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.