If the pulse
In my hand
On her chest
Is her heart
Or my blood
Become one;
I cannot tell
Who is who
Like roots
That run deep
Into soil
Sending life
Back and forth
Month: March 2020
Go on then
Do you see
These same things
That I see
Anymore
Simple as sure
No more words
Than three
To a line
Are needed
To describe
Something
So simple as sure
That I wonder
If you see
Anymore
Walking swiftly
You must have
Somewhere to be
Whither where
You might ask me
Don’t you see
Where I’m going
Pointing somewhere
Far away
I nod my head
And bow
To pick at the grass blades
Beneath my bare feet
Basketball
I saw a man
Bring a ball
Inside a backpack
To the court
Fenced all around
By chain link
In the park
On a Thursday
Just before sunset;
I watched him
Bend his knees
And shoot
Too real
Sometimes I see the world too real. I see that things are actually material and animated, driven by life forces. In a special moment, when not taken for granted, this seems to me truly incredible.
It becomes hard to keep on a conversation with someone as I start to marvel just at the fact that they are speaking and living and breathing in front of me, and I am such that I can, not only witness their life unfolding in front of me, but also interact, affecting their life with my own.
It becomes difficult not to suddenly exclaim as I realize this. I am sure I must have a glazed-over look in my eyes.
Stagnant
Sedentary
Starting to stagnate
Sitting inside all day
With the drapes drown
Sulking
So as to further feed
My worries
When an open window
Would do me so good
Ants
I sat on the step
And watched ants
For the better part
Of an afternoon
So many ants
On the sidewalk
Made it seem
Like the cement
Was moving
Made me realize
My troubles
Were not so bad
With my elbows
On my knees
And hands folded
Scowling
Despite the sun
Write what escapes
What I see once
On my walk home
And exclaim at
As a thing
Which ought be written
Though I can’t
In that moment
Muster the words
So I write nothing
And walk by
For days on end
Until finally
The sight strikes
With the right odds
When I can write
What has escaped me
All the days before
Rush hour
There’s this deep
City river gorge
Filled with yellow
Headlight fish
All swimming upstream
I can see here
On the hilltop
Standing sidewalk
With my hands in my pockets
On a night stroll
Watching the river of light
Pinch off into the distance
Wondering about
All the commuters
Just trying to get home
five faces
For all the five faces
Fighting for four
Fear holds most sway
Rapping at the door
Sadness slumps down
From his forlorn armchair
As haste steps forward
To swing wide open
Heedless and headstrong
Anger would surely
Slam the door shut
Though love lets all in
Welcome with open arms
And an enemy even
Cannot remain heathen
Happy in a hearthy home
Blessed
Often
I do feel fond
Of fancies
As I’ve had
Though
In moments
Of boredom
I’d sacrifice
Them all
For a chance
At change
Gratitude
Consider the many multitude
Of things which
You would rather not
Have happen
And at least for this
At any time
You might be thankful
Travel on
O’er in my memory
My mind has run
The now worn path
Of fine times past, indeed
So of this place
Where I’ve long stayed
As with all things
Which do arrive
Doth finally come
This time now
To take my somber leave
A thousand ways
In my old age
I’ve lived my younger days
If you could only
Promise me
One last thing
Before I go
To have as much
In memory, your own
When time for you
Doth come as well
To travel on
Lying on the floor
Lying
On the floor
Looking
At the ceiling
Seems to be
More simple
Than the life
I left outside
Needing
This nothingness
To wash away
My mind
Writing my dreams
A daytime nap
Marries the motion
And light
Of the waking world
With the wonder
And formlessness
Of dream
Wherein the middle
Poetry lives
Dancing
Back and forth
In wheelbarrows
Full of dream
Dug up in sleep
And delivered
To be re-planted
Here in my bed
Brain tree
Putting down roots
Staring at the ceiling
I like to lie
And look a while
At the ordinary
And its layers
Of interesting
Offered only
To eyes
Like rivers
Wearing away
With time
To watch patiently
The stony surface
Which eyes
With less time
Only ever see
On the outside
Unaware
Of the river bed
To be found
Cut beneath
Ceiling scar
The same section
Of ceiling
Has this shimmer
In the noon time
Which reveals
Its blemish
Of poor plastering
But maybe
On purpose
As an artist
Plastered it this way
Like a scar
That is beautiful
As it appears
To me now
Staring at the wall
Staring
Long enough
I start to see
The space
In between
Focusing
On each speck
Of dust
In the air
A gradient
Obscures
My vision
Of the original
Object
Of intent
Farther off
Desire
Sweet time
Slow enough
Such
Anticipation
Is part
Of the excitement
Building
Like all desire
Blinds us
To the past
And future
While we’re waiting
Impatiently
For something
Immediate
Like hunger
On the hunt
Or lust
On the way home
To bed
With another
And in many
Other
Much smaller
Ways
It’s that immediate
Promise
Of satisfaction
Moving us
Most the time
Grinding my teeth
Clenching my jaw
Unaware until
My bottom teeth
Meet the top row
Mashing
Like corn in a mortar
To dust, powder
Eventually
But not so soon
More slowly wearing
Waking me
In the night
With yet another
Symptom
Of my anxiety
Waiting for the bus
I check the time
At which the bus
Is supposed to arrive
And realize
That I have ten minutes
Left to kill
So I start to go about
Distracting myself
Stretching
Looking up
At the building tops
And people watching
Strangers
Until I run out
Of distractions
And venture a glance
At my watch
To find
I’ve only passed
Three of the ten
untitled
