Burn
Recoiling deep in recesses I can’t find
Boiling, over? 
I fight…

Bright
Finding my dark heart and mind
Blinding, fall?
I seek…

Fade
Withstanding urges to lash out, in kind  
Understanding, calm?
I survive.

Spark—

a very different kind of happy

but we read my poem

from last june first

and she says

“you can be as free as you’ll ever be this year too”

and i say

“i love you”

and i do.

i really do.

same day

we are drunk

it’s in my head

and it swirls

in the best way

and they are friends.

that makes me happy.

it’s gonna be a good

fucking

summer.

Life always moves forward. Whether it be
for you or thy neighbor,
nothing stops it entirely.
One can pray for time to cease, even if only
for a millisecond,
but the earth runs
on a strict schedule.
Never a day coming consisting of your rules,
hell, even in a pandemic.
You wake up, 
swing your legs over the edge,
and move. You perform the dance you’ve practiced
since you could walk.
Ignoring the words of your friends,
not remembering the sound of their voice.
Silence the thought
placed in your head
from that one phone call.
Delete the internet searches–
no amount of research
will cure cancer.

I search out 
all my missing
dead
desperate to tuck
their names
into the altar litany.

Uncalled,
they are a river in the blood
loud and riotous,
                               I give them leave.
When they dare me to break
open in public, I bring,
my holy-rolling body
to these secular drums
and don’t miss the divinity.

These steps still, call down a clean
sweat; shy is lost
on the other side
of the last Beyoncé baseline
             
                                                   here, I give myself
to the tending of ghosts I cannot
name. A neat whiskey
held til they teach me the dance
of their childhood

joyous free
we cackle and wine
underneath a packed forest
of salt slick limbs.

Digging With the Golden Shovel

i collect words and smith ’em.

they blow on in like a breeze. 

they’re new minted thoughts

when i’m in water to my knees.

i’ve a jeweled box of topaz,

with dead flowers from

the mesa and the marsh.

there’s passerbys and brothers,

by the bay in gilead.

words pour out today,

every passing wave the melody. 

then i take it so far out to sea,

sailing where i’ll fish alone—

my pants are soaked up to my bones.

then i want the wet to dry from me—

so unsteady dying in this land.

see i met a woman, anesthesia—

she matched a wind blast to my fire, and

up my clothes dried as dead leaves, or

canvas sails stretched on glowing wire.

she was born in a fortunate place,

with friends to embrace—

sweet, count yourself kept by love.

bosom friend, pose me the case

how to best give you chase—

to wrap you in me, dove.

i’m open to vast stretching space,

but your warm’st embrace,

to me is not known of.

i came back home, at evening.

went back to rest my skull.

in a barrio named for san antone

by the bay i know too well.

she needs nothing that i can see—

not now or any day.

i wonder, am i a pest, or does she

see the heart of me.

she needs nothing that i can see—

not now or any day.

oh she’s got her ways,

she’s got a way—

i’m just a lost pescadero in the sand

with someone he can’t have.

now ask me where the water is…

…in gilead.

I hold my palm out, and

she leans her forehead into it. 
I squeeze.

We resume watching our show
wordless. 

She uncurls a leg from the blankets, and
I open my hands to hold her heel.    
I squeeze. 

With a touch we 

Acknowledge, 
   Connect,
       Affirm, 
          Support

our electrons briefly
shared the same space 
exchanged potentials
traveled up nerves to declare 
we were real 

for a moment we 
for a touch we

 Our atoms, at least  

Existed together.

(found poem)
 
“Pop Quiz”
Is There Anyone Else?

Are You Sure?

Exposure, Fractures, Structures and Purpose

We are gathered together

We are Deeper Than Flesh, Closer to Kin

Never Alone

          We are All Violence, All Brains

          We are Labor Pains and Hard Rain

We Eat The Suffering Game

and Spillover the Flames

some 
things 
must 
burn 
in
that
I
don’t
have
any
more
cheeks
to
turn
sort
of
way

make p.m. turn to a.m. / night time turn back to day

not sure we
realize, yet
that there’s
no such thing
as different

every person a
preciousness,
a mathematical
expression
of beauty forged
through infinity,
by the same
star breath, with
thoughts, ideas, looks
touches that
spill universes into
existences,
every rock, tree, fence
holds us face to face
with reality,
so we can see
in all faces
a golden ratio
and wish

we could see
no such thing,
as different