when a thought arises, from whence does it come?
is it always there, and only becomes recognized
when it coagulates into what one might call recognition?
does it spring from nothing, and, if so, 
can it dissappear back into that same space?
is it like using like in the form of a simile
to make something apparent?
or does a metaphor make it its own object?
must it always stay in comparison to
the un-thought object in order to define itself?
or does the curve of its surface separate it
from a special kind of nothingness?
is this one? is this another? or did it blend in
somewhere between the question marks?
have i even been close to it at all here
where symbols are pressed together
to make all this clamor? and if so, how many
have there been? are they even numerable at all
or are they the full train rolling down the tracks?
what do these questions make you think of?
with what thoughts must you contend?
are you burdened under their immeasurable weight
or do they roll off you like water off a duck’s back?
did you get my reference there? is there
a reference to get at all? when did this poem begin
and when will it manage to end itself?
are thoughts suicidal or are they murdered
by their next of kin in a cycle that never ends?
what would it mean to not think about these questions
at all? where will you keep them? for how long?
when will you kill me, and can you catch me before
i do it myself? will i see you next weekend
at the party on the shag carpet with the dog hair
that just missed being vacuumed? next month
will we bump into one another in the grocery aisle
fumbling over tomatoes that are just ever so slightly
overripe? next year will that child’s laugh
bring me back to you? or am i only stuck here
in the unmerciless black, confined unto myself
until the ends of time? what will the fire feel like
when it turns me into ash? will it hurt as much
as having been here at all? who will light the fire?
and how long will it last? where were we?
were we together? were we we?
what do you make of us now?
is our separateness uncomfortable to you?
or does it feel lIke nothing at all?

i’ll whisper that dreaded word
compound of tears
and pain induced 

I have an owl decoy.
he does not do his job.
the bird shit on his head,
and build nests in the yard.

if i thought i could
speak with you again,
to seize a quiet, private 
moment away from
this inevitable slide into the
End Game we all
face

if i thought you could hear me–
really hear me–and ignore
all the things you thought 
you knew or that you thought
i was

if i could only take your hands,
look into your desperate eyes
and give you what little
strength i may have

then, the continents could heave,
the hail stones fall, the oceans
flood and the sun burn the 
surface until it is cinder

if only i could
have one moment
with you

To Fanny Miller (born ca 1797- date of death unknown)

“Be particularly careful in reporting the class Mulatto.
The word is here generic, and includes quadroons, octoroons,
and all persons having any perceptible trace of African blood.
Important scientific results depend uponthe correct
determination of this class in Schedules 1 and 2.”
NINTH CENSUS, UNITED STATES, 1870,
Instructions to Assistant Marshals, page 10

Too white to bend
Too black to blend
Sticking like a finger, sore
not quite in the middle
a blur on the pages of your family bible.

Friend. 
Hear my hope.
Take off your helmet, and
hear the nightbird cooing above 
your shoulder, perched on
the highest branch of your favorite tree in
this stranger’s backyard.

Look and see your friends… conversation drunk…
book smart and painted by invention… 
…they love you, and you love them…in this moment…
at this time…always…their nonchalant approval of
your creative oneriness will save your life again and again. 

Blow out the candles on your cake, and let everything go.

Do not worry about smelling nice…
perfume owns your skin,
so you smell good and fine…slow down.
Taste the eggs, please, before you swallow…

Tell me, this…is it dew or sweat that dresses your skin tonight?
Now go back to the punch…before someone loses a sandal. 

I wash the hummingbird feeder.
The nectar is sour and fermented.
The ants crawled into its reservoir,
Sweet sugar luring them
and they leave Pheromone trails
so their sisters follow.

And trapped, floating upside down,
they seed the nectar with yeast
and the meat of their bodies.

The sun warms the feeder,
making an irresistible home brew.

And the hummingbirds return
to belly up to the bar. 
Until I wash it.

I think they’re angry saying,
        Well, I guess you’re off the list.

And then, because they remember nothing,
they come back tomorrow.

it’s alright to lose your heart

                                                            i will become a cardiologist                         

but never lose your head

                                                              head up                                                             

be yourself

                                                              stand up                                                           

unfazed                                                   

                                                             you are strong