I dream of a house-
Glowing with golden light
The kitchen window sill,
Lined with spices- cardamom, thyme, dill.
Little creatures lurking and purring,
Panting and babbling,
Crawling on four limbs & teetering with two.
Music and textures, of sounds and fabrics,
Layers and textiles and instruments.
A body to sleep next to,
And cartoons to watch in the morning.
Warm baths, and surprise flowers,
Little sticky hands and undistinguishable paintings.
Birthday parties and first days of school.
Balancing budgets, grocery lists, and anniversaries.
Piano lessons and soccer practice.
Snotty noses and tomato soup.
The morning rush, exhausted dinner, quiet night.

You say you're bad,
And I forget to say something
More than just disagreeing-
Forget to say the opposite,
That you're wonderful,
That I like being near you.
You make light of your talent,
Make sarcastic remarks,
Cynical gestures, and bizarre noises.
And I see it as a dance.
Your hands gracefully move through the air
And I'm transfixed.
As if you're a snake charmer
Playing your tune.
I follow you mindlessly,
As I slither in every direction.
Who's seducing who?

My roots are raw & exposed.
I was yanked out of the ground
And set aside, forgotten to be crafted.
I knew a home once,
A lush wood with foliage
And forest sounds, dewy & humming.
I am now in solitude & drying out.
The life of my ecosystem-exiled.
What to do now,
But to find a pot of soil and call it "earth."
Find a small, modest room with generous light.
Let creatures lurk around corners
And fill the air with spices & music.
I once stood still in a forest.
Now, I stand independent
Growing & collecting light.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is--
Who to appeal to.
Things merely are, and
I merely am.
I exist and I experience.

What comes tomorrow is not born
As time is not static.
It is growing, and I watch
The cinema of life unfolding.
I am a witness to the unknown,
Meeting strangers everyday,
Constantly replaced by the next novelty.

Tomorrow is not something you walk into,
But a doorway you stand in.
The second each moment comes,
It is going.

The only thing to be doing is right now.

Want.
I want
To want.
I want to,
But I'm afraid.

July

My professor's condo overlooking the lake
Where fireworks fly above to bridge linked islands
Every 4th of July.

I bring the mail in,
Clean old teacups and study the fish.
Water the plans & play the piano.
Thumb through some CDs to borrow & listen
In my car on the way to work.
I browse his library shelf with
Books of art and gay literature.

There is a set of beautiful journals,
Appearing as if a set.
Each an installment of gifts.
One front page inscription reads as
An Easter present from a lover Joe.
"From the Easter bunny, bunny."
The first page tells of a trip abroad
And longing from being apart.

I wonder what happened to Joe.
Where is he now?
Do they still talk?
And does he know of Michael's condition?

I feel sad,
Thinking of the professor's clean, white apartment
Living alone for so long, devoted to his field & students.
He is much like his Oscar fish
Who sits alone in his massive tank.
I note the similarities.
And that's how he'd rather have it--
Not understanding why anyone would fawn over him,
Even now with his terminal illness.

And I wonder where I will be in forty years
Or when I'm dying.
Who will be by my side?
And all I want is to be as great a man as my granddad,
And find a woman as beautiful as my grandmother.
I pause, and sit,
And am lonely & defeated.

He passed away in July,
After moving home, with countless visitors
In and out.
Old colleagues calling, students travelling
From Atlanta, New York,
Driving from Iowa, Chicago.

He did not want a funeral, but music.

At his remembrance in the organ recital hall,
Songs were sung and played,
A concert of piano & cello.
People told stories of his commitment, assertiveness,
Tantrums & sass.
And I cried,
Not because he was dead,
But because I longed to make such an impact.
I gave up my fantasies of union,
Feeling the desire to take over his torch
And marry my work.

I.
Black, dirty hands
Who decided such a negative connotation?
Dirt. Dirty. Of the earth.
Back to our roots. Grounded.
At home, to stick our fists in
Wet & heated, warmer below the surface.
Full of insects and creatures,
Humming, pulsating.
And the majority water
Like a body of flesh & blood.
The Schumann resonance beats
Like a heart, burning from
The molten core of lava and what else?
Earth sings, through wispy winds,
Whispering a silent tune, or
Screeching a war cry...
Then mumbles with a tumbling stream,
Babbling over unique rockscapes--
Lay still long enough & something will find you;
Quiet long enough & the earth will talk.

II.
Seasons come & go, cycling, like we all
Fall back into old routines & habits.
We are warm, we are dying, cold, and then reborn.
Does one get anywhere spinning in circles
With the occasional tip down or up?

III.
Poor planet packed with parasites
Nothing given, only taken.
And she cannot replenish fast enough.
Temperamental frustration.
Natural disasters.
Slowly dying, like anything else.