I take the backpack
Off of my shoulders
And feel relief
Immediately;
So much
That I think
Of leaving it there
On the sidewalk
Laptop and all
And continuing
On my walk home
Without it
Highs and lows
Just as I am
For certain
That it is all done
And gone forever
For sure this time
It all comes
Rushing back
Reviving me
Once more
To go on high
And then soon after
Subtly low
When I will again
Be for certain
Even more certain
Than the last low
That the revival
Will not come this time
Until it surely does
And I go back to soaring
Though I know
And of this, I am sure
There is one low
In which
I will lie for good
And not soar again
Walk some more
I come home
From a night walk
To let my dinner settle
And close the door
And put my keys in the basket
And start to take off my shoes
As I realize
I am not yet satisfied
And slip my shoes back on
And grab my keys
And open the door
To go back out
And walk some more
Couple walking
A smiling
Mustached man
Holding hands
With a beautiful girl
He’s telling a joke
One hand in his pocket
She’s laughing
Trying to keep up
As they walk
Nightime stroll
I go for a walk
At night
Slowly
Strolling
And see
So many things
That I miss
On my walk
To work
Rushing
In the morning
Old man
Looking through
A restaurant window
I saw an old man
Using a magnifying glass
To look at a menu
Simple
That simple man song
Keeps ringing in my ears
From Skynyrd and Thoreau
Louder than city buses
And conversations
In the apartment next door
I hear the simple silence
Louder than the city noise
Whispering to me
Up reading alone at night
Or deep into a hike
What if not to be
Is Shakespeare’s answer
And all of this
Has become too much
Counting seconds
Seeing as a second
Wasn’t long enough
Stretching now
For two or three
So time feels spent
Sufficiently
Whereas waiting
Wouldn’t do it
Doing had to be
Seeing newness
Touching other
Change it had to be
To feel alive
Past idle nigh
Now counting
One, two, three
Next stretch
As soon as a stretch
In that direction
Left me off center
I wasn’t either
Anymore
And after a while
In between
It started to seem
A new center
Comfortable
For the time being
At least until
The inevitable
Next stretch
Soon to come
Gratitude
Today, when I got home after work, I laid on the floor with my eyes closed for a long time. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the ceiling light in the middle of the ceiling. The second thing I saw were my hands. I turned them over in the dim light of the one lamp I had turned on in the room. I exclaimed silently to myself about how amazing it was that my mind had complete control over these physical objects. And then I realized how happy I was just to be alive in that moment.
Shoulder kiss
In the dark
In the night
With my eyes closed
Redundantly
I reach out
Quietly, slowly
With my lower lip
To touch her shoulder
Having to lean
My neck forward
Until I find
Her soft skin
Bad dream
I think of many
Horrible things
In my dream
So I’m happy
To wake
Relieved
Hands
It seems to me that hands work harder
Than other parts of the body,
Though maybe only more, in variety
As the heart surely works always,
Albeit the same beat is all
Whereas the hand writes and works
And picks up and puts down and rubs
And sews and draws and kneads
And most other verbs
Whatever waxes
I reckless write
What comes at night
Waking lately
Makes me wobble
Whatever waxes
Wanes tomorrow
When I one time
See for three
So I learned to
Sleep with ease
Into a groove
The same things I’ve seen
For some time now
So my thoughts
Are mostly deja vu
Like the same lights
At the same times
And the same habits
Wear this groove deep
Where I’m happy enough to be
So subtly
This groove creeps deeper
Being worn
By my own passing
Back and forth
Over and over
For I enjoy it now
Almost completely
Except for the small fear
That the deep wear
Caused by my repeated enjoyment
Will make it difficult
To climb back out
And wear again
Elsewhere
untitled
You can’t think of nothing
Looking ‘round all the time
Restless and ready
To chase any rabbit
Down its respective hole
Stop and stay for a second
In the patch of grass
Where you are standing
Close your eyes and look up
untitled
I get here, I “arrive”
Is the only way
I can describe it
Once I’ve had the right amount of coffee
And lasted through the brief period
At the onset
When I worry
I might have had too much
Giving my mind time to adjust
To a state it’s not used to
Like climbing a mountain
Huffing and puffing
Until you get to the top
And take deep breaths
As you see what you’ve climbed for
So it is sitting here
With my headphones in
And all that is happening
In the coffee shop around me
Is no different
Than a Wednesday
When I am rushing through
But today
On a Saturday
With some time to sit and think
It is all art
And curious to me
untitled
The orange awning
Outside the window
Blows in the wind
As I realize
Writing this
That “wind”
And “window”
Are similar words
Running in the city
You can’t go so loosely
Running amuck
As you would in the plains
In any direction
No matter
Flat and far enough
To run with your eyes closed
If you wanted to;
In the city
You must be careful
To obey the signs
And posted placards
Going your own way
Won’t take you far
untitled
letting words run as they will
like waking up a mass of clay
as haphazardly as thrown
on a potter’s wheel
just to have a starting point
and at least get something
out into the open
where it can at least be seen
and then shaped and refined
so better to have it out haphazard
just to get a start
rather than nothing at all
and refining thin air
and making the mind sick
by refining itself
for lack of anything else