I don’t know where I’m running now
I’m just running on/
Trying not to confuse it,
With what you do to survive
(Browne, 1977)
Absolute perfect timing
For that unexpected 4AM weekend run into work
When I’m already feeling mentally and physically exhausted
And forgot to stop for gas
I desperately want to come in,
I am begging at your heart’s front door.
Do you need an ardent declaration?
You’re all I’ve ever wanted and more.
I am begging at your heart’s front door.
I am standing before you with outstretched hands
You’re all I’ve ever wanted and more.
But I’m so reserved you’re unsure where I stand
I am standing before you with outstretched hands
You say you want to believe what’s between us —
But I’m so reserved you’re unsure where I stand
I am who I am. I don’t need to come out, but
You say you want to believe what’s between us —
Do you need an ardent declaration?
I am who I am. I don’t need to come out, but
I desperately want to come in.
They wander the streets
Aimless in physical direction
Guided instead by supernatural force
Their mouth begets strange wisdoms
Their eyes see through the body and into the soul
Whispers of past and future fill their mind
Nonsense to mortals
Nonsense perhaps to the immortals, too
Complexities impossible to apply to life
Embedded into one no different than us
O child of Cassandra,
Will you also be driven mad?
The dog and I
are a constant clown show.
I throw one ball,
she brings me back a different one.
I throw the ball three times
and she fetches it.
I throw the ball a fourth time
and she jumps up into my lap
instead,
a non-sequitur.
She wants to play fetch
but won’t let go of the ball
and growls if I try to take it
or even just pet her head.
She tries to play tug
with a ball
instead of a toy.
When I stand up,
she steals my chair.
She barks to be fed
the second we walk in the house.
I make her pay the tax
before I feed her,
leaning down to
plant a kiss on her forehead.
She goes to her crate
after breakfast
but rushes back
into the kitchen
when she hears me
pouring cereal,
waiting patiently
for her share of Cheerios.
She dances in circles
in front of the door,
making it almost impossible
to attach the leash to her collar.
She interrupts our walk
to roll around in the grass.
She herds me where she wants me,
pushing me with her body.
We howl together
as a nightly bonding ritual.
We take mutual naps,
me nodding off in the chair,
her at my feet.
She lays on Mommy’s spot on the bed
even if it means laying on top of Mommy.
It may not be the greatest show on earth
but it’s my favorite.
the tune of an old church hymn
stings up through my tongue, to the back of my eyes
leaving a renewed sense of guilt in its wake
along with a deep warmth
in the bottom of my belly, to keep me full
There are yellow lilies in the garden
Pink roses against the fence
Lettuce, radishes & peas in their garden plots
Raspberries & zinnias & strawberries in
the front garden
The curse of a cookie cutter yard has
no home here
Bees sleep in the sage
& robins make nests in the trees
I hear the songs of welcome
from the birds as the sun rises
I am so afraid of how colonialism
has torn us apart but at least
for this moment a butterfly
is safe here
surrounded by the soundtrack of
the Gods.
The suburban house in Camillus, New York.
I was eleven, maybe twelve. I had
my own bedroom for the first time ever.
The twins had moved down to the space
that had been my father’s office.
I inherited their old room, with windows
facing east and south. One night
that first week, something, not a sound,
woke me, pulled me from bed.
I stood looking out over the neighbors’
roofs. I watched the sky turn red
then green, the red again. I watched
Waves of shimmering color transform
the suburban sameness into something
rare and beautiful. I watched until
the lights stopped. I went back to bed,
to sleep. I never told anyone.
I was afraid I’d break the magic.
You do such a good job telling me what to want. I do such a good job wanting. Something in my gut. I’d die to come back as a fly on your wall. Am I precious? Am I wandering barefoot through the hedge maze in the rain? Fingers hooked in my dangling heels, mascara everywhere? I’m worried about my habits. I’m worried about my desires. I’m worried about my worry. The sun hits it just right and you can see the digital photo without even taking it. But, I’ve done things that I never thought possible. My changing body, animal angel. Buttons down the front of my sea glass shirt.
Good things come to those who wait. What would I earn if I waited forever?
(We left so much hanging in the air that meteorologists issued a severe weather warning.)
I passed upon an older man,
as I went on my way.
And asked him what lands I’d pass
upon tomorrow’s day.
“Good sir,” I said,
“what place lies yon ahead?
The suns grow red,
and I must know, before I get abed.”
Yet that old man said nothing,
some cat had scratched his tongue
there made no sound but huffing
and carrion that sung.
“Good sir,” I qouth,
“upon my trothe, don’t speak it all at once!
You’ll tell me yet, and not too soft,
and tell it all forsothe.”
And that old man looked up at me
with eyes that did not see
and like a hoary willow shook
as silence he forsook:
“That is a place no man yet knows,
all ring’d around with old willows
It lies within the Sorren swamps
where bogs sink deep like giant-stomps
So deep you can’t bring horses there
nor steel nor mail nor might
For that’s no place for arms to bear–
no sir–no place for naught but night.”
