“A rock in the riverbottom”

how unfortunate, this spiny lobster
crawling around like a crimson tank
in brutal, salty battle armor

what keeps one from the lamb, they say,
the silky wool, the precious voice,
is architecture absent in his frame

i can’t sympathize with those beady eyes
or massive claws, or spider legs
when I say grace at dinner time

yet i imagine him at home, stomping about
blowing bubbles when he contemplates
the things he loves, like sand and kelp

life is life, and love is love
and if my hands clamp shut like lobster claws
then my house is a rock in the riverbottom

forgive me, Lord, and lift his soul
from its lightless underwater trench
so i can hold him when i’m gone

“Red clay pots”

escaping from the
(traffic, city)
I quickly step
out of my shoes-
onto the carpet
and carve a canyon
through the house,
furiously avoiding
silent afternoons
of idle nothings,
huge and empty ..

the sunflowers stir
in the center of the room,
then bend their necks
back down to gaze
at their red clay shoes,
ignoring me
as I pause to think
of sunflower pots,
stuck in that moment–
huge and empty..

“Blood stained”

how can i say it;
the compass which i received from
long-gone grandpa
and the filthy hunting knife
in its leather sheath
blood stained
mean more to me
than this money, but thanks

“the heart speaks”

the heart speaks
smelling coffee smoke
frayed edges ancient blankets
feel the best
shouting,
Soft Is Not Feathers
heavier feelings
ones that crash and
with hammers
a texture and noise
blowing out white chunks
of eardrum violence
so maybe if you
laughing and looking
sweetly like the steam
i am thinking from a waterfall
yellow red flower twitching
bee legs cannot gentle enough
be that handle
i reach out to
lean back and swinging wildly
open the door of all happiness