Sitting near you
Thinking how can it be
We live so closely
Talk so often
Share so much
Yet keep our pain alone
Walls of politeness are not
The biggest obstacle
Sitting here, worrying
Over your disappointment
I feel closer than being near
You, trying to support you,
The stranger
Well, it’s your birthday, Jim
I have a bottle of Saurian brandy
with your name on it–
how about I come after dinner?
You don’t look a day older than
than when we met, even
though your first officer
is enough to drive a man
plumb crazy
And I know you hate it,
but I’m going to need you
in sick bay for a couple of hours
in two weeks for your physical–
now you just listen to your doc, hear?
I’ll come by your quarters after
Janice brings her cake–
might even trouble you for a
slice
~Bones
The
Sky does not
Care that the lake
Steals its beauty and form
Just that it show the same
Goal by reflecting
Only what is
True
A bus went down in Sololá at dawn.
Eleven dead on BR-101.
We had three drinks.
In Yellowstone, AI decoded wolves.
Off Yilan, sea shook out the lights.
Three thousand homes went dark and then went cold.
A tourist boat went under near Padar.
In Yellowstone, AI decoded wolves.
The year had four days left. A mountain road
gave way beneath the bus.
The wolves repeat a thing we cannot parse.
A bus went down in Sololá at dawn.
We crossed the dark the way heat leaves a room —
not felt while going, only once it’s gone.
Eleven died on BR-101 —
seventeen full minutes in your arms.
Inside I wrote initials on the glass.
The sea returned the boat without them all.
A bus went down in Sololá at dawn.
In Yellowstone, AI decodes the wolves.
Feet brush the earth
like travelers returning
to a place they’ve never been.
The lake waits,
humming in a language
older than the wind.
The mountains rise
like sleeping giants;
their breath curling into clouds,
their ribs hidden in the pines.
Somewhere, a star falls – but here,
falling is just another form of staying.
The sky blooms open,
rivers of orange and purple.
The burst of colors feel alive,
like veins under translucent skin.
The night stands still
and the lake swallows the stars.
& misunderstood. Shadows we must
all gather back as we become one again.
Lincoln Logging
through life
has led Lee
the poet
to learn
to let his
lyrical words
(let us laugh)
leave his head
when little
else exists
to be said
Legally
lavishly
lamentably
leaving
lathering
paper below
literary
Pollocks on page
lessons of letters
alighted from
shelves in his
mentally lit
library
left behind
Lee the poet
is awake
alive
learning and
earning from
Lincoln Logging
that life
ain’t always
a story
just littering
that is just
as telling
