Ambitions
When I was a child
I wanted to be a king
Then I changed my mind
I thought I’d be a pirate
or work under the big top
Casualties of anxiety,
the cracks in my teeth,
will one day be relics
of all my suffering.
The grey on my chin,
a reminder of when,
I fell apart
and got back up again.
The ache of my back,
worn from the path,
will one day burn stubbornly
beneath the flame.
The thoughts in my head,
and the life that I’ve lead,
will disperse into the cosmos,
everywhere between
the spaces in-between.
This is a moment.
It goes.
It does.
I can’t forget that.
Everything that can
will go away
in the face
of the right circumstances.
It’s only you at the bottom.
Climb.
Pull at the mud and roots.
Kick until it hurts.
Get the fuck out of there.
Tomorrow
is but a gift
that is always worth it.
This ache will leave.
Our scars are beautiful.
Stained glass windows, technicolor hues
irridescent in the glowing light
rainbow clouds woven into
the dying embers of dusk
the shades of orange the world is reduced to
in the final flow of the golden hour
a field filled with high flying kites
dancing in the music of the wind
the echoes of laughter below floating them higher
the audible crispness of a old book’s binding
held too firm for too long on a forgotten shelf
a sigh of relief at being opened once more
the smell of wildberry muffins wafting
into the hearth of the home on a lazy
morning, infusing the air with intoxicating sweetness
these are the things that revive me
when the world works hard to wear me down
The chatter of squirrels and sweet
chirping birds dart around
edges of the porch
where I sit
just looking over these
spots where we talked,
replaying shared moments
through days of joy, dancing,
reading, songs, and
walks by the creek.
I look to the lengthening shadows
draped down the hill in their
mournful goodbye to day,
knowing tomorrow the sun will fill
all these places with light again
tucking memories into folds of my
mind like seeds layered into leaf
litter across the forest floor.
To sing the way that I sing
I’ve clawed a hole into my throat
which lets the sunlight pour in
like honey to soothe the wound
and lets my music rush out
with the urgency of a flock of doves
spiraling into the blue noon air.
I can no longer hold my tongue,
my jaw is no cage of secrecy.
I’ve forfeited all of my stories
to melody, but forfeited nonetheless.
You could reach your hand through
the hole in my throat to fold
your fingers around my heart.
You could pull it out or crush it.
I give you the benefit of the doubt
that you won’t choose to gut me.
You do not forsake my vulnerability.
Through my neck’s gaping wound
you can watch my vocal chords dance.
You can hear my heartbeat ringing
from my open throat, the drum
that backbones the song.
What I meant to say is it’s hard
to trust people while I’m lying
on a stretcher but what came out
was that I want living and loving
to hurt so I know they’re real,
whereas in my dreams I feel no pain
and have 360 degree vision like a rabbit,
thus no need to trust anyone or anything
but my own vision, whereas in the real
world one of the inherent limitations
of being human is that we only have eyes
in the front of our heads unlike pigmy owls
who have decoy eyes in back that predators
can pluck out rather than the good, working ones
and I meant to say people will betray you
when you’re not looking especially those outside
the group whom we refer to as the others
but what came out was I feel alienated
from the group like I’m another other
and I meant to say I discovered poetry
and sex at about the same time
but what came out is that both, for me,
are about my desire to be desired and
I meant to be polite and say please with tears
in my eyes but what came out were pleas and tears
in the middle of the pages where the words
that came out couldn’t touch what I meant to say.
“………………………….No one knows how
long their toehold can hold out.”
John Ashbery
Morbus has a hold of my toe
and the rest of me too.
Last Sunday I attended a lecture
on “The Shore Birds of Tampa Bay”
in a crowded exhibit room at Lettuce Lake.
No one masks anymore.
I joke that I’ve caught the avian flu,
but it’s just some common flu that could
easily kill a man of My Age.
By Tuesday morning I have to pay
my Uber driver an extra $200 to get
me in & out of the doctor’s office, and I
know my plans to fly to Penelope’s wedding
have flown out the window.
Heartbreak & Sorrow have flown in.
When I call, Penelope tells me to get a hold
of myself, she says I can make a video
appearance at her reception tomorrow.
Thank God Dr. Hue has come home to help.
from my prescribed bed
I hear the tones of two doves
as they fly away
a lifetime ago
I learned my first lesson in the geography of my world
from a friend who passed me a note in class:
We are here,
but I can’t be there
for you
anymore–
I have new friends.
no matter where I’ve been
friends walk
off the edges of my map
or jump
or are flung
as though we’ve spun and spun on a playground carousel
and one by one
we let go
I don’t know where most of them land
we send memes instead of letters
to save on the cost of friendship
I know them by their avatars
Learning names of a new friend’s spouse or children takes me months
then one of us moves
then one of us moves on
we dust off our backsides, our hands
I mark the place where my feet struck
I drop a pin on my map
I was born early, under morning’s rays
