tuesday 

Two accidentals
crashing together:
tide lands on sand or an unwitting surfer
bad music to bad ears,
sweet sonata for dissonant hearts

I roll downhill like a child in a barrel
I find my second; now we will fight
each struggling for a root in the chord 
to sprout and flower the prettiest sound

a screaming train a mile down the track
running in the endless circle of feedback
you woke up to ask me an important question
and I swore by my heart
to take the answer
and bear it in my soul
til it birthed to the world
a new reason for life

a voice like caramelized sugar
or a mind like Ruth Bader
or a heart like a heart attack
you wish you could understand, but you can’t.
the facts are facts. hard-headed winners
can’t cope with callous confrontation
or their own disastrous acts.
I wish I could relax but my brain’s in traction
I want so much, but my whole life has been distraction
and I don’t know which direction will atone
Follow the ridge of the river
to guide me home
or find my bones

so indecision be gone
make an argument of my song
objective third parties move along
and in the words of Frantz Fanon
“Oh my body, make of me always
“a man who questions!”

the sand’s slowly shifting
new foundations and sediment drifting
i promise i’ll make new roads for you
the beginning of december a turning point

remember the next week wasn’t easy
and then we disappeared, twin travelers
into fantasies of just each other
and big quilts and warm rice

and even though it hurts my fingers
and pains my brain
to try to keep typing
i’ll press the same keys over and over again
harder this time

can’t be your best friend, let’s just be lovers
a few days later i started closing the shutters
to keep out the snow in the morning and night
and seal our heart-cabin up tight
from the blizzard outside
you wanted to see but i couldn’t entrust you
you took a new look, could not recognize you
your eyes were like fire for once fixed upon me
you still don’t believe me, pushing back gently
your christmas eve presence a snapshot of something
you came up against me, but then reassured me
i still felt the burning, i acted absurdly
you told me a white lie, and i could see through it
if you want to be honest, you might as well do it
or screw it,
just kiss me, i’m not much concerned with accuracy

but then why
when i’m looking out into the deep memory of orion
emblazoned faded against the overcast sky
why are you silent
and so afraid to try
how do i bring back the brazen one

This is renewed, pristine, sage
and wildflowers
springing up from the cracks in the riverbed.

It takes years for the rain to carve its path
from the face of a mountain
to the delta
and the sea.

You and I are like that rain,
with no choice but to fall.

You’re just like rain on a hot day
The air so heavy
Beading on my skin
I need to drink you in.

I lived in the garden of still life
Waiting for your induction
Since the seduction of Claudius
Counting the lily blooms
Through every summer
Counting and counting
As if to drown in that shallow pond
The notion that I’d ever recover
From your golden touch.

when are they going to tell me
I’m unwise
I never knew I was morally righteous
in his eyes
Perhaps my time in campaign
Has all been the same
For the sake of the sacred,
A misguided gang
When I’m led like a child
By your stare
Like a lamb
If I take a step further
it will change who I am
your error in confidence
but your stellar gaze
Compels my days

I don’t know if I’m ready
I don’t know if it’s fair
I don’t know if I’m ready
I don’t know if it’s fair

I’m a seeming romantic
My thoughts in a straight line
Your hair in a straight line
Our hearts in a straight line
Two points connected by an infinite motion
Two points in the abstract void of space and time
Two points at times defined by x and y
Can you feel the connection?
Or do you need one
My water-bringing days
Deep under your dirt
Beckons new drink
Fills your roots

I’m scared of the stipulations of this adventure
Scared when you tell them it’ll all be over
Vitriolic voices vying for attention
Sweet-toothed lobbyists looking for love
When you find a real love, will you still have me?
Can we contain love in secrecy

The nomad on his feet, with his cherub throne
Acutely conscious of being alone
A tiger on the plain
Can do not a thing
Sworn to be strange
But striped the same

Sweet sleek drawl
Coax me forward
You’re hang-gliding into my
Stoic heart
Your house,
like your heart,
in shambles.
You once kissed me
Held me too tightly
In another world.

And of the bitterest friends
Who as far as I can tell
See all things as as a set of specifications
Which cannot inherently change,
One straw man fears the crow,
does not trust her throaty call
or an eye he cannot understand.

Given magic I could conjure
A more satisfyingly clear memory
Of valence electrons
Briefly connecting
Your body
And mine.

It’s called waiting.
It’s called waiting, it’s called writing
Long soliloquies with no place to go
But to open ears in their muslin clothes
And cast within your curtain-hair
Which, tangled, drips from your chin
There must be an answer
At least.

One year ago I watched in horror as hand collapsed into hand,
By the line above the sea where I pined and opined,
But no sapling like that had ever grown.
I should have known
Your defenses were impenetrable.
It’s called waiting,
driven by one word into madness
and consecration
of my imaginary soul.
I tried in vain to force my hand,
which precipitated the fall.

The silver lining
is peeking out of your jacket,
a reflective motion
to adjourn;
for a man with no discretion,
your intention was never to learn.
Like a smooth stone in a river,
you’re still, grey, and cold.
Once soft as the sand,
now you stand bold,
and I burn, and burn.
I yearn to change the sunrise.
I want to take control.
I want to master Fate.
I want to rise alone.
I think I may be dying,
but it’s too early to know,
so I will keep on going
until someone asks me not to go.
The feast upon my table
was stable, sweet, and fair,
and perhaps I took more than my share.
But the intrinsic quality of nature
is its temporal limitations,
which is why your indignation,
however justified, begs attention
infrequently demanded by your profession.
A spirit who can hold an idea,
like a stalk of bamboo
too fibrous for you to chew,
nevertheless allows it to grow
and grow brittle
by what he never knew.
A spirit who can preach
but cannot sincerely pray
is many lifetimes away
yet emboldened in his reach.
The beach where I buried my selfhood,
deep in the clay, warded with driftwood,
lies the ingermane notion of evil and good,
the notion which dictates you now,
as it would
when given a painting of oil and gold.
The leaf is still falling,
the passion calling,
beguiled by the beauty of a single perspective;
Respective to members of your self-claimed collective,
this practice is one that I call into question.
Is there a second?
You missed it–
I left it,
but you did not take it,
which is to be expected.

Simple and sweet,
spry as a young finch can fly
You were mine
once upon a time

I wove the story of our love,
a tapestral tale of two puzzle hearts
who couldn’t bear at all to be apart
You’d ask me questions
I’d be glad to receive them
You had your secrets
but no one to perceive them
Simple and sweet was no easy feat
The most inconvenient moment to meet
They say falling fast means it will not last
I didn’t mind;
I had plenty of time

You made me feel small,
And small felt safe
And safe felt right,
And right shouldn’t change
So change was impossible
Impossible, you say?
Let me count the ways

When I was a child,
my mind was a dream
My schema was riddled
but my spirit serene
You call me turbulent,
like water in the locks,
like Pandora’s box
There was one who loved me
before all these talks
He is gone, You are here
Now the meek shall inherit
And I cannot fly
You knew I was strange
But now you ask why