simple things

simplicity is not a light thing.

it is an act of brutality.

an imposition of the will

stamped on the skin,

the bruise of humility blooming

in the muscles, the bones

bearing the weight of each decision.

it is a brave thing

to let truth smack you in the face.

do not turn away;

concern yourself with discipline,

cutting off the accumulation

of indifference and distraction,

the delicate removal of the veil,

the insertion of new lenses

with which to view the world.

you must learn to use new tools,

or the old tools in new ways,

or maybe you only need your hands,

capable of both gentleness and violence,

every small act larger than you ever imagined.

fish

They used to call me fish.

I have no idea why.

I only know I couldn’t breathe

in my small town;

I wasn’t the only one.

It’s been 35 years since I lived there.

The only thing I really miss

is the fried chicken from Uncle Nicky’s.

I try not to indulge in nostalgia.

I have few illusions.

There was one gathering

a few years after graduation.

It was tragic.

I won’t go into details.

For some people,

high school never ends.

I’ve seen one old classmate since then,

one of my closest friends,

working on campus—

a tradesman who used to be an artist.

Perhaps he is still.

Somehow I’ve heard the occasional rumour.

I know he was married

to one of the most beautiful girls in town,

that he got divorced a few years later,

that he still skateboards.

I know who he was.

I have no idea how.

Perhaps we all stay the same

in all the important ways:

the seeds of our flowering

the wounds that once seemed so deep.

I still have no idea why they called me fish.

mist

sometimes what you don’t say

hangs in the air

                          like a mist

that coats everything

like dew

              like frost

i would like us to speak

more directly

not drawing large figures

that lurk in shadow

we need to discover

a new language

the old one isn’t working

we keep moving

past one another

                            like mist

mornings

i wish to live a life of more simplicity

a life in which yes means yes and no no

though i admit to more disappointment than success

i am far too easily distracted too often

amused by activities that don’t bring joy

it’s not the same as evenings filled with reading

rubbing the stories into my skin like lotion

trying to keep everything soft inside

i find myself wake late at night

watching the light creep across the walls

the minutes slowly advancing to the morning

my hands empty with yearning

entry

where the palms?

where the donkey?

why all the cloaks?

why the procession?

what other branches?

all this green.

how many candles?

find me the evloghia—

where the blessing?

what time of day?

what is the meaning?

how this mystery?

how this victory?

first the weeping.

then the joy.

carve it into everything.

remember this

with ceremonies.