Dislocation happens standing still
the world around blown apart
by outside forces that can never
be pretended away,
the result is nothing personal,
as in the before
there is silence in the after
when the view out the window
is not the one seen for a life time
not a different street
a different universe must exist
unrecognizable but familiar

The motionless journey begins
deadly dull
nothing happens
for days on end
and to have hope
hope is given up

There is no reason
for the thought 
that Land is space
and space is the mother of time.
Maybe walking
is the ways and means,
maybe not…
…the auditory channel
plays Beethhoven

Do not stop seeing
the world as it really is

i spent years writing poems about melissa and chris and nancy & lee, and the wines i wouldn’t let them pay for, the gelatos that slipped from my hands into theirs. it’s been years since my muscles naturally scooped and rolled and poured, and tonight it was i who tipped generously and left with an extra piece of cheesecake.

You texted to see if I was “pilled up”
(my euphemism for my nighttime routine of tooth brushing, medicine swallowing, and log sawing)
No, I said, palming my pills back into the bottle
Not yet, I said, putting the glass of water back on its perch

I am not prepared for your arrival, but you are here, declining the tea I hastily brewed while you looked for parking

So this poem is over. We’re starting the next.  

splashing in a sparse puddle
may delight someone who has not
submerged in the sea.

to be 

Artificial wind
Wonder what is natural
And what is of us

Find a way to make it through.
The last step of a hard day.

I’m pushing up one final effort,
one more thing before bed.

I want to show you I love you;
me speaking it aloud doesn’t do it justice. 

I’ve tried you today, made you
angry, vexed by hard tongue,

harder head, making it all
about myself.  How was your day?

What are you thinking about?  I want
to hear your voice fill the room.

What do you want? 

One + One is Two
Me + You is One
Me + You is We
Me is One
You is One
We is Two
Me + You is Two

I didn’t want to write a poem today.
After twenty-six straight
my font of inspiration is dry; a fossilized lake-
bed where once liquid silver sprang
now, all is silent and dust.
No tinkle or sparkle
no smell save must
of age and of disrepair
a porch swing in the still air.
I am all used up, a cicada husk
left behind and stranger to love.
I’ll keep trudging on
towards the thirtieth, I figure.
Momma ain’t raise no quitter.