Flare

The point is:

a poem is
a match-flare

one moment, two

before dying out

the point is:

a poem is
where the magic
happens

a flare that doesn't
flicker and die

frozen, encased
immortal,
moments live on

My Name is

My name is a poem my
mother wrote
my father helped


First:
because it's generations
old


Next:
because we like it
you don't always need a reason
like what you like


Last:
because our family
our people are
more than just individuals
this name means
you are not alone

Me and Emily

Me and Emily
we got a thing.

Yeah she's dead
and nobody can know if
she would go down
with a woman(good guess,
but nobody’s alive to recall)

Doesn't matter anyway.

Me and her, She and me
we understand each other

she left those words for me
to say,

you there, future girl
I know you
I love you

you and me
we got a thing
like the buzz
of drowning,
of bees

Who Doesn't?

what I have is ghosts
who stay with me
while I ride in the dark

ghosts who
don't haunt me anymore
but give
other people the creeps

what I have is ghosts
of course, and so do you

an infestation
the proverbial baggage,
with more rattling chains
and self-closing doors

Grown Ups

Supper is:
one and a half
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
with the crusts cut off

blueberries, in one bowl
and lemonade from
leaded crystal wine glasses

We eat off a tray in the living room
curled up in faded fabric and
stuffing worn down into grooves
with age and at least five
owners

and giggle, because we can.

Why poets and science get along

The big questions are too huge
(What is time, where is god?)

So smaller shapes are stretched to take their place
(Does she like me? Will I fit in?)

In the space of a universe these are
infinitesimally,
indescribably

small. We make them into worlds.

our scientists can telescope through
time and break
our bodies into a database
of traits and shapes

but no phD, thesis, theory
can form a plan
that might finally win
the wars of the heart

(Even the organ is a misnomer.
wars of grey matter, maybe.)

In this love is like
molecular, particle
physics.

Stand back, it mostly makes
sense

Stand inside and it all falls
to pieces,
tiny bodies that follow no path-

and each is alone.

A letter to my friends

Let's move to Toledo and
start over.

no-- let's move to Tahiti and
stop.

Let sand run through our fingers
instead of through glasses

lay on the beach
take in the sun
sip mai-tais and
fruit juice

straight from the can

or from coconut glasses
the boys at the bar
sell at
inflated prices
to tourists and people
we laughingly call idiots.

We don't buy the glasses
we flirt with the boys,
poorly.
They take pity on us
and we get ours for free.

We'll sip and we'll laugh
pretend to be stars
between projects

or bosses, fortune 500,
on third wives and
their thousandth affair

instead of the beach bums
we properly are
living like locals(small house,
work at the market,
try to pay rent)

we can't afford paradise dreams
or penthouse vacations

it's better that way
(the juice tastes sweeter,
sun is warmer,
we laugh more than they
have in a year)

Here, in the cold, we've used
up our strength
of heart, of mind,
our financial gains

the cold locks our joints
we stay in the dark for
eight months on end

So I've thrown up my hands.


Let's get out, start over
Or stop altogether.

Anywhere's better than here.

Rock and roll love song

I stand in the corner
(alone in a group,
a throng, a crowd of boys and girls)

It starts in my feet-

beat
beat

beat
beat

in the soles
and hollow heels
of the boots I wore
to hide
my coming alone.

Bass, then.

Singing kicks in.

But it's the drums that
I feel in hollow heels
resetting the beats of my heart.

Holiday: A time for peace and joy

Just breathe, just breathe
I bow and weave

I dodge, I squeeze
I have to leave

before I lose
one of the few

small shards of calm
(see, in my palm

are marks that prove
I'm in no mood

for holidays
and store's bouquets

of sounds and toys
and merchandise)

Just breathe, just breathe
when suddenly

a miracle:
the aisle's full

of people but
(as though they're cut)

they move apart.
I move my cart.

Such sweet relief,
the end of grief.

While passing by
I deeply sigh

a thanks to fools
and happy Yule

as I go about my day.

The only advice I have to offer

If you can't stop the weather,
grow gills and breathe the rain
If you can't climb the mountain
stay low and learn to love the plains

If your heart is keeping locked up
the secrets you wish you knew
then shrink up small, darkly made,
and become a secret, too

Nothing else is out there.
This is all you get
So grow gills and plains and hidden parts,
and make the most of it