the weeping

Today, in the shower,
nursing my migraine,
as the hot water hit my neck,
I began weeping.
Weeping.

Years ago, after 3 accidents in 2 months,
I was getting a message and,
as the masseuse broke up the fascia,
I began weeping,
my body wracked with sobs
as she pressed out pockets of flesh
where I had stored fear.

Now, I sit in the dark
and close my eyes.
Lean my head back
and strain to hear your voice.
It has become so small.

this is how

we gather in a circle
join hands
i’m going to pray now
i will pray in tongues
the language of heaven
bathe you in confusion
until something bubbles up
and i find the words

i would burn the incense
i would anoint the altar
i would sacrifice the lamb
but you would not understand
why i won’t let go
even now
i recite the words
half-believing them

cento for lisa 2017

the way to fall in love with you

is to walk your muddied fields, your lanes, leaning into the light.

mostly, my tongue leans to the good side,

casting out a mile long line of filament words, thin and flimsy.

did you hesitate? i wish it was enough;

a simple question reaching out its tips

to call them back

home. we soak them in, sustained.

you think you know the preparations you make.

i’ve missed you so much

lapping at the edges

and I can't stand here all day waiting

at the thought of missing you.

still, i see clearly what today will do for yesterday,

where the purpose that has been written,

the divine, shines through this final dwelling.

we sit in stillness.

walk in measured steps

searching, desperate amongst the garden stones.

a boulder of a day, they say.

a walk through the thickest fog.

in the beginning it was always there;

it chased me down in my dreams:

whose face had been freshly kissed enough

to measure? to fill? and then?

spill over. and then? repeat.

when all the serious questions get answered,

we are finally here in a room with no lies.

i need to tell you something

whispers when i have trouble remembering the dream you dream.

sometimes the words return.

the sound of your laugh

is enough. i lean into you

sometimes. i think i've forgiven you. sometimes

we buy back time by sacrificing

one another.

permission

1.   this is where i ask you for permission.

2.   there are things i must tell you but i must tell it slant.

3.   i weigh the words carefully, and you weigh the words carefully.

4.   polish. over and over.

5.   there are no containers for holding light.

6.   unless bodies.

7.   so emptied we reach for stars.

8.   or other bodies.

9.   permissions.

10. more bodies.

11. sometimes the way forward is through.

12. i know that’s a cliché.

13. does that make it any less true.

14. do we embrace clichés because they are true.

15. truth is derived from the proto-indo-european root deru.

16. or is it dreu.

17. they’re both true.

18. i’m working at being steadfast.

19. let me find my roots here.

20. shape my hands into instruments of peace.

21. there have been so many conversations.

22. volleys and volumes and side glances cast askance.

23. grant me an audience.

24. friends, lovers, countrymen, lend me your ears.

25. gather to me.

26. all the prophets.

27. open up the dark.

28. gather up everything that leaks out.

29. build whatever best houses. 

30. i give you permission.

and so, poetry

Art is anything you can get away with. Andy Warhol

Art is anything you can get away with. Marshall McLuhan

and so, poetry. this thing that demands you be brave.

that doesn’t mean confess your sins. though sometimes

that. unburden. who does the heavy lifting?

Leonard said the Spirit does. maybe. pfft.

all I know I haven’t the strength to convince you

of anything more. any more. this poem is a weak container.

just you sit there and wait. there’s more coming.

is this the burden of language. the hope

something sticks. i’m doing my best. i really didn’t

have fun doing it. i haven’t always done it

since i was a child. not really. not really.

because this is poetry, and the intent is an invasion.

inter/ruption. infection. in. let me in. inne. with/in.

so there you have it. good luck.