Breathing (2012)

I should probably be meditating on

rivers, how they flow without

a care,

like the wind in my hair

like the time you put

nair all over your legs

hoping for a solution

and the stinging offered promise

but the chemical pollution knocked

you unconscious, scared and

frightened you came to,

leaving me wondering what to do

but you pulled through

I don’t know why I thought

of that, I hope you’ve

learned your lesson

and that your actions

aren’t determined, by your

thinking you-are less than

because of your

humanity, or stupidly rushing in

to stoke your

vanity.

I should probably be breathing,

letting go of all attachments.

Would-be Buddha, wait, scratch that.

That was my ego did you

catch it?

Not too long ago you called me

attractive,

-and my heart raced like THAT mattered.

Pitter-patter, I was flattered,

wondered if the rest of me was also,

like my personality, my actions.

Fat stacks of wealthy accomplishments

Richly-rated relationships

    guaranteed satisfaction

affirming others as if

            overcompensating

sympathetic in my reactions.

But all of this is my attachment,

Each thought, each memory breathed

-tingles the strands

in the web of my

         attachment.

I should concentrate on nothing,

I should focus on the absence

    But I find delight in my grieving,

                Overcome by strong emotion

                I long to release in purged

                                                     Explosion

They say the universe is exploding

    ever outward in

                     waves,

                                excited energy

    Galaxies,

                grieving,        just the same

                                                           as me

and in-between, a void, a nothing,      or perhaps

the true long lasting              connection

                                       in this

                         ~breathing~

but today,

                I’m enjoying my own reflection. 

Of master and craft (2012)

I am a barrel maker

       a craftsman,

                         a master of my art

smooth edges, no seams

                     no rough spots

and I use only the lightest of

woods                                  the

illusion of elegance.

There is a perfection in a piece that

                                seems effortless

as if the Gods had grown it,

as if the shadows and empty

spaces were the only thing

that knew it,

                     invisible, seamless,

           but not vacant.

   Invisible to all but

        the very patient

the canister swells in the

heat,

        growing full,

                             a mixture

of nourishment,

                        of missed opportunities

and not forgotten intimacies,

           of longing and nervousness

       grief, jealousy and enjoyment.

I am the master,

                                and the craft

Buying a Corporate Bond(age) -Jan 2013

Harmonious and cutthroat, selfish in a handshake, a gift becomes a gamble, a thrashing moral handful, let me lift the weight off your shoulders, humble you with bricks of shame by the spoonful, each break, each pause, each tumble in the market will catch your eye, your mind and pry deep into your soul, where once you yearned for relationship we can provide a hole that slowly carves out your capabilities to trust or empathize, we’ll make you wise, replace your why’s with certainty and fortification, welcome home sign the papers, we’ll take away the burden of community leave you king in isolation...

The Heart and the Draw Bridge (Jan 2013)

 Contemplation of a reason

“Its me” she said…


 -staining my teeth brown
with attempts at forgiveness
                syrupy delicious memories
intoxicated
             in pheromone bliss
fighting the urge to stay
in exile,          reemerging a former consciousness

Dreaming big grippy hugs
Susceptible to flirtation
 logic takes the back seat
to sensual admissions
 forgetting temporarily
the magnitude and wealth
       of our anxieties
 the rich causes of our
         shuttering
the weather proofed
         arguments
the
      perfectly
measured
      restraints

The picture drawn beside it

from risk taking

What if, I loved you for just a moment? 

“It’s me” he says




(It doesn’t always feel like breaking, sometimes it feels like finding yourself whole.)

Original

Dancing to local music (1.15.13)

Ecstasy,  caught in that perfect
rhythmic movement,
              I'm a puppet
the drummer controls my feet
                             my eyes closed
   seeking intention of the next
syllabic second, as if
    God's purpose could be presupposed
I catch it, 

my shoulders, brows and knees bent just so,
I'm off time but only in embracing the melodic
the delay of space, the speed of 
sound.
The sound is my pulse,
                 guitar rifts nervous system chatter, 
this is where my fingers go
       this is me conducting
yet I am the conduit, 
                   or is the cycle closed?
perfect mirroring vibrations
                   an emotion unfolds
and in the chaos of the cyclone
something can be felt without
a pull in any direction
                 without the hastiness of vomiting
without the wrestling to
                 swallow it,
          The dervish whirls
with a hand up to catch the spirit 
and a hand down to ground him
            This is a formality of 
                     mysticism,
            a skilled scribe of the 
                      heavenly
I am no trained shaman,
I'm an animal of spirit
a tasmanian devil
         of impulse
compulsively ecstatic

How odd a volcano looks
erupting from its center
how frightening a mammoth
trumpeting its displeasure
and how graceful a swarm
                             of insects
constant changing directions
how casually joyful a 
     chimpanzee
picking flees off a companion
my ecstasy 
a conduit of all living
       matters
yet uniquely individual 
for the sound is 
            all that matters. 

