Let Me Stay

Walking home through the woods,
moon's silver knife stabbing
the pine, a blue mist hovers
just below the longest flower
like a witch's spell. Here I am,
a solitary human stepping over
rocks and vines as if I know better,
as if I have a sure destination
to which I belong, as if I have
been pre-ordained. Let me stay
within the mysteries of nature,
become one, the fragment of a circle
that never ends.

The First Stone

Look out the window. Two boys
fighting in the yard. Future
soldiers. Future fathers who
leave their children father-less.
For blood, for reason, for a cause.
Now a crowd has gathered. Two boys
fighting in the yard. No one
interferes, even the woman who
is a grandmother keeps rhythm
to their blows cane-by-cane.
I look up beyond the horizon where
a storm has gathered; its fistful
of clouds, threatening to throw
the first stone.

Evolution

They say this life
is dangerous. Cross over
to the other life,
the one unbroken.

Here, the ancient ways,
the bitter ways evolve
into the sweetest blossom;
in love's leisure

the head is bowed, hands
are folded, lips are moving.
Then, like tails of star,
we hurry across the nightsky,

briefly, then burn out.

The Useful-ness of Flesh

We can't get enough,
even when its had
enough of us. Are you
looking for more?

First, a system of
measure: how red is
red; how sand-colored
is the limestone?

Next, a way to dissect:
cut along the outside
of the vein. Move aside
the body's organs.

Then, the uterus,
how much life has it
given; how flabby are
its muscles now?

Last, not least,
the issue of worthiness:
wool, steel or flesh,
which is more useful?

The Bus

The boy's face is hidden in
his mother's lap. His chest
moves in and out like a little bird.
The mother stares at the window
as if she's worried, as if she needs
to gather up her courage before
the bus stops.

Medication

Take your pills. Sleep
on the couch because your bedroom
smells like something dead. Sometimes
we have to use our imagination to stay
alive. Paint a picture, study the birds,
take a pill or two or three. No one knows
the true definition of gravity. Not really.

The Screaming Woods

Some people believe
pleasure is immoral.
The heart enjoys
its measure until
its threads run thin.
Skin maintains resiliency
then falls away. Out
in the woods, the pine trees
shed their bark. You can hear
them screaming.

Gluck

In a small garden, an old lady
reads poetry. The roses are crisp
and bright, bees are bathing in
pollen. Suddenly, a bird falls dead
and she looks up, over the rims
of her glasses.

The X

Another morning, we start
to think we'll never die.
What is your name? Who will
remember? And then, anxiety
returns like an ex-boyfriend.

The Dead Know Better

I'm not buying the whole
ghost thing. Why would anyone
want to haunt the living?
It seems to me there are better
places to visit. Like Waikiki.

What Stars Sound Like

If I stop writing, I cease
to exist, the brain shrinks
inside its bones. The silence
at night is like a tiger sitting
on its mark, like the moon falling
on a sparrow, a body hanging from
its noose. If you listen closely,
you can hear the stars.

Rift

Everything is being ripped
apart. An overdue bill, a paper
napkin during dinner, the universe
and all its molecules. The edges
are becoming more uneven, serrated
and irreparable. A Japanese man
carefully folds his origami horse
as if his life depended on it,
the surgeon pulls his sutures tight,
a word Amen completes the prayer,
a child embraces her father.

Latte with Eric

One syllable. Male.
He doesn't cross his legs
while drinking coffee.
He leans back as if
life is good. The cafe
is trimmed in deep, mahogany
wood. He shifts his weight
as if each cell in his body
is coming loose, the steel
in his eyes is liquid. Two
syllables. Woman. A woman
walks by and he becomes
a pit bull.

Reaching Nowhere

Today, we are going
nowhere. We've been here
before. If you drain the earth
of water, all the continents
stick together. If you draw
a circle without lifting the pencil,
you keep going round and round.

Where have we been, really?

Repetition is a human ailment;
it's in our genes. That double
thread that twists and twists
and multiplies.

Atrocity

Someone should have seen it.
Meaning, the lumber in the eye,
the dead dog under the porch,
a blue planet falling apart.

A clot in the artery.

These are things which cannot
be ignored. You with dark glasses
and bruised cheek. Those of us who
hide needle-marks under our sleeves.

Everyday a piece of us disappears.

Perhaps, a shocking word will
bring the skeleton into the light
or a small child's hand protruding
out of a mass grave.

A Cold Dark

Blue light of midnight-
heaviness. What calls
to us from the darkness?

The answer is: the child
you never were.

How abandoned you are
by history, the coldness
of fear; the nothing-ness

asking for nothing. In return
it gives us extinction.

Walk slowly through the blackness,
the life your living. There is
no way home.

Metacarpus

My hands are changing, the skin
transparent over veins. More mortal,
less invincible. But these are maps,
my hands, to where I've been, to where
I'm going, how to pray, what to hold.
Like fraternal twins, identical yet
different. During the day, they do
their chores; in the evening, so quiet
and cradle the soul.

Seppuku

At a certain time of evening,
the moth flies directly into
any light regardless of its origon.
Even at their most wonderful,
stars will dim. Tell me why
you are ashamed. Strong currents,
strong winds increase the probability
of disappearing. In a thunderstorm,
the horses are nervous, flies hide
inside the tiny cracks of wood,
an ambivalent father turns a child to
self-destruction.

The Soul's Nature

We're trying extremely hard
to survive. Flexing our muscles.
Searching for food. Day to day
life is worrisome. Nature knows
no charity. What your body needs,
your soul will decompose.

Who Knows What's Going to Happen

You can't judge
the incomplete.
Without glasses
the words mean
nothing. I'd rather
be killed by a slash
to the throat, than
a knife to the back.

The wider the space,
more difficult to dread.
There is a reason for
the marking of wolves,
a growl from the bear.
But in the end, loneliness
will kill you.

Angels Fly

1.
She's pacing again, the black
goddess, Persephone. She anticipates
violence as if she creates it. What guilt
beauty holds for its own kidnapping.

2.
How bitter are the grapes of death?
What snake lies basking on the heated
rock? Now, skin peels back and thin
falls away.

3.
She sits and stares into darkness,
a skyless, black room. Does the addict
fall in love with the drug or does it
kill them? An invisible wound.

4.
The sound of sunlight, a singing
bird reminds the soul of where
it started. With wings fashioned out
of paper she flies up through flame.

Stranger

I thought I saw you
in the park. My love
is like fingernails and hair
growing after death. You are
a stranger to my eyes, the heart,
the heart gets lost forever.
Shadow in the doorway, a secret
spider in its web, someone watching
from a window then disappears.

Ring Leader

Absurdity is tapping on
the fragility of Life.
The clowns are let in,
hideous and holding flowers.
The bull lowers his head,
gores the red cloth.
A gruesome, black masked
man collects the souls.

Terror

I am not alone. I am
alone. My mother's body
far from me, the moon glows
but you can't reach it.
I am floating in a molecule-less
sky. Nothing to grab onto.
The soul becomes a panicked thing
and forgets who made it.

Lingering

Inanimate things talk. Dead things
tell stories. You have to be patient
to hear them. Even stones need
companionship, their smooth faces
touching. And water, how it clings
together like roots dig into soil or
that first kiss lingering a minute more.