because there is still a tether
in each of us,
an umbilical cord,
leading back like
a tunnel of air and light
to all the fission and flares,
that womb of cosmic fire.

I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble
coming into the world; there was already
trouble enough, what with the Arizona
just settling itself into reddened water, and
Anne Frank, there in the dark Amsterdam night,
wearing her yellow star. 

It was a hard time, but I came anyway.
To hear my mother tell it, you’d think
the whole bloody war was being waged
right there in her blessed uterus; she always said
I took forever getting here,
and it hurt like hell. 

Maybe because I was born in war time,
maybe because I felt bad about causing Mama
all that trouble, I’ve spent a lot of my life
seeking peace, which sometimes meant
making peace, or—the hardest—
keeping peace—and yet 

here I am, seeing
all these decades,
all these wars, 

wondering sometimes
about intention, about
elusion….

Dearest baby,
I dream of you. 
I dream of how you will look
your scent
your eyes.

I yearn for you. 
To feel you in my arms
would be the greatest moment
of my existence. 

But, dear baby, 
you haunt me. 
Like a ghost I have never met,
you wander the hallways of my thoughts
lurking around the next corner
watching me so that you can disappear just before we meet.

Oh, my baby. 

I want you so badly,
and I am so afraid
that you are never meant to be. 

I am afraid that I am a desert,
a wasteland where life never flourishes,
where flora and fauna alike 
are dry, cracked, and dessicated–
longing for the drink that I cannot provide. 

I do not know you yet, dearest baby,
and I fear I never will
but until my clock chimes midnight
I will long, yearn, and weep,
for there is no one on this earth or in the cosmos
That I want more.

elf wren
hops into my open
door stealing
peanuts I name her
Merlin she makes me

happy 

Four hundred thousand children are in line 
I don’t want a kid with bad genetics
no one can hear you, world roaring about

cups, shoes, they tape confrontation over
my lips, you hear just whispers of the sand
I was churning. water murky, broken 

the system is broken, they just sigh out 
accept and find new things to scream about 
cups, shoes, lid tight on them, suffocating 

they slam their doors, funds are for our wars, so,
open yours, four hundred thousand in line 

Common human experience:

(occassionally for the blessed;
frequently for the cursed)

not getting enough of
this or that
which we really need

not enough money: can’t pay the bills; can’t go out
not enough sleep: dulled wit; slow bodily response
not enough food: low energy; pissy mood

we could go on,
but you get the picture

in recent years, it seems,
we have entered
The Subminimal Age

during which we get so much less of
this or that
which we really need
we are left at
less than zero

can you pay all your bills, or 
do you never have enough

do you get plenty of sleep, or
are many nights restless, dream-free

do you eat quality food, or
mostly processed crap

(things like hugs–you know–
everyone needs a certain amount
of human touch, but these days
you may not get enough
to even feel you are still human)

if you don’t think 
“the struggle is real”
just wait–

The Subminimal Age
is coming for you, too,
and she will take it all

Why Doesn’t Someone Pay Attention to Our Needs for Attention? 

In the supermarket, on the town,
everyday getting around we see

the connected lace of pain—wide strides,
uneven steps, hitches in hips, lots of limps.

In case you give a damn here’s an FYI—
we communicate with others, so softly you can’t hear,

but to you we scream despair about the unfair
conditions you force us to live and work in.

Oh. just so you know while we walk we talk.
Seven out of ten pairs asked say their life is agony.

Hell carrying the weight with little to no support.
The quality of our existence is akin to life in prison.

Even the sketchiest pedal coverings—flimsy,
feeble arches or none, like socks, not snug enough,

plastic may be fantastic, but more toxic than healthy
and the crocs—who came up with these money-maker-foot-breakers?

And then there’s the ones who bind and confine toes
and soles for aesthetics, or acts like balancing on tippy-tips.

Activities if done naked couldn’t be done
or wouldn’t cause deformities. We are not laughing.

Our fluid community knows no race or gender
we know only the offenders, you the blobs on top

who succumb to apathy when it comes to our well-beings
and of course, we damn others sources—

shoe manufacturers’ greed and NIH’s capitalistic ties.
If they gave a damn about this situation

they’d turn upside-down this lawless shoe nation—
make it illegal to treat feet like this country treats meat.

His skunky beer kisses were like a pay-off

morning brain
strives to process
last night’s dreams 
yesterday’s plans
coffee/creamer ratio
fresh breeze scent
today’s poem
that adobe near Abiquiu
martin’s twitter
painting and printmaking projects
scrambled or over-easy
far-off grind of motor
lake’s color shape-shifts 
flower bouquet aroma
strawberry or grape
El Rito
heron’s calm glide
filling another page
next best tasks

Authenticity:
to be completely yourself,
while the world watches.