you can’t write 
a poem
about writing a poem
just who do you think 
you are
you aren’t Ginsberg
you aren’t Whitman
hell you’re barely even
a poet
you’re just some
twenty-something 
kid
who thinks because 
his heart is sewed 
on his sleeve
and because you know
how to write some fancy words 
and insert a few
line breaks 
that you’re
some sort of
authority 
you’re right
you’re right
you are right 
about it all

but i’m gonna do it
anyway 

 you bastard

 Staring in the window

At the table
There is food

But not on every table

sugar honey
tasting magic left on my lips
dancing on my tongue

quiver
rush
laughter
trembles

sugar honey
tasting you 
left on my tongue
kiss
and
see
for yourself 

I have been an injured bird so long,
grounded while my friends fly far from home,
exploring and experiencing the world.
I hobbled forward with broken wings day
after day, lying in cold creeks and
chewing willow or laurel to
ease the pain. I collect as much fluff
and down and scraps of fabric to
line my nest to the ultimate level of
luxury because it is what I deserve
and it is not fair—none of this is
fair: I am in pain while others fly
free.

I crossed paths with luck and found
help after help after help, surgery
and metal to fix my wings, physical
therapy to remind me of what is
natural, inborn, that I too am
meant to fly.

Now that I am able, I haven’t left
my luxurious nest, I haven’t met up
with the other birds in far away places.
I freeze over and over, frightened by
my injury, my past, my trauma, the
incident that changed the course of my
life and grounded me, and I soothe over
and over because I have to survive somehow.
I am no longer in danger, but habits are hard to change.

I am calmer now, more acclimated to
a life with less danger, but sometimes
adventure looks more like peril than fun.
I am no longer in crisis, but how I took care
of myself is hard to shake.
I am afraid as I compulsively soothe unruffled feathers,
that they will fall off, never having been used,
and my adventure will never begin.

We should meet for coffee.
We’ve waited until the ache of despair
has passed and our bones have not rotted yet.

We have curled hair and painted nails
before the years took both fine strands
and cuticles from our corpses

and we still flip our heads
as if the hair and nails sung tones
crafting spells on all in our paths.

We should not wait to break bread
and sip coffee brewed from Arabica beans,
we must not wait any more.

Rabbit outside my window
Close enough to the glass 
For me to see a reflection
in your wide, dark eyes
and a tick on your ear

I hope you don’t fear me
I’ll keep still either way
We’re both frozen in
some one-sided primal standoff
waiting for a decision to be made

I haven’t been around long,
but I would hope you could listen
Someone so professional
I fail to see your vision

You want improvement
That I can see
But you refuse to allow the chance
for such a reality to be

Vintage brown four-door Mercedes
probably from the 70s
surfer dude in bare feet
Have you seen him ride his board?
beached on this city street
taking a nap in the backseat
legs lean out the side window
ghostly feet under white blanket
switches to front seat
lights up, big smoke comes out the sunroof
starts it up, drives off in a puff

From my vantage point on the couch, I can see two
flecks on the wire, each moving opposite
to the other, like watching a highway
skirt the horizon line.  Traffic is light
on North and Southbound.  There is time enough 
for these rat racers to pause, lift
themselves, leg to leg, thorax to thorax,
peace be with you.
They break, heading in their respective directions.
I return to more important matters.

a morning without
mama’s coffee cup in hand 
borrowing sugar