One of These Things is Not Like the Others
I love you
I worship you
I write you love notes
I send you text messages
I think about you all the time
I plan our future together
I carry a picture of you
I write poems for you
I buy gifts for you
I call you daily
You think I’m fun
L. Ron Hubbard and
Joseph Smith were
fighting at the table.
Again.
Dinner, ruined.
Jesus looked pissed.
Mahatma Gandhi
gave Mother Teresa
a look–
“Here they go again.”
“We know there are infinite worlds; infinite possibilities,”
said one.
“Yes, but only one Savior,”
said the other.
Edgar Cayce butted in.
“Aren’t you both overdue for an incarnation?”
“Don’t start, Edgar,”
said Aristotle.
Satan threw an apple,
setting off a food fight
that lasted ten centuries–
until, at last,
Jesus stood.
“No fighting at the table.”
A teacher once said to me,
You will know what to write
when you find what’s meaningful.
I’ve always been a wanderer,
moving from place to place,
people to people, family to family.
There are limits to my belonging though,
limits to how I’m loved, or to how I’m entrapped.
I have learned to become
a vampire of place and circumstance,
absorbing energy, like drilling for oil,
when and where I can,
sometimes where there’s not much to give,
quickly, feeding myself, then moving on.
Sometimes people make me exhausted,
and take energy from me; Reciprocity.
But the forest stands
in chartreuse, early summer glimmer
and damp bark, pushes through ancient soil,
despite people siphoning her edges,
choking her hillsides with blaring progress.
She welcomes the intruder with open arms,
Come, breathe with me, renew yourself,
Stay awhile in resilience.
There is no limit to my love.
I want to write forests.
a Topo Chico mineral water
its fizzy pinpricks effervescent
on your tongue the roof
of your mouth it mellows
into thirst-quenching cool lime
and salt ice clinks in the glass
A spirit song
serenades
an ailing soul
providing untamed strength
navigating flooded river banks
remaining vigilant in the darkness
and crickets sing along
Turn an ear
towards the whispering rhythm
and
all
will
settle
atop the sweet earth
resting
beneath
the dancing river reeds
As it softly mists rain on you
over the next decade,
as you’re caught under those clouds,
understand it’s my fault: I want
to kiss you end-
lessly. It is
my selfish intention slowly pouring itself
over you.
You always have a “reasonable”
explanation for the things you do.
And though you
pretend
to sit with bated breath,
awaiting my reply,
I know you are not concerned.
Who could argue that your actions
had no cause?
Forgiveness is implied.
But I am done with “reasonable” explanations.
What does reason have to do with anything
that matters?
Can you reason away
Hurt?
Heartache?
Can you reason away
Tears?
Sleepless nights?
My guess is that
Guilt
is all you are reasoning away.
I found it. One of several on sale,
chocolate my sin of choice,
my salivary glands perused the aisle,
gymnastics at my finger tips.
A carnal need to imbibe two of life’s pleasures
at the same time: surprising words
and an astounding flavor,
blackberry sage chocolate.
Yum.
The room dark, music pounding
flashing neon, extreme exertion
moves us out of ordinary mind.
He must have died this way
fully alive, engaged–
doing what he loved most.
He was not in a spin class
but biking on a concrete street where a body
can spin, like a Frisbee, out of control.
Surely he never knew what happened–
the two tons of crushing steel
barreling from behind.
I love you, Jack I whisper,
in love with his vibrant aliveness
his wholesome goodness.
Now merging with the bike, I embody
him in this all-out effort
sweat-drenched and panting.
