Be

When blankets are heavy

and the air is cold

worry not

be wild, be bold.

Spit at neighbors

just stop caring

you’ll see

be new, be daring.

Kick the comfort

flush your food

yes you

be fiery, be rude.

you pulse

you blood

you sharpened teeth

let them build you up

or die.

Saturday Sun-Goddess

In ancient Egypt,

Mesopotamia, and Greece

men would travel miles upon miles

to make a sacrifice

(some crops or a first born)

all in the hopes

of seeing a sun goddess:

their silken skin glistening,

like it’s made of gold

and divinity.

me?

I just have to take a trip downtown,

make a more contemporary sacrifice

of chai latte

and wonderful conversation

then just like that,

I experience my own sun goddess

for just a few precious hours:

Shinning bright enough

to make the sun look dim.

A sweetness big enough

to make skyscrapers look small.

A brilliance so luminescent

that I wonder if the evening light

journeyed from her eyes

before pouring out

onto the city’s sacred streets.

then just as beautifully,

just as swiftly,

the sun sets

and my goddess leaves

but I’ll only smile …

because my world will be that much brighter

for the next few days.

Scars

I have a scar

under my nose

daring me

youthful me

took a flying swan dive

directly onto a pile of cans

(you see, no one told me not to)

daring me

youthful me

would leave high school

to visit the girl down the street

I would lay in her bed

under a pile of purring kittens

telling her she looked beautiful

in a messy hair bun and letterman jacket.

I would continue to do so

for five years

(no one told me not to)

I have a second scar

on my right index finger

playing with scissors

in 3rd grade art class

confusing ole’ pointy here

for construction paper

because, well, you guessed it

(no one told me not to)

older me

none-more-wiser me

would leave college

to visit an art gallery of a woman

I’d lay in her bed

watching her hair change colors

with the passing seasons

then I’d leave in the morning

(no one told me not to)

This last scar

small on my wrist

I don’t know how it got there,

how did we get so hurt

how did things go so wrong?

grown me

raised me

would run my fingers

along the many scars

of a third woman

a cheek down her forearm

my right index finger up her thigh,

she would tell me of the other men

who left their scars on her

and I’d listen and nod

then pull out a knife of my own.

(all the while screaming

pleading with myself:

not to)

Providence Sky

This sky is our innate righteous providence

this road our innate destiny

with no sweeter a wine

than the blood in our veins

the taste of summer air

and the quiet salvation

in evening musings.

These nights are such curiosities

these wonders such treasures

with no more a golden amber

that the honey of wild dreams

the glory of fantasies

and the little trips

they take us on.

So fret not beautiful stranger:

no pain need temper our hearts

no soul can steal our experience

our gift:

the providence of the sky

the endlessness of the road

the taste of our precious dreams.

The Bookstore

Bukowski had his bar stool

the last seat at the end,

Shakespeare had his room

in the back of the theatre,

Thoreau had his cozy pond estate

among rural Boston trees,

this egregious little amateur has his table

in the corner of a book store.

It has everything I could ever need:

bitter and sweet coffee,

the company of every great soul

to ever slow dance with a pen,

the graceful movements of strangers

with endless mysteries I’ll never know,

some woman in a red sweater

that I can fall in love with

while she flips through used poetry.

This is my castle,

my muse,

my blank canvas.

If I could instantly travel

through any breath of time,

any scene of space,

anywhere in the whole of existence:

I’d go

maybe half a foot to the left

for just a little more leg room.

Unexpected Lover

The sound of rain water

dripping off the roof,

The white lights of the west

dancing with porch-light orange,

The view from my balcony

with its majestic consistency:

This is not the woman I thought I’d love

This is not my expected muse –

But my god

she is gorgeous

and oh how she loves me.

Again the Dam Breaks

My soul is like paper

yours eyes, my love, the rain

and a rusty chain

bends just enough

until it breaks in pain.

My heart’s a closed window

your smile, my dear, a stone

and these weeds have grown

much too high now

for the tulip reeds to show.

These nights are cool waters

our ties, my sweet, a dam

and each efforts claims

these things won’t break again…

then again

and again

the Dam keeps breaking.

Yet late at night,

I still pray

those raging waters

took you somewhere softer.

Waiting on the Rain

I sat across from him

a decrepit old man breathing

into lungs of sawdust and glass.

I slowly slide over some tea

his hand shakes as he reaches for it ,

How did you do it? – I asked

“Well it may get dark

and there may be pain

but air tastes sweetest

right before the rain”

His face had these lines

these deep trenches. Like each

memory, was dragged across his face.

But the sea of lines

parted when he smiled.

“don’t you dare give in

these times won’t stay

my boy this sky,

will shortly rain”

His papery hand reached out

to grab my hand.

He squeezed with all his might.

I stood from my chair,

I kissed his forehead,

then got up to leave.