I am the voyeur (not finished?)

I am such the voyeur, see
 look at me (the language imbued)
 I’m ripe with flush, a shine with redness
I stutter over words and tap backspace on letters, erase my graphite, crumple up my ink-work, tumble over greeting gestures.
I’m big eyed with envy and shyness, eyebrow furrowed with word loss and question
I’m pigeon toed with bashful excitement, palm sweat and butterflies,
 shame holed and breathless
and that’s all the first test, not even the worst test
what about the honest answers after intimately entangling,
 wound with intrigue, turned understanding and then nurturance,
 Not worth risking but truth could lead to resentment
not to say in the moment you’re not repentant
So I, watch from a distance,
excited by new faces,

The Heart Imagines too

You are a fantasy 

My eyes created, 

Like the ghosts I sometimes see at night, 

Whimsical at first sight, I saw you playing 

Light hearted, unburdened 

But relayed through my mind a nymph, air dancing, 

Elegant other-worldly,

 Next I heard your words 

And with them your story,

 Innocent but worried, 

Always anxious yet so easily comforted 

And though the avenues were different, 

I thought I heard in you, shared values 

Easy partnership

Next my nose took up its duty 

And found exuberance in that 

which you call undignified 

Eagerly I followed your scent 

Wherever you went 

And longed in the absence

 of your mist of intoxicant 

As my fingers first combed through your hair 

I was unprepared 

for the muse that overcame me, 

Let it move me, soft and subtle 

Through the points that left my boundaries muddled 

And now my fingers feel called for contact 

Desirous to dance to the soundtrack of your body 

In my inner ear the equilibrium 

Has lost its balance 

And now I stumble 

Always out of context 

My stomach settles only in proximity 

My discomfort limited 

by the times I’m near you 

My lips seem to believe they’ve been given new purpose 

To create a conduit 

Between my essence and your neck, 

Your jaw, lips, cheeks and shoulders 

Magnetic they leap to you, 

Simple universal physics 

I’m amazed you’ve not noticed. 

Thus it’s difficult my dear 

For I know it’s all imagined 

But I’d have to 

abandon 

My senses to treat you 

As anything less than 

my heart’s desire

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for Luke Chrisco

In a city of unshaved long hair having creative open minded types I worry

“What makes me different?” initial observations

report the visible differences in body type, posture, body hair,

expressive hand gestures,

glasses, and other shades of fashion.

I wonder how their friends describe them

He’s jolly, conscientious,                     caring, and sensible,
                a douche bag, enjoyable,                                 reflective, affectionate,
sometimes romantic,
                adventurous, physical,     very intelligent,
fun loving, crazy, a dreamer,                     hard working
        responsible, shameless                           or well kind of lazy.

And the loves of their lives are they still around to share, regale us with the first time they knew it was love or the moment they no longer cared?

Can they still laugh at the funny hats, the sporting events, the late night on swings, dancing in rain, the willingness to strain to make things work past each pitiful fight, each regret and new chance at embrace.

Recount the gut organ’s shifting, caused by strained faces just before the words too hard to bear,

or the new places in their chests that suddenly existed when previous spaces couldn’t contain the explosions of joy that threatened to tear,

as beat skipped and lungs forgot their automatic and unending roles.

For aren’t these moments, the real moments rather than the virtuous behaviors often extolled.

Or maybe we could watch them in their privacy,

Big Brother style lounging, contemplating the effort of brushing their teeth just before sleep,

and pry into their dreams to see if they’re the same, or

are these men hiding secrets and super powers, and identities they desire like

the ultimate sports star

the shining armored hero

the father of children

the padre all spiritual

Do they hide in their dreams all the sources of shame, they wish to always contain?

a moment of shamed vulnerability pants-less in the office

a memory of shamed vulnerability pants-less and preyed on

a moment of shamed ecstasy pounding their boss in

a memory of shamed ecstasy pounding their cock in.

