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Call them what you will, what i'm drawn to and the motion
i make. Here in the field of time we divide them and dither
about happens to vs. do, the bucket from the water. But i move
with a motion such that motion and destination merge into that
which we all already are.
Here are three poems about one such journey.
drawn to awe
i chose my own drowning
in love's fluid stupidity
this time it is airborne
coming down on lawns
sweet infections past words
past paint and even drink
what comes of seedless promise?
disarmed charms tell of passing dawns
with wrinkled fluencies
even that morn gray and still
that birthed urgencies
and whimpers that rattled the windows
stirring the wind into blue
nothing owed, nothing sought
in a cold flash of a pretty song
the broken gift is sun washed only
on unlaced fingers tightened
on the handle of sanctioned alchemy
warned of flaws
i lose my tone
and glove the wait of my want
the water of your bath
has yet to fall as snow
in my chilled yard
cornered kisses
lose their fluidity
yet i learn to grow
as yet i embrace
my stupidity
hump day
when empathy takes a day off
ease of communication chokes on lint
when a painter (of houses, though
by unwarranted habit i think of lips)
misses a spot - it's called a holiday
yesterday i had cocktails with Sisyphus
i hung with Tantalus and Prometheus
drunk to our sorrows while they laughed
slapped me on the back and called me "pussy"
and there i was, just one of the boys
it's time to re-attach the parentheses
slip the quotes and the brackets back on
flip the angels back to gulls, adjust the keys
lace up the mukluks and return to sea
(did i mention that barnacle bill was me?)
burn the script
this thing
will not pass
it lodges in my chest
the projector sits idle
the screen goes blank
opaque & yes there is
some muffled drama
that knows something
about place
i listened and heard
i am a dog but not so sly
as to go quietly
to each (half) empty night
i hear but even before
knew the depth of missing
& how the game is rigged
& yes i see the simple beauty
of being cauterized
in this world i am blind
the parting & lifting
of legs i could only hear
but i know the scent of a marking
the joy of peephole portions
yellow like a damp trouser leg
can i swab away your scent
from that well juiced border
with used & expired contracts?
even by your clock
it is past midnight
it does not pass
though mocked & mothered
patted & patronized
shrugged & cooed
as if a soggy expectation
caught stranded mid-stage
& asked "why the drama?"
in a play where nothing
is supposed to happen
nothing has happened
no flapdoodle fate
with it's emperor's clothing
arrives like gadot in drag
lucky never speaks
and nothing passes
nothing passes
it catches in a throat
& ruptures at least one chest
hemorrhaging desire
but there is no confusion
why be angry with the moon
or a double standard
or a stale mated muse
did she not swing sweetly
of things so pretty?
when it turns to soap
& my chest is packed with rice
i'll cross the stage
pass her asleep in the director's chair
& burn the script
as this role is not fit
for any dog, mine or yours
& there is no call
to cast a bitch
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