when hope is so present
when he is embracing everything
and you go joyfully seeking out
those old hopeless places
just to see him show up
- 1 year ago
when hope is so present
- 1 year ago
today i reign in a tired horse
at the limit edge of the horizon.
i have ridden a lifetime,
from the other side of this dream,
all the way around the world;
i couldn’t really get there
that other way.
when the pleasant borders of
this fine country
uncover their proud beauty
all my deep wells smile,
all my bright face smiles.
i have seen this promise.
i have made my home
in this familiar place;
these soft hills, that stream,
this persimmon tree.
i was taught their songs,
i have sung their songs;
all my life;
i have fallen for those eyes
- 1 year ago
and i remember why i don’t write
poetry in the winter.
my arms and legs are covered
in the fingernail scratches of blackberries,
i wrestled all of yesterday.
my face is the kinda warm
you get when you’re
one kiss away from sunburned.
i spent the afternoon
travelling by foot,
held all around by rustling leaves
and the sound of children
playing on fresh grass.
that feeling you get
when you leave a cold building
into the warm air;
that lasted all day—
i guess i’ve been cold.
it’s nice to feel that the sun
might be shining on me for a while.
i have a name.
at this moment,
a plastic chair carries most of my weight.
its slightly deformed structure passes
the burden onto the earth, with
great effort. it bears
exactly the weight i give it.
some of the letters on my name tag
have faded through paper to stain my skin.
this chair is green.
it will always be faded green.
a sparrow hops around the corner
with two of his brothers.
he is wearing a crown of gold
and twisted grass.
the grass sticks up
high from his golden crown.
he carries a spear, and is
otherwise naked to his feathers;
brown, grey, rust.
they are painted on his body
with the texture of bristles
passing wisely through thick oil paint.
his smile shines with sunlight.
it is not a smile of the face only, but
of the overwhelming mirth of his spirit.
his soul smiles.
it is generous.
he uses his spear to fence
with a crumpled piece of yellow paper.
it balances the weight of his joy.
he doesn’t wear a name tag.
he is not a bird;
he is the bird.
he is his name.
his brothers are sparrows.
they are always hungry,
searching for scraps.
magic is the unseen.
it is the reality that embellishes
what our hands can touch.
our spirit is familiar with magic.
he sings to the man
who has seated his identity in the mind.
he makes lyrical and painted appeals
to solemn marble columns that yield
no ground in the temple of truth.
what those pillars don’t remember is that
they are not so old and venerable as they think.
they are clothed in hereditary patina, but
they are built on fields of dreaming and wild flowers
who had the most brilliant laughter and
could spend entire sunny days
fruitfully preoccupied with right this moment.
their bright eyes were so joyfully distracting
that time itself would lose track of its journey and
pool at the roots of these present sages.
black feathers flash in granular flecks of light;
there are so many black feathers.
they are flung from dancing bodies.
their sweat is their light,
falling from feathery bodies like rusty little stars.
full of mass and tiny;
no longer able to hold up
the ceilings of cathedrals,
falling in upon themselves
until they are holes in space,
feeding on every light with insatiable hunger.
these young black birds dance,
their hands are still full of so much light.
it seems like there is more than enough.
their dreams tell them,
there is always more than enough.
black holes spend their lives pulling at light;
they never shine.
sometimes god winks at me
in the watercolors of my spirit
in the sun caught up in the clouds
while it is setting
and don’t want to
and hold onto the light
eyes closed light
arms around cloud torso
light held much longer than
the sun long set
sometimes he winks with his eye
- 2 years ago
a man makes straight-lined paths
through square fields of kentucky blue grass.
he plants patches of sod
where concrete doesn’t cover curvy, bare dirt.
his feet make flappy noises on the stairs.
so many flights;
the nearest this wingless creature will
come to the sky.
my lids droop.
droop like the ears of a basset hound,
just less floppy.
or the leaves of a plant,
whose roots haven’t tasted water
in too many days.
yeah, ‘cause they’re dry.
more than a basset hound’s ears,
which seem like they might be wet
and super cute.
did you know that droopy ears
are a side-effect of breeding
dogs for docility?
they never grow up.
and they live in our houses.
isn’t that so weird to think of?
animals, in our houses,
sleeping in our beds.
i should be sleeping in my bed.
animals don’t wear eye glasses.
they don’t feel smarter when they’re on.
try putting glasses on a cat,
or better yet, put tape on their paws;
that’s the ticket. minutes of fun.
there’s a point i wanted to make,
before this tape business;
so they don’t wear glasses,
and tape doesn’t make sense on their paws,
but they care.
they enjoy you.
you could be their favorite thing in the entire world.
they have favorites!
fucking-a! that’s incredible.
i’d rather have favorites than eye glasses,
or any glasses.
and we both sleep in beds.
that’s worth something.
enough to let those lids droop
to the ground.
on a sleeping hound dog.
there is a Y in the road.
my toes are bare,
making sweaty mud in the dust.
a very blue bird plays in the air.
you are holding my hand.
white wood posts peek
their heads out of golden grain;
they are crowned with barbed wire,
it is rusted; red and flaky.
these kings line the road
all the way to the horizon.
we are walking.
we write each other’s names in the dust.
i sing you a song.
you tell me you love my presence.
my heart is soil.
your favorite flowers are planted in it.
every spring they bloom.
the Y is behind us.
when the barbed wire dips to the ground,
we run barefoot in the grain.
the sun is setting.