stoic

he slept
alone

wondering
if wondering
was wonderful
enough.

but the books say–
the bible said–
my teacher–
my mom–
you–

how will you survive
if you do not
do?

sad elite

trying to meditate is painful in the same way

as staring at two, not-quite-parallel lines–

it does not stop; it becomes sharp; it becomes separate

from the active "i"

when i am at night i cannot meditate

cannot sit still nor move without

crag-like mouths and kind eyes sneering at me.

i fail myself in the attempt to speak;

like meditating, it must be done without hesitation

caring too much is unacceptable.

i am silenced, waiting for your words.

there you are, knowing, and functioning, and smiling.

i am not like you these nights. 

i hope you will forgive me.

room for mush

come closer. there are things to tell
in hushed voiced, slippery rooms with silhouettes
hanging down the halls, snakes in the walls;
slither with me towards an unending
and perhaps small glimpse of contentment
not poetic, not nice. just, "i am."
us tool-bearing folk keep our words to ourselves
our handiness at the ready, worldmaking time
is any time; sit on my lap
and wait; i've built a clock to chime
on the thirty-fifth and a half second
a portent of something, to be sure. we can
measure in half seconds
but we cannot plan for days like this.

snowblown

"i've got hatred," she said, beneath mouthfuls
of love. "i want to have something that somebody
wants to have."

whole world turns sometimes, enough
to drop bottles of wine from their shelves
give us vertigo in our sleep
wake us up with cold sweats and ripped seams
"it's not fair, but it should be."

it would be foolish to ruin a good night's sleep
with anger. but who else
is going to make things fair?

unplace

slipping, sloppy, remnant,
remains. slackened by a lack of light
or a lack of rain? old house, stuttering bones,
limping back and back and back again
back to young friends with old homes
with lumbering gazes, with peaceful minds.
between places, jacked-up kid
losing face
in the face of this

después

cada amor, cariño, cada dolor
como una cicatriz en la cama
un vistazo atrás.
he sentido este amor con mis huesos
profundamente y completamente
he sacudido en mis sueños por el
gran placer y el miedo impenetrable
pero más por su presencia afuera de la cama
en el mundo, viajando
con mi alma en tu voz, mi corazón
en entre los dedos.

no me abrace, amor. tengo miedo.

9/19

and here, i can say, is
proof of our heights.
the sexual fact of your existence
echoes through my caverns
long after our collapse
pushing shapes into my walls
that are filled better
and incompletely
by men who understand
what it means to value land.