Blog

∴

it is too often proved
that misfits and kings
are equally moved
by the strumming of strings

for the heart is unkept
by the titles we keep
and the roots of our spirits
are common and deep

strum mighty
strum proud
strum whispering soft

strum without waiting
strum now
and strum oft’

play into yesterdays that passed without sound
make musical ‘morrows come merrily ‘round

and look in the eyes of those you sing by
for they, too, are aloft in their tune

on the day we might raise our chords, combined
for both misfit and king
is no day too soon

∴

there’s an “us” in us that’s unfiltered and free
without worry of censor,
or approval begging plea.

there’s an “us” in us that’s the who we were made
it’s the who that may hide,
but can never quite fade

for it structures our shape and it details our feature
it distinguishes us from all other creatures

yet for something so real, we deny it’s existence
we block it’s release
we buy it’s resistance.

until one day –
and i hope that day comes –
you fill with your rhythm
like the beating of drums

and you step in the pace
that is coursing your veins
and you break down the wall
that was built with great pains

to protect you;

it didn’t.

are we so soft of skin?
what is it,
really,
that could ever get in?

with these walls and these fences
and with deadly defenses
we make our skins thick, impervious and stout…

but if we live in this lock down

how can we get out?

i was wondering…

would you play scrabble with me, though it’s not your favorite game?
would you listen to my secrets and not make me feel ashamed?

would you let me write the alphabet with my finger on your back?
would you revel in my bounty and ignore the things i lack?

would you laugh at my jokes, even though i tell them badly?
if i carry too much weight, will you help me haul it, gladly?

would you sing along beside me, though i’m sorely out-of-tune?
would you leave me random treasures, and hide them in my room?

would you find it useful time to count which stars are white
and follow satellites ‘cross the sky, ’til their trail falls out of sight?

would you let me make your waistcoat in dark blue suede and silk?
would you wear it oft’ and proudly when you’re hangin’ with your ilk?

would you banter and debate the way to make good coffee
even though it’s getting late, would you take the snow boots off me
and settle the score with one cup more
and linger, laughing, at the door?

would you?

would you watch my tears turn into grin?
would you help my outs to go back in?

would you knead the knots i tie in my back?
would you eat the bread i leave cooling on racks?
and say you couldn’t wait –
you had to satiate.

would you give me needed space?
would you let me touch your face?
and let me study it, like brail,
in case my memory should fail.

would you stand without sound
with no one else around
and know me with a glance
in a squared-off, wanting stance

would you walk on humid evenings even though your skin is dripping?
would you brie, baguette, and wine; would you savor with me, sipping?

would you?

would you, please,
someday, after all these things have been done…

not stop doing them?

∴

there is another answer to a crossroads
that people rarely give,
i doubt they know it’s there.

i didn’t.

sometimes right is completely wrong
and left will leave you lost;
straight ahead is clearly crooked
and going back just brings you,
well…

back.

there is another direction at a crossroads
that people rarely see;
it’s a strange and obvious arrow
that has sore evaded me

for in frustration, i look down
and in exhaustion, lay.

but there,
in a gravel-backed,
intersection hammock,

i rose, once,
my eyes,
to the sky,
and i saw…

up.

and up is a direction, indeed.

∴

∴

if i stay here
too long
i may set a root
that has no access to water

or i might drop a leaf that falls without a wind
and it would lay,
un-carried
into tomorrow.

if i stay in this place
i may live all my tomorrows
in yesterday

and forget, entirely, a past that could’ve built,
and purchase a future of what has already been.

if i choose to keep my eyes open
and see these hard, solid things
that promise never to die,
(oh, but they lie)

i will forget to close my eyes
and look
for the real things
that live beneath them

·

wood burns
paper crumples
bronze does tarnish and crack

but the sinew of spirit is elastic and long
and thrives
like pulp under peel,
chambered and juicy,
nourishing and sweet,
and bursts with the prick of its skin –

should i hold it in?

·

if i stay in this place
of brick and of mortar,
of hammer and nail,
and ceiling and floor,
i’d be safe, at least
– perhaps for a time –
i’d be safe

but to stay in a place
is a mighty strong choice

like a mountain-jut branch
choosing to stave
the avalanche.

∴

it is late, my love.
and i have traveled far today.
my calves are sore from too-tight socks
and my back aches from the want of lying flat.

it has been too long erect
with strength and burden and smile
without a hand to strip it of cloth
and a knuckle to knead.

it is so late, my love.
and i park myself in empty lots
to look at the moon through my sun roof
and recall the places i’ve been today –
and recall the people i’ve seen

and took time to actually see.

do you know how many people are in this great big world?
all of them alive
but a very few living,
like unpopped kernels in the bottom of a bowl,
hiding under all the fluff.

i taste salt.

do you know how many people are in this great big world?
and how absolutely strange it is
that there are so many, everywhere
but so few, anywhere
who’s arms i might fit in.

they’re mostly too tight or too loose
or they prod in wrong directions
or push up aisles

or down corridors

i don’t wish to go down.

they hold up
or hold under

when i’d rather bob along

they instruct without hearing
the lessons i could teach

those are not arms that a traveler can rest within.

give me, please, your arms,
the ones that melt the chill on my skin
from November nights
with the smell of snow on the wind

and reheat the fire inside.

the ones that dig deep
into the knots that lock up my muscles
and through pain,
break pain,
and disperse that which tied me.

the ones that graze and cradle
my face as it looks on yours,

the ones that excite and study
the creases of my thinning skin,

the ones that catch
and bare my weight with effortless strength –
that lift me up and lay me down
and bring me to the table

give me please, those arms
that let go
and are filled still
by my shape and shadow

give me, please, your arms,
for it is late, my love

and i have traveled far today.

∴

“leave him,” they said

“he has no eyes to see you with.
he has no lips to kiss your cheek.
he has no voice to sing you songs
or whisper promises with.
he has no ears to hear
the things you’d like to say.”

·

“but,” said i,

“the world has eyes
and it is fickle.
the world has lips
and it is wanton with their use.
the world has a voice
and it scolds or flatters mightily
but both are belches of untruth.
the world has ears
at every corner,
in every wall,
and yet it does not hear.
it listens only to din and rattle.”

·

this man without a face,
he cannot hear me,
he cannot see,
he cannot listen or speak
in my lonely hours,
nor my happy days,

and i cannot see him

but oh, his heart –
i think it was made bigger
by the lack in outward feature

and i feel him,
even now
loving me
as i love him
without expression
or show

as it was in the beginning,
is now,
and ever shall be.

∴

∴

if it’s possible to miss you
while i stand right before you
i do

if it’s possible to want you
even though
i have
all i will ever get of you
i do

if it’s possible to need you
because you unlock the me in me
i need to be
i do

if it’s possible to wait
for hours that will never come
i do

if it’s possible to smile
at ghosts
and serve them dinner
i do

i do

·

and all these possibilities
renew themselves each day
despite myself
and my higher reasoning

for all the things
i want to run away from
but stand smiling,
facing

for all the things
i want to run to
but stand smiling,
facing

i do

∴

∴

some words you can’t get back
you can’t unslap a cheek

some let loose
and fly

each word a wasp
stinging without honey

·

i had other words, too
and they were true
they were honest, earnest pleadings
and well wishes
and wants

but i let them go

i gave them so freely
like cottonwood seeds
on an apathetic breeze
as if they weren’t important

but seeds become a tree.

they were just words
but they were words of mine
– backbeats in my heartbeat –
and i sold them with a nod

some words you can’t get back
and you may miss their parting

∴