As I sit down

with my journal

a cream-colored notebook

with tiny strawberries

all over it

I feel

that same peculiar feeling

creeping in

when I pick up

my pen

and my journal.

I open

the worn pages

to a blank space

while that peculiar feeling

rises

from my stomach

to my throat.

Yet

I am silent.

All you can hear

in the house

is the sound

of my pen

scratching the paper

as I write.

It’s warm.

It’s exciting

to see what words

pour out of me.

I never know.

It’s a mystery.

The pressure

boiling inside

releases smoke

as I write.

I quiet

my inner critic

and trust

my creative voice.

I read

the stranger

who lives

inside me.

Each word

heals a part of me

that I can’t see.

I was born a poet,

and a poet

is what

I will be.

Technically, it is hotter within me
than in this air that wraps my sweating skin,
but the margin is slight,
and the sun assails every attempt
at homeostasis.

A body is a meat sack filled
with thermostats, or so I’m told.
All day, my flesh measures
heat, hunger, need,
toggles this or that
toward some hoped for
equilibrium.

Scientists say it might be
this uncertainty, the very volatility
of our world, the need
for some safe return to zero, the fact
that we never stay at zero—

It might be this
that gives rise to feelings,
sentience,
the conscious mind.

I think,
but first I feel,
I thirst,
I overheat.
It is so fucking hot today,
therefore I am.

Silence blankets
the 19th Century homes
on this gentrified street
that once hovered
on the brink of decay.
Summer’s dusk falls
and the city’s heart settles
into evening’s routine:
the preprandial drink,
child’s report of school,
six o’clock news, dinner
from the Aga, microwave
or nearest deli. 

An older woman walks
a wolfhound in the park,
pauses for a deposit,
picks up the excrement,
while three pugs frolic
through their nightly outing
and a passing Mercedes
tootles a greeting.

No gangs run in this area,
no graffiti adorn the walls.
The stench of garbage
or urine does not offend,
but a darkness emerges
when babies sleep
and screens flicker:
a drunken stumble,
cry, thud; hands grope
for satisfaction that is taboo;
a belt becomes a whip or noose;
a fist flies, perhaps a bullet,
and blood splatters.

America loves a cowboy.
Heck I’m obsessed too!
But this may be our fatal flaw.
We are always looking for the Lone Ranger
When what we really need is a good posse.
Or maybe, just maybe,
We need to spend more time in the saloon
Singing ancient ballads
And discussing the merits of our brand
Or how to choose a remuda.
Is the best cowboy the one who points the herd
Or those who flank the herd to keep it together
Or the drag riders who help the stragglers forward?

They’re just streaks in the wood,
old termite paths carved into dead lumber
by long-dead critters.
But as the fire feasts, I am reminded
of Alexandria, watching
hieroglyphs burn.

Just off the trail
A snag full of holes
How many woodpeckers
Have drilled how many times  

Bark beetles scurry
Relentless beak poking
Each loud tap goes deeper
Red headed bird tilts and digs  

Bug eats tree
Bird eats bug
Human observes cavities
Ponders his own fate  

What if I was that bird
What if I was that bug
With camera lowered
Boots crunch leaves and walk away

paint me with all the colours of your passion
stripped of cloth
of thought
of worldly burdens

leave me
primed with kisses
patiently awaiting your first masterful stroke

she lived each moment
          as though wringing every

last drop of moisture
          from a damp towel—

then hung herself out to dry

after Lucille Clifton    

They want me to speak truth
but they want me to speak it
to someone else
and I keep speaking truth
to them.

you’re ready on tuesday

i on monday

you the only vestige left

of my memory

intricacies

of dancing with another person’s rhythms

to make life work

i’m wrung out by tuesday

adrenaline

ATP

only enough

anymore

for a few hours

per week

saved up all week

so i can return email

enough to exist in the world

phone permanently off now

having waited decades for someone to call

but this morning

i can think of

so much

to tell you

by tomorrow

holding all these words

will be fruit rotting

in my hand

this broken society

therapy instead of friendship

people lonely but oblivious

thinking sqiggles on a screen equal love

oxtytocin

community

tribe

whiteness washing over those real things

as usual

coopting the names

to autosub users

there’s a pot calling a kettle…

payment

instead of love

while whores still depopulate

morning streets

handcuffed

i have only you

i a good friend

you a person in an office

with a credit card scanner

we are both cheapened

if there are real friends somewhere

they are not here