For the month of April/poetry.......

my campfire blonde
lay like
cupped horseshoes
on the inside
of the tree ring
encircling our time
her face turned
from the orange glow
and pressed flat
against my chest
no room
no cessating grip
to leave me cold on her half
the night air at my back
the night air climbs
the hackles of my neck
and she
my campfire blonde
sucks complaints down her sleeping throat
she stirs up the coals
she takes up the rear

So I’m wearing the sweater I bought for my Grandma’s funeral.
It might actually have been bought for Grandpa’s, I don’t know.
It’s hard to separate the two.
The understatement of the last century.
Grandma had it bad for Grandpa since she started the first grade.
She used to get in trouble for acting like a fool around him.
She spent eighty years of her life loving that one man.
Eighty fucking years, can you imagine it?
Her eyes never wandered.
Her love never faltered.
There was never any talk of greener pastures.
Never a rejection of any sort.
These, my intelligent ancestors destined to never love but one other.
The idea to me, a def-com 14 landmine a-bomb.
Set your phasers to stun
Train me
Aim me
Shoot that gun
Now, I know I don’t have the whole story.
But I held Grandma’s hand when he died.
I held her as she cried.
My eighty-seven year old friend who was a stranger to me, and I to her.
I watched her life fade like a superaccelerated movie showing the earth and sky rust cars.
She became more frail in the next two years and finally (and I’m certain not soon enough), she succumbed, fell under… was done.
So…
Now I feel alone.
Grandma? Grandpa? Dad?
If you have access to any strings up there… would you give ‘em a yank for me?
Thanks.
See you soon.




(more ramblings than prose... but it's all i got... peace y'all)

I found your pulse inside my unchained connection to God.
The heart whose tune only you’ve come close to.
I pray you come closer, closer still,
as if a wish to ignore the restraint
each second's passing
places upon us in time’s stubborn limitation.

Limitation sending the message of patience home.
The potentially destructive, potentially infinite sink hole of
boundless sadness and anticipation that my joyous expectation,
the very hope in me,
will be dashed against the hearth of my glass half-full house.

Hope is an unglazed porcelain bowl, chipped, cracked, and finally smashed. I am embarrassed to see myself carefully,
painstakingly try to put it back together again because I know You. Your ability to tell me how you feel.

I wonder what the last holder of this soul did to deserve my childhood, sometimes. As this life’s lesson has been all about being alone.
Its been, “Kid? You’re on your own.”
Watch people come close, watch people fall away.
Watch their sad mouths twist when they say they like me so much that away they stay.

No.
That’s a bunch of petty free, pity-me bullshit.
That’s where the resignation of Zen gets completely ignored.
That’s where individuality lay.
Where I get to be me, and
why, specifically, I am alone and remain.

So.

In finding Your pulse inside My unchained connection with God, I can’t help but hope harder than I ever have. An action making every super-glued crack creak, and every formal dismal failure potential proof that love just wasn‘t meant for me. I don’t believe that Darwin was wrong. The thriving survival and arrival of me is in moving toward pleasure. If it weren’t? Feeling good wouldn’t feel good.
It’d just be alright.

it's easy to miss the gray day in winter
the thick clouds begging the question,
"will it rain today?"
the rain, the snow, the appleskin torte
where the little ants flow
bucks
to receive gray love
for, even in the wettest places,
rain is proof
that all is as it should be
that the cycle is complete

the cycle is a woman
and the force is a man

and off she goes, evaporating, again

and here he comes,
wrapping thick strong hands
on the hip
of the earth

all my rivals will see what i have in store, my gun...
i've been harboring fleets in this reservoir, red sun...
and this nation's about to explode
your disciples are riddled with metaphors, well hung...
better pony up and bring both your barrelfulls, not one...
as we release this unspeakable toll...
(every grain of sand equals)
(all the stars and everyone)
how's our mother to damn these contributors...with mud?
how will the man who made chemicals difficult...shed blood?
how's our father supposed to be told?