When you are done

Counting the shells

Of broken concrete

By your favorite corner,

I beg you to gather

All the shards into one place,

Set the oven to 365 degrees,

And bake them all

Together.

While you wait

For dinner,

Maybe you could answer

My latest letter

And end my three month stasis

Of thought and heart.

Don’t think to rush

Though.

The casserole is burning,

And your teeth are hurting.

While you try to chew

Through all that weight,

Maybe think of the paintings

In your house,

Their brushstrokes,

And the lonely blokes

Who gave them meaning

After giving them to you.

The road back to where you came from,

Litter blowing and sounding out its chimes.

You’ve been here before.

You’ll be here again.

There is no shame in taking stock.

There is no fame in staying locked.

Sure, you may stumble

Over yearbook pictures,

Under the weight of

Old love letters,

A thousand days of the same exact weather,

But in these things, you learn your ways,

Your own specific taste,

What makes you think

And brings you to the brink

And brings the power to keep pushing on.

So no, there’s nothing wrong

With listening to last year’s song

And putting your feet on a well-worn path,

Because a road will always have its end.

Raise your sail and blow,

Blow away with the wind.

The trick to breathing under water,

They say,

Is to fool the brain into fooling

The lungs.

To measure out synapses in minutes

And knots.

If you spend enough time underneath

I think,

The water gets to be invisible

And clear,

And time slows down like glacier melt.

I want

The ability to make things stop

Like that

Whenever I choose, whenever I please

And not

Only when I get so close to drowning.

Heartbeat

Gets loud rambunctious and angry.

The times

I’ve had all blur together and the water

Clouds up.

Pure art with no ambition.

You dance around your kitchen,

Spilling salad on the tiles,

Not letting yourself get tired,

Praying only to yourself

And the family photos on the shelf.

Watered-down wine,

A clock that can’t hold time,

And me sitting at the table

Sure I’ll never be able

To slide around on bare feet,

Shrug off the extra hour of sleep,

Make the moments count without question,

And wait for joy to set in.

I’m too busy watching you

To search for any other truth

Like the boiling point of water,

Or Billy Collins’ alma mater.

I will refuse to tussle

With whether or not

The heart is just a muscle.

I bring along with my basket

So full of dirt and earthworms

Speaking the ancient language

Of the first Mother.

She has a frown.

She keeps it in her front pocket,

buttoned up,

Not too tightly, I’m sure,

Always ready, anxious and willing

To draw it, lightning quick

When the bell tower strikes

High noon, and I drop my basket.

Brother, bring me all your books.

I want to read your thoughts

All left in margins on the right,

The insight that you wrought

From words pressed in the steel

Of printing press and author’s will.

You’ve gathered all the pieces

And made your own true painting still.

If all we are is what we choose

To wholly own or just in part,

I know that I could learn your mind

And find myself inside your art.

We aren’t so different, you and I,

And how we think, so similar,

Even our shoes would feel the same,

Foot-to-foot and sinister.

Sequoiadendron giganteum

You’ve grown much taller than  me,

Stronger too, with thicker skin

And a head closer to the sky

Where I’m sure

You can see so far,

Clearly and without the pain

Of memory.

You’ve had more time than me

To make your joy

And peace

And shrug off every doubt

Like last year’s leaves.

Do you teach a class

On the types of growth?

The air is smoother now than yesterday.

I wish it was because I heard her say

Something sweet, maybe kind, or anything

At all.

I turn my head at every passing sound.

Could have sworn that her voice came trembling down

From untrodden precipices, ice-bound

And melting.

Is the beat beneath your heart firm and loud?

What’s the trick to keeping your head unbowed?

I’ve tried stainless steel and art museums,

Tried it all (and more).

There is but one trick I have left alone

For noble reason, rest assured, for none

Of what I truly want is found outside

Her beauty pure.

A softer touch may be enough

To rescue me from schemes of love.

I do not know the times I’ve been

Lost in plots that lead to sin.

And still that book sits on the desk.

Its verses all point to a test,

Where joy is found inside the teeth,

And those sweet words, and visions seen

Evoke the smell of blooming Rose.

I’ve had my taste, and so it goes.

I choose to swear my heart to you,

Not to some set of ancient rules.

Switching, twitching mind

Who calls out every shot,

Breaks open all the time,

And points out all my rot.

If only there was a friend for meditation,

To bust the lonely breathing,

I’m forced to focus on the intake,

Empty out my brain, but wait,

There I am, sitting, talking to myself

Who is listening,

Pulling off my fingernails with pliers and a socket wrench.

Let the tool do the work

Or something might just strip.

Then all the screws will stick.

My only good friend,

The one who tells me the truth,

Keeps forgetting her key,

And I sometimes cannot hear her knocking.