2012 Is Stupid

Stirring--something gently shaking me awake...through the window.
A chilly breeze, fall is officially here.
The wee beastie purrs, gazing out longingly.
Finally, I escape to the shower.
The steaming rain is just too hot for my body, but just right for my back.
 I wish I could stand there all day, surrounded by warmth, as if in the womb.
Yet, it lacks the life rhythm-the heartbeat that I latched onto,
Pushed up my mother's abdomen, from scar tissue after my sister's birth.
They had to pull me away; and likewise, I drag myself out of the shower.

"I like mornings because they're secret," Ben says.

I look out onto Maple street as if surveying a ghost town.
It is eerily quiet, and everything is haunted by a light layer of dew.

Turn the key in the ignition...
It hums but no bellow.
I crank the choke as far as it will let me.
Cold engine. Lame horse.
I feel sorry for the bike,
I can relate
And I am late.

I pull the copper Schwinn out and up from the cellar,
As quickly as I can setting off down the hill.
The wind is cold, my hands stiffen, eyes watering.

"What is the point? Why is everything so difficult?"
I search for purpose.
"What is the reason behind all this shit?"
I huff as I make the slight incline to Ann Arbor.

I cannot see how I am being shaped, if not only to be apathetic or bitter.

My heart booms
Shoulders tense
Chest aches.

The only thing I can predict to happen next with my cynicism is a heart attack.

Your ghost is everywhere--
In every falling leaf
In each cup of ginger tea.
The hot baths & boiling showers.
Old National Geographics & the golden early morning light.

I always wait too long to escape up north,
Where it's cold and no one is swimming.
I hope that the sun heats the sand
To warm my feet,
Like when I crawled under the blankets
To cup your toes in my hands,
And breathe my hot, moist breath on
Your pale frozen skin,

Passing the Dixie highway, the Baptist sign reads,
"Are you on the right road?"

I can still feel your hand in mine,
Solid as stone with
A blanket of flesh
That I kiss to warm.

Like a warm, 10-gauge pump-gun,
Slamming into my shoulder with each shot--
My heart beats against my chest,
But aiming for what, I do not know.

It's drunk on caffeine,
Drunk on daydreaming,
And breathing heavily.

The cicadas' purr in Summer
Sound more sane & soothing
Than the synchronized pumping.

Abandonment & longing.
Sensuality & intrigue.
It is completely exhausting
Existing in these two separate paradigms simultaneously.

My pulse is racing,
Yet I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open.
(I feel as if I'm floating.)
[I need to leave, and yet these heavy blankets keep me anchored.]

I want a woman who will love me, really love me, all of me,
And who will kiss my rough, calloused fingers
Who will wrap about me like vines
And comb my hair with her smooth branches
Who will nest for warmth, even in Summer
Be cradled under my arm
And listen closely for the ocean in my chest--
The crash of the waves, spilling from my nostrils,
And the rise and fall of my breath.
I want a woman who will love.

I am small; thinner & grayer than I was yesterday.
Quiet bird.
Gentle Bones.
Slim face, lovely face.
Disabled & void of song.
Heart chirping, rapid chirping.
Cardiac arrest.
Musical arrest.
Silent, somber bird.
I am small; thinner & grayer than I was yesterday.

I miss your cheeks
And your jaw.
I miss your bones-
Sharp, but soft.
Tiny wrists,
Limbs
Wrapping about me
Snap
And let go,
And I
Fall
Out of the tree,
Crashing down.

Sometimes when we talk
You sound like you
And other times
You sound a world away
Or like you never knew me
And we never touched.

It would be
So much
Easier
If you had cheated.
I could be angry
And no longer want you.
Everything
Would have been a lie,
But everything is not a lie.
Only truths,
Truths I cannot ignore
Or pretend never existed.
No matter
How I wrack my brain,
I cannot forget
All that was said
Every time and way
You touched me.

I miss your body laying next to mine,
Its heat radiating
Into my body
Warming my sole
Being
Shining rays
Into my core
Lighting up every dark corner
Our faces
Near each other,
Noses touching,
Nuzzling,
Stroking each other's cheeks.

Picking up the pieces.
Scraps & leftovers
Piled together.
Strip and rip, cutting the edges
Arranging them on the background.
Time to piece everything together.
Like magnets jumping toward each other,
The words press down,
Glued with a firm grip.
The image is dressed in
A rose gown, and sent
Away, traveling miles
And into the hands & small wrists of
A kind face.
Good idea or poor experiment,
Only days may tell.
An answer comes within the week--
Bright, shining yellow
Folds of words,
Humor & warmth.

