songs

would you come for the music
for the ideas
and the smiles when we do something
no others would
would you be in the shapes
in the colors
of ideas we talk about
would you sing to me your song
a different one
than all the ones before
would you hold me in your gaze
but not too long
would you make me run
but not too far
would you bring the world
but not too close
but close enough I travel to you
travel with you
travel in you
'til I see the new colors
the new shapes
the new ideas
and the new music
would you write me with the notes
and wash me in the sounds
Make me sing the new song

retribution

I should pay for what I've done

And she will make me pay it.

For each time I concealed a gun

she will make me pay.

I should lose what I hold dear

And she will make me lose it.

For every sadness, every tear

she will make me lose.

I should fear deep loneliness

And she will make me fear it.

For all the apprehensiveness

she will make me fear.

I should feel the pain she felt

And she will make me feel it.

For each touch stolen, each touch dealt

she will make me feel.

miss someone

motivation to stay active, busy, focused--

miss someone.

miss someone so much it hurts to stand still.
so much it hurts to leave any of your faculties alone
to inflict the pain they want.
so much the dagger of a deadline cuts shallow
compared to the axe of absence.
so much you fear the moments of rest
or the loose wandering before sleep.
so much you focus, you focus, you . . .

you still miss someone.

just bones again

old again,
not young.
It's youth that surprises,
youth that comes and goes,
youth that makes you anticipate its leaving.
But age is constant,
it's always there beneath young feelings.
If you are feeling young,
don't worry
you'll get over it.
You'll feel your age again,
you'll be in pain again,
you'll ache again, you'll cry again,
you'll be alone again.
I don't worry about the next time I feel young and free--
that's the doggy-treat I might get if I'm a good boy--
I worry about finishing the treat.
I worry about feeling hungry again,
feeling my situation again,
feeling my nothingness again,
feeling the truth again.

Happiness is the meat,
sadness--the bone.
and you can gnaw on that forever.

falling

I'm falling out of context
I'm falling out of line
I'm moving into reflex,
sporadic all the time

At first I had the memories
At first they drove me on
At first they gave me Sundays,
made right the things gone wrong

But summer turned to autumn
And winter followed fall
The distant sun was handsome,
but silent, cold, and small

Then lifeless all the pictures
Then lifeless friendly words
Then lifeless all the fixtures,
the constant things, the cures

For nothing saved me from this
And nothing held it back
No memory could have barred this,
the emptiness, the black

If you can't feel the sunrise
If you can't feel the sea
If you can't feel your friends' cries,
not even ones from me

Then sit still for a moment
Read Galway’s poem, Wait
Feel swept inside the current
of hope that wills your fate

At the Bus Stop

At the bus stop
I hate the bus I missed
And curse the one not come,
But welcome the wait
And in it the time to feel.

The Harbor

The boat ran aground.
I wanted it to.
The rudder snapped in half.
I wanted it to.
The oars split in pieces.
I wanted them to.
The boat started to sink.

But I couldn't let her sink.
I had to scoop madly at the water,
furiously bind the oars and rudder,
wrench the vessel free of land,
continue floating on to somewhere.

I'd rather sink
and finally land this ship.
The unknown harbors at the bottom
wait for me.
If only I could breathe down there.
If only I could breathe.

being

Who cares? I keep asking. But the page doesn't answer. Who will you stimulate? Not me, for one. And not most people. But the few who live off this madness. They're mad! All of them. And they ask me to reproduce it. Why do they live off it? Can't they feel anything simple anymore? Does it all have to be so convoluted, complex, compressed into tiny spaces unseen by mere mortals, but "fun" for those academics so washed with the language of fine matter that nothing gentle interests them anymore? Yes. Because they own me, and they've lost the power to be caressed by mortals. They are the masters of argument, and I can't argue to their liking. The servant who can't prepare the tea just right is unreliable, yet unreleased. He is hired to fail. Oh, I'll get my justice when I'm the master. I'll devour my heirs, their embarrassments will repay me. I'll shoot down all the idiot notions of clowns like me . . . as soon as I'm not a clown. At least, that's the thought I should be having because that's the thought that will drive me to madness--the happy state of masters. But I can't think. I can't understand the words on this page. It does not feel like life to me. It leaves no space for being.

My Last Crush

She makes the sunrise
And I was there to see it.
I held her face in my hands
until it burned my fingertips.

She makes the sunshine
And I was there to see it.
I played during the light hours
and ran to her with every smile.

She makes the sunset
And I was there to see it.
I was the purple hue fading
between her and the growing cold.

She makes the starlight
And I could barely see it.
I held her face in my eyes
until frozen tears shattered it.

She makes the sunrise
And I was not there.
I was making the rain fall
And she was standing in it.

My First Crush

If I could turn you into sunlight's ray,
you'd yet be with me when so far away.
The dew on every flower'd reflect your face,
but alas, without such realness and such grace
as has the moment rare and soft with you.
Me thinks I shall not want for sun, but you.
--May 2003

I wrote this for someone a long time ago. My first crush after the mission. See how simple it was to love back then? How new and harmless? My words are as innocent and free as they are naive. There is something childish about them, so lost in what I'd found, so simple in what I needed. And now when love is the prison I can't seem to escape, I wish for the first crush again, when love was a candy store, and I knew nothing of cavities.