Our Place
My feet glide on the clean tiles
Of our new apartment;
Like ghosts
Without solid heels or soles,
They slide
From purchase to purchase
On the old wooden floors.
My words ache on the walls
Of my throat,
Like bare nails where pictures
Once hung -
I don’t know what to hang there yet.
My heart looms like a moon
In my chest,
Spilling over naked tables and chairs,
Illuminating
All the knots in the cherry and pine.
Don’t Fight
Lay down, lay down
My weapons -
Every last piercing
High note,
No matter how tempting
The melody.
Reduce myself to
My bare element,
Reduce myself to
A bass line,
The kind of tone that converses
With undercurrents,
Passes through mountains,
Uninterrupted by rain.
Slow rise, slow fall,
Even movements,
Carry my body home.
Freedom
Ah, I approach freedom,
I no longer need to pretend
I’ve been surrounded by friends.
Sometimes little birds
Gather in the trees,
So lightly their feet
Barely even touch the branches.
They’re scared off
By the smallest noise.
Still, I would like to see them happy.
I approach freedom,
And when I travel on,
The sounds of your many beating wings
Will just be a whispering breeze behind me.
Goodbye
If only we young folks could get
Just the right ‘immature’ down.
I’m not talking about
Petty behaviors,
Pissing about ‘doing the dishes’
When something deeper is dirty.
I’ve had about all I can take of that shit.
Or asking someone how they really feel,
What they really need,
Actually being direct! for once,
Only to see their face blanket over
With blind white denial, that is,
Blindness chosen over sight.
I want to spend time with people
Who know the difference
Between peace and repression.
Between maturity and posture.
Between playfulness and insecurity.
My heart mostly wants to play and laugh,
Doesn’t yours?
And if it doesn’t, that’s all right.
We’ll pass each other one more time
On the way to farewell.
Windowsill
When I’m preparing to leave,
I look at my windowsill
With its few lasting things:
A green bottle with a gold cap,
A soapstone frog,
A brass whale the size of my thumb.
For a moment
These objects,
Whose histories
Rear up like glassy waves
One second behind,
Brim with a quiet endurance.
When I’m preparing to leave,
I look at my windowsill,
The sound of the ocean behind me
Fills my ears.
North Thetford Road
The road I used to live on
Lies down like a whip.
Its leather has dried and cracked
After so many winters.
It seems to coil around
The blunted, weathered hills
Like a gray whipsnake,
Basking in the dead cold
Of December.
I could never decipher
Its changing patterns,
Its serpent oracle.
History has also
Stitched it on my back.
A loud “crack,”
And I am home again.
Untitled
No, I’m not ready to write this,
Now that I stop to think about it, I’ve
Never been ready for anything a day in my life,
And every move I make could be my last disaster
Or the ineffable breath of laughter
That accompanies something right.
I don’t know the finish or hue of this trip,
Or even the shade of the next step,
Though bright colors constantly begin
Wherever I end, and wherever I end up.
Luck, luck was never my religion -
That attractive mystery,
Whispered lyric: “Cross your fingers like
Sticks of kindling and I will light a fire…”
Sure, and the color of fortune will always be brilliant
But nothing and dim compared to the flame inside of me.
The Defense
I lived
In the shade
Of my mother’s tree,
Where chattering monkeys
Grinned and dropped like bombs,
Colorful birds, toxic, screamed,
Knocked their heads against the wood limbs
That would one day become someone’s closet door.
Days switch to nights,
Seasons change in one scary instant.
In summer and autumn,
She burned brighter in public
Than other mothers dressed in mild clothes.
In winter she charred quicker;
I slept in the empty ashes
Nobody knows, nobody knows.
Though now I’ve got my own tree growing,
I still see in mercurial shade;
How to catch signs in a thorough flash;
How to read you better than you read yourself;
How many of you are harmful without ever knowing it.
You don’t know me – maybe you never will.
For you I’m just a closed book who’s
Made from old trees.
Monday
My ancestors are still living
Right here beside me,
I don’t want to distinguish between
Times and places.
My ancestors are standing next to me,
Some of them have put their arms
Around my sagging shoulders.
Not one of them speaks harshly,
I come from a long line of soft voices.
“Get it together”
“Be a man”
These words come only from people
Who have already died.
My ancestors are still living here,
They are only waiting to
Catch my eye and tell me
“Don’t turn away from your life for too long”
When I stop drifting and
Set my foot on the ground…
My ancestors are still living
Right here beside me.
Snow
It’s going to be a snowy day
Every snowflake blotting out
A piece of the view
On the way home.
It’s going to be a long, long way.
Darling are you ready?
I think
All these snowflakes
Are pieces of a puzzle.
I think
All these snowflakes
Are philosophers.
I think
All these snowflakes
Are children torn from the clouds.
I wonder if snowflakes look
Up or down
Or all around at each other
On their way to the ground.
A desolate weight penetrates
Deeper than I thought I had room for
And takes a long time to melt.
I’m not sure where all these shapes
Are supposed to go.
I only know they pile up and get taller
Until they can stand up and say
“I am all grown up.”
Darling are you ready?