Phantom limb aching
The extension of my body
Floats onward without me;
Heading West, toward California
Probably.
It's when I'm really saying
What I'm saying
That you run away,
Stubborn bull.
On trial for war crimes.
The suitable punishment?
Exhile from my
Kind heart.
It's as if somebody
Took an axe to
My chest, splitting it open
Everything is spilling out.
Nothing left but an
Empty cavity
Waiting to be
Filled again.

Ressurection

You got what you needed out of me
And you're gone.
I'm used up--discarded
And tossed aside
Like a dead raccoon off Beck.
Now,
I'm without a home.
I visit family
Yet I'm still alone.
(It is difficult to be around them
Without showing my long face.)
Your chair sits empty
As does my chest.
The cavity grows wider
As I grow thinner, grayer.
Pick up your bow
And your quiver of arrows,
Amazon,
And go West.

Unavailable

You wanted a deep love,
And found
Attachment
In an archaic mind.
Refusing failure,
You stretch
Beyond limits of effort
To salvage what you know.

Let go.
Free your hands
To hold mind
And touch--
Wherever,
Exploring.
Indulge in new scents & tastes.
Feel the sisterly presence
Of body and skin
Meld into one being.

Move on / Step forward / Jump in

Wandering through winter,
I'm so warm during the day-
The sun shining upon my face,
A golden blanket
Covering me, and
Loving me.
I feel so alive.

And at night,
As she slips away
Slowly and
Quietly,
I am cold & alone.

My poor hands
Can never hold heat.
Everything is a tired effort
And I can't create.

The dark is unfriendly
Unfamiliar
And I search for ways
To build light
Without her presence.

Artificial,
Unorganic rays
To guide the way,
Can't hold up to
The sincere, nurturing star.

My petite limbs
Have nothing
To photosynthesize.

Dissolve

Blank expressions.
Eyes meeting.
Silence.
"You got something to say?"
No, no.
I'm just waiting for you to kiss me,
To draw me in,
Plant your face on mine.

I want my lips to dissolve in your solution.

My body shouldn't miss you like this.
I'm just looking for a proper goodnight.

No man should be so blessed
For using hands to paint hate
Instead of life.
To imprint anger on a canvas face
And streak red fingers around another's neck.
Yet, he is praised,
Given an award
By the people and critics
For his mindless serenading--
Wool over every young heart's eyes.
He is welcomed with open arms.
It was a shame and quite and inconvenience
That he be absent from the festivities.
Let the prodigal son come home!
The exiled prince
Rule and
Govern
His way.

In our nest,
Soft & warm,
We are high up
Yet secure
From falling.

It is hard to fall
When you are already lying.

A glowing star
Beams light
Through branches
Twisting & weaving
A mesh canopy of energy & wood.

Peace
Is not
The absence of war,
But this
Right now.

--This moment,
Where the breeze
Strokes our hair
And sings us to sleep.
The mother & father
Of Wind & sun
Watching over us
With gentle eyes.

Peace,
Of our shared desire
To nurture & cleanse
To heal & rejuvenate
To move forward
To be.

Part One

Pull back my skin,
Look under the covers.
You show every vein to me,
As I had remained robed.
But now, I shed the layers,
And I step out as if to let the towel drop,
Like after a hot shower,
Cleansing my body & my mind.


Part Two

A shouting voice-
From within her house, or
From within my mind,
"Get out!"
Sad child,
Strange abuser.
Controlling
With paranoia,
Only ceasing
From tears or
Stolen cash.
You prefer people
Weak and
Selfless,
But that's a hard thing
To get by on alone,
Without ambition for fuel.

I twist in my mechanical eye
To the stave's grooved peg.
Then- stretch out the three legs,
Pulling them tall and
Spreading them strong & stable.
Check the light and gauge the depth.
A lifeless figure to substitute,
To stand in as needed,
Absent of breaths to
Avoid
Fidgeting.
Everything comes into focus--
The fine lines, and
Curvature, of
The cadaver.
It is almost perfect,
A landscape [waiting]
For its tree,
Or a play anticipating
The lead's entrance.
Where is the warm body
With monochrome painting,
(the exception of those
verdant green eyes, and
occasional pink lips)
With the gun cocked,
Read to aim-
[I step in.]
Cool & composed,
I take a deep breath.
With eyes closed,
To prepare & avoid a
Faulty blink.
Not a moment they are opened
That the black ballon is
Squeezed.
The small box clicks, and then
Crunches
Its twisting eye lids shut.
-much later-
I soak it in.
The frame;
The captured evidence of my being.
I accept myself.
All of myself.
Everything to appreciate.
I become acquainted & pleased
In knowing
My oldest friend.