pain

Leaf on the Wind

[I]

Could be my heart’s a heavy idol
slowly tearing out of my body,
to be placed at the altar of Shadow.
Maybe not.
In time, then,
I will make pilgrimages and offerings.

So we pass into the unwritten season.

But wind it back if you like,
the clock,
if only to hear me say

I would help you walk, someday.

[II]

Would you gather my bones
in your embrace,
one last time?

Then lay them to nourish the earth.

If you can hear them sing,
then come to me;
come sit, and listen with me.

If the songs I’ve given in this life
haven’t been enough,
come listen then to the song of my bones,
that you may see cleared a path
to the cliffs of your heart
and dive headfirst into the maelstrom of grace
that awaits you.

I would see you untense your shoulders again,
and laugh until your face rains
before you leave the living of the earth.

Is this like drinking darkness?
You must do that sometimes.
We all must.

If you will it,
this becomes fuel for the light.

[III]

Come, then.
Sit.
Listen.

The secret:
the whole cosmos
is made of music,
and you & I
are fleeting consonant harmonics,
waves embracing in the echo-

watch how we soar.

Three Words

Three words, like…
well, you know the variations.
Take your pick.
They all involve parting.
Falling, they sound of leaves.
They can begin the death of a heart’s song.

I did not know the future.
I was open to the love of things whole and broken.

come come come
yes no wait
go

So I turned my face from the sun,
and I transgressed into hiding;
I did not paint my door with the blood of sacrifice.

I felt the Angel of Death
descend in the dark,
and he did not pass over.
And I became sick with death,
from the bones out,
as I knew he had come to claim the light within.

wait, a moment’s breath

See now, the Angel of Death had brought a gift,
as all things die and come clean and are born.

I was shown a boy, reading a book,
under a pine standing on a hill.
I was shown a girl, reading a book,
under a cottonwood waving in the breeze.

He spoke, and pointed-
“Who between you
are among the bones of the earth?
I will not visit you
for some time.
Now there is work to be done.”

Rain pools itself in tire tracks.
At morning’s break,
they blind in the light.
At night’s fall,
they scintillate in the dark.

Some things dry, and fade,
and some do not.

Now there is work to be done.

Prowl

I ride on the edge of the night,
where sacred-looking things arise
from power lines and signals of the civil-

doesn’t the wolf come sometimes
to the edge of the city?

So I feel alive and electric in the neon,
merely from contact and rhythm;
we are wired for this.

claws click on sidewalk pavement

Yet
I still need the full-breath,
the long-hale up from the blood,

the consonation

and synchronizing hum of your body
rising from the earth,
dripping with mud,
calling to the darkling beyond dream.

Skirting the trail,
sowing and conjuring then I traverse time and space;
it smells wet and rank-sweet in here,

but this hunt
isn’t really a hunt,
is it?

I can hear you
from my bones out
to the stars.

I wander home, alone in the descent of sacred things;
I wander home, alone,
riding on the edge of the night.

Bailaro

Once, a while ago, when the rhythm took me,

(sorry, sorry, sorry,
lo siento, mea culpa;
have you seen all the ways
we learn to apologize
for being alive?)

it was Los Lobos,
and it was Spring,
and I was in the kitchen,
and I was told to stop screwing off.

The next day, I drove past a graveyard.

Most days now,
I’m guilty of screwing off.
(especially where rhythm is concerned)

Lo siento.

Praésperō

She was sitting on the couch,
dying.

Well, not really dying, per se.

She was staring out the window
at the darkness fallen across the land.

“I hate winter.”

She shivered, even with the blanket.

The dog wandered over,
hopped up,
sat down next to her.
Opened its jaws, grinning.

{Hey.}
“What.”
{Know what I like about winter?}
“What’s that.”
{Spring’s just around the corner.}
She sighed.
“I suppose.”
She stared out the window again.

{Hey.}
“Yeah?”
{Let’s go run around and eat snow.}

She raised her eyebrow.
The dog raised one back.
{Please?}

“OK. Come on.”

{Cool. I’ll wait for you at the door.}

She grabbed her coat.

