love, a bird

love doth sit on a branch thus high
and flapped its wings and sang to the sky
and there it stayed, for passers-by
to observe and admire
with jealous eyes
or bored
or annoyed
or some combination, there alloyed
their hearts and minds so mystified
(which bird, your love?
none will describe
their love a crow,
a hawk, a dove,
a silent sparrow
it is sometimes
though truth it is,
and we are always
passers-by)
better, then, to cage this thing
or, see my good friend, pumping his air rifle
on the lawn of the church between two trees
see him pray before he dispatches this thing

To those exploring southern junkyards

The ones accessed by cratered dirt roads

over which you must travel
if you are seeking a particular car chassis
on a certain day in june.
as you walk past gutted one-eyed datsuns
you may see,
at the end of a cul de sac which pours itself into an untamed field,
one million blooming yellow flowers.

and you may be brought to tears at the unexpected beauty of this scene,
and be awestruck and humbled
by your insignificance

as you drive back to sink yourself
into the concave imprint in your couch
and sit in wonder

contemplating the justice
now and always visible
in the enduring impressions
which much simpler,
much more fragile things have made
in this world, in this city, in your memory

October 1998, in retrospect

Jagged and noisy
like the dented blade of an axe
like the one you once swung wildy near your uncle’s cabin in the woods
trying to remove a padlock from a chain link fence at the water tower
the same one you later pulled downwards in an unskilled, violent, angry swing,
aiming to split a log.

and when this log unexpectedly and effortlessly gave way
the cold axe (full of your anger and frustration)
followed its arc undisturbed through your foot, furrowing the soft soil beneath

in the moments before blood began to flow
you stared dumb, terrified, silent, unable to conjure any red-faced swears,
simply looking through the kitchen window
where you knew i would be washing dishes
and wanting in that moment only
(perhaps in your entire life)
to not be alone

you now walk with a limp
and (no more, no less) anger, frustration, or terror in your heart,
for the earth, for the frailty of your own body,
for the god you fear and miss and hate
who even now lives in you.

Life Boat

I like this song,
because the gentle brushes on the snare drum
sound like a smooth wash of rain
on the roof of a beach house
looking out on the stormy Atlantic.

And out in the water,
paddling into shallow waves?
A white rowboat with a blue stripe,
sinking into the soft gray sand
as you drop the oars and stand.

Stepping out into ankle-deep surf,
as water drips stormily from your wide-brimmed straw hat
(the one with the red silk ribbon)
I watch from the porch
as you hug your shoulders and run across the green lawn
in your rain-soaked dress and dirty slippers
smiling as bright as a lit candle,
skin pale from the cold rain, pale as the moon,
but your cheeks flushed pink with laughter.

The next song, i also like.

Unsent letter #4

Not even that lonely blue planet
separated from the pull of its yellow sun
sweeping its arc across some golden nebula in the vast emptiness of space
in the huge infinity of coldness and darkness
drifting alone,
yes,
I am sure I miss you more
than that iced-over planet misses
its own bright star.

After a big collision in the 4th quarter of the Baltimore V. Pittsburgh game

Three slow-motion replays confirmed
from three different angles
the force of the impact,
two helmets snapped back
and two bodies fell like rag dolls.
My dad calls it “getting your bell rung”

After a few minutes, we could tell it was serious
as both teams got off their benches
and approached the pair (still motionless on the ground),
some players wearing their black winter parkas
looking like a crowd of reapers come to take the dead,
And that orange golf cart that rolls onto the field
must be some ironic chariot from heaven.

This suddenly visible burden
(the fear of life)
hangs dark over the now silent crowd.
It breaks your heart a little
to see those giant linebackers
take a knee and say a prayer
to a not-often addressed God,
hanging their heads
and wiping away tears with thick ropey forearms
saying please, please, let my friend be alright,
let him stand up,
please lord.

What we are

Life is a river,
and we are a raft on this river.
We are also the boy on this raft
(and his friend in blue overalls
barefoot
straw hat pulled down over his eyes
feet dangling off the edge
we are this boy as well)

In fact, we are also the big stick
in this boy’s hands
finding purchase in the muddy bottom on some rock
with which to push the raft downstream
and perhaps that rock is someone we love
and perhaps the floating detritus
that wraps around the stick
is a mortal enemy, maybe even an eternal antagonist
who pursues us across various lives as we live them
persistently annoying the momentum of this stick, and this raft,
(which are both us, remember,)
and the boy, who simply lifts the stick from the floor of the river
and gives it one, two, three hard shakes,
he is still us as well.

And this rolling black water beneath us?
It is the world and it is time
and it is born high up in the mountains
as white snow, pure blinding white snow
and it trickles down through trees and dirt
it collects in small streams
and passes underneath bridges
eventually joining together here
dark and huge and unslowing
then empties out into the warm sea
(and that sailboat, passing by the mouth of the river
i would like to think we become that graceful white vessel
with its sails unfurled, yes,
just like an angel’s wings)

That high lonesome sound

Please write another song
in the dusty desert
of new mexico
where the morning comes with such effort
in deep purple sorrow
And among the dark cacti–
just a silhouette of you
holding a guitar
with your head down
singing your lonesome song
as the sun rises,
bringing clarity

You != Me

I guess that’s why
you see the English majors
reclining on benches,
while the engineers are easily spotted
by the way they race across campus,
head down against the sun,
using the momentum of their books
to catapult upstairs,
legs swinging like the unlatched arm of a trebuchet.

Moon bird does think only of the moon

As she side-steps westward,
Never turning away from
her namesake, her adoration.

Not once blinking her glossy black eyes.
The moon, pale as a skull,
sits reflected on each surface
otherwise as deep and dark as the wild night.

Tonight,
no cool light appears to give me reference
or to cast its peculiar shade on this scene–
the crooked fence,
the scattered leaves,
and myself,
barefoot on the dewy grass.

I also consider
my lover, the late hour,
and mother-morning, always-pending.
The moon bird, however–
does think only of the moon.