) ...

Maybe you find this, someday.

Whatever that day, I still love you.

My chest springs warm reading old, "I miss you!"s.

You always meant it there. If I could hug you,

Here, I would. If you ever want my voice again, I'll talk.

Some truths between us have turned

Distant in my mind. But my heart,

love ... my heart never forgot.

Blame and fault, they all fall away. And words we didn't

mean, or get to say – all waves I've rowed through.

Maybe you find this, someday.

Whatever that day, I still love you.

Ultipatum ...

                       I refuse to marry my father.

                        Whoever my partner may be—

   Please help me do better than I did with dad,

                                  And we'll partner happily.

              We'll listen to each others' full sentences,

                                      And always trust that, even

     If our words missed their mark, still they were

 Aiming at something we truly believe in.

And we'll both reassure each                   other,

 So our full, honest faces                     can show

     Without the dark paint  of                     insults,

        Thick mask of judgments, blocking   that flow.

We'll both name ourselves                     by our best parts:

“Beautiful”                “loving”                                “kind.”

               And we'll see the rest        as nothing but dust

                           to broom up      and toss behind.

Each morning – “Forget    that your breath smells
  pickled; I'm just glad           that you breathe.”

Each meal – “What we can't tolerate, hungry now,
         we'll laugh about          after we eat!”

Each evening – “Let go your day's tiredness, 

and drink in this peace:      you've returned.”

Each night – “Soon, I won't know where I am,

but I'll feel you close; that we've earned.”

The inevitable waste ...

I sewed for five years,   reluctantly.

Always hated         tying thread-ends                  

                                                 together.

Then a Russian man       showed me,

“Just roll them all         between your 

                                    fingers.”

So I licked the ends—

                               roll, fold, roll—

And those strands, 

    in trying to unwind,

formed a knot. 

          A solid knot. 

                    Every time.

“Such a waste!” 

I'm tempted to linger.

But start remembering

                                                          Hours I spent 

                                        slowly tying my shoes,

           While adults rolled their eyes.

And re-writing my loop-lettered name 

a thousand sloppy times.

                                                            Pain in my shoulder 

                                                   from before

                            I learned to lift weights right.

                Hot words I spit on people,

Before seeing “Oh, this problem's mine.”

                                                                                      A beautiful face, 

                                                                           I never talked to.

                                                            A question for my 

                                                  favorite old neighbor,

                                     I never asked. 

A plate of rich flavors 

            I waved away.

                    A trip to “When else?” 

                                      That I let pass. 

My mind could lose itself counting the holes.

But I'd just as soon fill myself double, where I'm going—

Wrapping my head, heart, and hands around

The inevitable waste of growing.