{Oh. My. God.}
“What now?”
{A small piece of bacon on the floor.
See! Like I told you
when I woke you this morning!
Best day ever!}

It’s like

listening to cicadas at night,

a child
reading by flashlight under the covers,

a dog,
resting its head on your lap,

the first touch
after time, distance, pain,

the moment between lightning’s flash
and thunder’s crack,

the spaces in between,

the difference between the sound
of a spring rain seeping
and the scent
of a yearning earth,

the hopeless and hated assignment
handed back with an A,

the sound of a wine cork
leaving the bottleneck,

the smell of coffee,
the creak of hardwood,

your feet in a summer creek,

the body
pressed close
on the dance floor,

the tuning of a guitar
before the opening chord,

chalk on the sidewalk;

and now that i think about it,
loving you is very, very much like
a barn, with a hayloft
and a rope-swing.

Invigor 13:83

​Passion is a discontinued brand. 

Yes?
Can you give me some agreement on a Saturday night?
Can I get an AMEN from the front row,
and possibly a HALLELUJAH from the back? 

Say you all so? 

Now goddamn stand and speak, the lot of you. 

Stand, and be counted, and hold thyself not a hypocrite,
for you wander not in the land of Sodom or Gomorrah;
you are made of flame and pulse and must break yourself
on the rocks of the liquid shore. 

Cry foul,
cry pardon,
cut loose,
cut low; 

let slip the dog days of summer
out the still winter of thine own blood,
for you are always treading the plains of milk and honey;
and I have seen the future ripe, and full, 

and for what you want, 

I say surely you shall not perish,
but rise,
rise in shaking ecstasy at the light of dawn. 

Now goddamn stand and speak. 

Knighthood

Meaning, and purpose. Why?

Sunbreak. Starfire.
Endless.

Some seek the fat of the land
to fill the table,
and some seek the horizon.
Did I tell you the one
about the warrior
who fell for the angel?

Yet on this small sphere,
where sand gets caught
in the grinding gears,
and the report is due by Friday,
and the soccer game
and the baby shower
and the static
and the robbery and the stabbing,
and the lawn across the street;
your neighbors who kneel in church
crushed by obligation and gilt,
this is where
we build our seconds
upon seconds upon seconds
around anxiety
until our blood vibrates
from dawn to dusk.

And so we forget
the girl, pointing up
at the sparkling infinity black,
asking “What is that one?
What is THAT one?”

We forget
the boy, stick in hand,
blanket draped over shoulders,
shouting in triumph
“The dragon is dead!
Did you see? Did you see?”

And we forget
the warrior,
standing next to
the angel lying in bed,
a beautiful atrocity
watching him hold the past
and the future,
watching them lock eyes,
watching him think
for the first time,
Maybe… I can do this.

Garden

“I’m gonna get my mom flowers for her birthday.”

The little one I’m watching for the evening
is telling me her secrets
as we drive home in the summer heat.

“From where?”
I’m curious.

“From my garden.
That’s where the flowers grow!”

“They do?”

“Yes! And love.
I’m going to give her love.”
She turns her palms up, imploring.
“That’s where the flowers grow.”

“I had no idea.”

She brushes the bundle of peonies
against my ear;
the scent of a mild sweetness
politely invades my nostrils.

“Where is my grandpa?”

Her grandmother
continues gazing out the window.
She was born on the other side of the world.
“He go to see God.”
As if it were a road trip.

The little one
looks out her own window.
“Oh.”

(A day before he passed,
my own grandfather opened his eyes,
cognizant,
searching for a window.
The blinds were shut.
“I don’t want to go.”

“Why not?”

“Because.
I know I’ll never see her again.”

She had passed
a few years before.)

We tell our children
there are no such things as monsters.

The little one clears her throat.

Raucous stormclouds gather in rising fists
towards heaven.
The heat outside is hell.

“The storms are spirits!”

“What?”
I wasn’t aware of this.

She leans in to tell me her secret.
“The storms… are all made of spirits.”

She points
at the approaching immensity
of water and air
bringing gifts of life and of fire.

She whispers,
“That’s where the thunder grows.”