Then woken in day light -costumed in humanity

does each wonder in the absence of others

If he’s similar enough to keep dreams hidden, and yet just enough outstanding

that he can attract another lover to share those secret moments

or another victim to get behind his mask, to share with him his torment. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Like always I was writing at a coffee shop, coffee shops are filled with men, its really amazing. Girls if you want a guy, go to a coffee shop, they will be there waiting. Anyway, I was reading this book called The Shooting which is a real story about a guy who accidentally shot and killed his best friend when he was a teenager. The guy goes through life trying to prove that he isn't a terrible person, trying to live a virtuous life for the both of them and then has a nervous breakdown at 30 and his life falls apart because of all the shame he is carrying. It occurs to me through the tears and empathy that many of us live these lives... and so I watch guy after guy come into this coffee shop and wonder why they too are so afraid of making contact yet clearly desire it. Like me, they seem to have every reason to be outgoing, they dress the fashions of uptown, they seem nice enough... but who are they?  and who are they really deep down?

-the title is in reference to one of these men out there that seems somewhat delusional, intrusive, uncaring, selfish, but probably has friends and family who care about him, probably he is a really decent person, probably he doesn't know how to find someone to love him for who he is... and he is insecure and ashamed and is now broadcasting it to the world. 

Recent 2011 poems from other blog

Longing

I long for something truthful

Is it too much to ask that I find it in your face?

expectations never satisfied, for each moment creates anew

excitement builds and magnifies until

disappointment becomes my view.

My mother says its the meaning you make of experiences

and that when you are older the difference is made plain

compassion for our young inner selves,

reveals realities and

inevitably relieves the strain.

But tonight I lay in my memories

child victim mocked for his excitement

looking for love in all the wrong places

stomach sick, head down

so as not to see the disgust on their faces.

Yes I long for something truthful

a moment of understanding between us

I won't say love, for of course that takes time

but just a hint of receptivity could allow me

to leave the shame behind.

Keeled Over with my Stomach Caving In

I know its hard for you to understand

-like its hard for me to understand when you question what is in front of you.

Is a chair a chair or isn't it?

and I wonder why you are calling yourself a chair

but I do understand past my impish smile, these are the worries caused by those chains deeply hidden... and I recognize myself in them now.

Recognize their grasp as the doubt that keeps me from moving forward,

cold digging shakes my frame,

piercing, so every dream is punctured,

and the dark ever enveloping, shroud of confusion, panic building.

and these are my outbursts, tears gathering at odd moments.

lack of comforting gestures, clenched responses -held like shoulders and teeth grinded

arms crossed and hunched over

so that everything returns to the child's pose

Tonight I contemplated writing your death song

you know the one that pours out from some primordial place in my throat

all bawling salty sting and spittle

all heartbreak, center shaking, inconsolable

lost between the nothingness of wanting to be numb

and the nothingness of bleeding void

lost between hoping for relief, unsure that time can fill such vacancies

and with anger that time would dare try

if there are words, I am sure "no" will be featured prominently

as will that one word question.

From Last Year

"A New You"

I find it funny how I recognize you and yet not. As if I thought memorizing every look once would be the completed set. Would mean I had total access for the lifespan, and now I am caught off guard, disturbed and dazzled (?) by a new photograph... is it you? I cannot sense the true weight of things, the temperature, the static in the air... cannot sense the warmth in your breath that urges me to believe such a thing, this mimic of your moment is it real? I'd have to hear a confirmation from you to know for sure and even then I'd wonder, what did the sun feel like that day? What were the noises that kissed your ears and who's eyes and who's love attempted to embrace you with a gesture, who's longing to remember these serene moments with a picture kept them from touching your soft skin, your supple lips, your sweet taste? Who made the subtle mis-calculation that kept you enshrined, a digital alter, a token gesture of worship the same mistake I've made a million times rather than gluttonously devour the moment with each sense, and revel in the pleasure, discomfort, torment and ecstasy of the presence of heaven's sacred creation, you.

My dreams of you are not my hands reaching to hold you, but my heart still pumps to keep the blood you offered warm. In the warmth within me somewhere there is still a sectioned labeled "home" with your name on the mail box, and forever and ever a welcome mat (and at least dreams of hugs for your homecoming).

