evergreen

i wrote a story
and pinned the pages
to the branches
of a tree

the story grew
words blossumed
and sang so sweetly
that i could not
tell the difference
between the birds
and the words

in the warmer days
the pages hung still
the words quiet
the burning sun curled
and i sat in shelter
beneath an ever-growing story

the pages of my story
turned brown
and fell
they covered the ground
making a carpet
to walk on

with rain
my story went to mush
beautiful sentences
fragmented
well-chosen words
broke-down

the tree is bare now
under cold branches
a child plays
in the mud

why did he stop talking?

a life spills
out of the speaker
of growing up
of times when
he was weaker
and tribespeople
would say
“you must choose,
us or them”

he is angry with them
he says
“why can’t i belong
to more than one tribe?”
and he waits
for an answer
and there is no answer

optimum speed

i’m going to go straight
take the back streets
home
going to slow
the wheels
down
till the thoughts
hover happy
like a drunken
sentence smooth
over bumps
around bends
behind assumptions

not turn right
that’s the freeway
accelerate without the wind
without the legs
getting tired
and a heart
squashed like a
gravitron

shave seconds
off a bearded lady
only to arrive
at the conclusion
that it’s too late
you’re already there

her heart races
my thoughts wander
forty k’s an hour
i have found
is optimum
for things
to fall into place
into line
into a deeper kind
of consciousness

freehand

i don’t trust my hand
to draw
the beautiful lines

so i trace
the outlines
of what is underneath

love begins again

i went to the hospital
last night
it felt like the airport
meeting someone
just arrived

and now
as i drive to work
cars pass
in silence
the bubble of my heart
widens

out through frosted glass
through metal box
through space
over splotches of water
under dew-laden leaves
to the house-covered horizon
my heart hovers

a plane catches the light
and maybe the people
become aware
that the extraordinary
has happened

rachael is one day old
my love begins again

bloody signs

signs n lines
tell you where to go
don’t let them
push you around!

sandpaper kisses

the table is a black sky
the grown-ups’ legs
tall trees swaying and leaning

there’s a sharp clack
then silence rolling
like the unseen balls above
then clack clack
a soft plop
the balls drop
i scamper
to push them back
up from the grey sock
to the hard green

later
my pop is in his big chair
he says, “put it there, pal.”
and i climb into his lap
enter the smoke haze
and kiss him
on the cheek
sandpaper
against a baby’s bottom

fuel

we don’t dig trenches
just clear all material
down to minimal ground
because earth doesn’t burn

but we burn
we accumulate stuff
pile it up all around
till we can’t see
that it’s fuel
waiting
for the hot wind
to bring embers
raining down
on all we think
we love

defend something small
like a truth
with space all around
down to minimal ground
because earth doesn’t burn