"Stress Coaster"

It’s funny how stress waxes and wanes

like tides and the moon or the amount

of chocolate I consume, but

to be clear it’s not the stress itself

that rises but the level to cope

with surprises or even the expected.

For instance, during summer I neglected to

keep my coping skills blazing so

while lazying about, I lost my ability to deal,

then as the end of summer neared the feeling of tensions crept up my calves, through my limbs and my lower back, and eventually my shoulders which rose to the occasion and completed the picture of me hunched over tight shoulders and burdened with nothing truly unpleasant, nothing unbearable, not rare not painful, not malevolent, uncaring but rather something exciting, productive, enlightening

The return to school though I felt it like glaciers on my frame,

but isn’t it just more of the same- so why so stressful?

When sedentary for so long it sometimes feels as if I have never done anything. Like I am the dirt, my planted roots take the form of the house and it feels like I could never leave, like I have always been. She says this house is 80 years old, it’s my cranky knees but it'd be so easy to set me adrift tornado, strong wind blow me over, I could be anew. I am the walls, I am this city, I am this job I am secure and unchanging. Revolutionary ideas are surprises, taste of excitement like good poetry, make you feel alive the way you aint been. Am I so symbiotic, I didn't notice becoming part of you, didn't feel you infiltrate me, I thought I had my own long hair, my own wild tongue, my own joyful smile, meanwhile I find you chipping away at my teeth, the fibers of my pants, my many faces all with eyes that reflect you. I forgot my song, started humming a plain one. I thought I was a new born, now find I am ancient or at least middle age. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw what I had been, an adventurer where did he go. I thought I had engineered a new path, find me now a paved one. I been paved on, oil slicken easy, rain slides right off me, aint soaked with passionate sorrow just stained in the meanwhile. Where is refreshing fragrance, where is impassioned discourse, zealous beauty chasing, falling into the plain modelesque notions of pretty, forgetting uproarious laughter, forgetting cosmopolitan color, forgetting statued staring at passing people, forgetting uncomfortable scary, forgetting panic punches to the gut and esteem, the confidence building of day surviving, the chasing of simplicity, the grandiose proclamations of understanding fully and simultaneously knowing fully that nothing can be known so simply. I forgot about dressing scandalously, supported in my ferocity and the casualness -laid back style of being brilliant, brilliantly not normal. Gleam in the eye special. Gleam in the eye everyone. How have I been so detached from my humanity. So blessed and appreciated into comfort, couch pillows, blankets. Not a bum's bindle, not a gifted hat, not a crocheted scarf, an entirely different fidgeting stomach, not tenacious, not disgusted, not angry or in love. Easy to see something is different, the question is how long will I swill it?

How distracting it is

to sit here waiting

always a book or work to keep

me company, but despite my

stated purposes

I come here for you.

And see you in chatting lips,

across filled tables,

what is it you're saying?

and in cheekbones

jaunting out from

Books, I want to know about.

Find in curls and locks that hide

your eyes for a time,

and in your fancy boots

that have their own story too,

and in postures

which attract but,

don't show back

temptation.

So here I sit,

waiting on glances lit

with not just light

but question,

For I know my own have

signaled forth, to every

woman present.

Familiarity in each stranger's face

am I insane?

My memory faltering,

my senses opening to strange beyond

underneath your material guise, you're my friend

my past and future friend.

Only the present then,

is an illusion.

But in every science journal,

I read the opposite

frequently the sacred texts

opposite too.

How I am to trust my senses

listen to my breathing

feel the tightness of my muscles

the dizziness in my step

the queasiness in my stomach

if the underlying, music, is too beautiful

for my unperceptive ears

the truth so magnificent

my eyes blinded

by its flame

either we are one,

or, I, am insane.

February's Storms (Feb 2011)

“ Storms make oaks take deeper roots…”

this seems to be my theme lately.

How many days can the

ravaging winds lay claim upon my

arms before they are pulled off forever

my leaves already a distant memory

my stance continuously bracing.

Each gust, each thunderclap sends shivers down

my already shaken frame

the storm is not yet over BANG

another fallen sister claimed.

Can you hear me through the howling

the staccato of shivering teeth

are you humming your own mantras to keep

from losing those

deep roots you’ve already

put down, from other

storms you’ve survived

because I, need to see you

steady before I release

my own clenched fists.