i go to bed
without.

one day i'll wake up

and an eon will have passed

but birds will still fly and
squirrels will still bury their food...

but not this eon.

maybe tomorow
things
will be different.

((here's to hope))

my eyes are heavy
and you make me sick.

sometimes, it's everything about you-

your subtle pretentiousness
and the hint of pride
and the limitless favors

and so, i've nickednamed you
the golden child.

live on in your infamy
and go on collecting praise
for these things that just
make me vomit dislike.

i chore 'til the day is done
and still, not even a mention of
maybe you and maybe him.

it's never that..
it's always you
and the other you
and it makes my stomach churn
in it's own acidity.

shoo, and fly
don't bother me.

leaves and great grandpas have a lot in common

(put on your best coat for this show-
dying, that is.)

grasping the edges of your bed sheets and
tumbling down and not remembering the summer

when everything was green
and not brown.

and dignity was green
and not fading.

good luck, with the fall..
the falling down
the falling out.
the failing of life.

to the winged soul

today, everything changes.
you left and i stayed,
more than stayed,
stayed the same.
on your way, as the saying goes,
paving your life path -
leaving and leaving.

i cry for you,
you little one,
i cry for what we've lost
and what we continue to lose.

i love you,
you grown up one,
i love you for what we are
and the things we will never be.

today, everything changes.
she cried in your wake -
you left in a hurry, leaving her
the same, like me...
discontent, but only sometimes,
just knowing things will never change,
not for us.

go.

the dusty orange morning came,
reluctantly.
yawning and stretching and just not
ready for the day.

out my window, i saw her creep in -
she gently shook my face,
but i was already awake.

things happen.
(they just do)
We get through them -
or we don't.
and if we don't,
it's over,
in one way or another.

august 13th

tonight, my hand
was out the window
and each raindrop
touched me
genuinely and sincerely


each had a job (and
each was serious
about this job)

they all had names.

i just didn't
get a moment
to catch them
all.

prayer

lord,
help me remember
to love each day -
to scoop it up like a
baby bird -
and nuzzle it and hold it close
while i say everything i like about birds.
right out loud.

These houses are just buildings,
not like that tiny body of yours.
Growing that finger nail baby
requires little pieces of your spirit
being chewed up and spit out;
trying to patch the holes
with a slimy stem cell.

They can only do so much, though.

Yours is a big job, you see?
Renovating a sanctuary of
residue and lies
takes elbow grease and a lot of
hope glue.

Let Nature run the race, as they say.

to you

Shame on you, handsome man, for loving me the way you do - you love the hell out of me. You love me when i am a thunder cloud, you love me when i'm an irrational tizzy of sparks. You love my ever expanding body and my heart that beats.
You love me when i don't love myself
and
when i'm a scarred little bubble and when i feel like humidity.
you love me so much that, at times, i feel like i deserve it.

Shame on you, you silly little heart hiccup, you love me so much I just don't know what to do with myself. I wake up, you love me and even still when I fall asleep next to you.
You write me words that god himself spoke and they make me cry.
which i like, or love.
you love me so much - and i love you so much.

we are growing old together.
we are growing old together
and it is nice like clouds.

so, thank you.
thank you for loving me and being that guy who you are.
I don't think I can tell you enough, but my life is easy and twirly and explodingly great...
and i love you.
thanks for being my best friend.
and husband.
and partner.

winter song

it's a warm winter -
the smells are heavy and
it's humid, like a bathroom

let me clear the mirror
it's still raining. three days now
better than snow.
the days drag their feet -
my eyes burn with
anticipation of something else -
almost anything else.

untitled.

dear god
im often
reminded
of why
i don't
pray.

i'm helpless
and sometimes
hopeless.

Thursday Morning Song

I want to dive
right in there
and
pick up
my hopes,
pack them right up
and
turn myself due North
and say,

(for the seventh time)

i'm ready.

untitled

The smell of morning
reminds me that we
are each other's and
it is good.

the newest

It's raining. It's always raining; well, not really. but tonight, as it's raining, the tide is swelling in my heart soul.

Here are some things i want to say (and i feel i can say these things to you):

I have dehydrated my spirit swimming through suffering and
I've bloodied my fingertips scratching for mercy.
I've bruised my elbows bracing myself for grief and
I've gashed the tender soles of my feet trudging barefot through disappoinment.

I'm not the only one- this is an ancient song, these are old blues. But I sing them.

But that's not it - the story goes on.

I've crafted my clothes from Birch tree bark and muddy water and
I've offered up my Earth to the giver with dirty fingernails.
I have been kindred spirits with stranger,
I've had sunlight graze my fingertips,
I've sang praise with the snail and the clouds and the whales and thunder (yes, even the thunder).

I've been hurt, but, oh, have i been happy.

I've constructed my life's paradigm, built up that baby, nail for nail - tear for tear with grief and happiness. (One without the other pales to one because of the other). The walls of my heart's memory remember the way i cry for death. Arms of comfort hold me tight until i can breathe easy. until the strain in my throat rests easy.

I still cry. I still pluck out questions from the thin air like, "is it even fair" "isn't existing and breathing in and breahting out just so disrespectful?" I do that still -- and it's been 8 years. But, I allow myself to. To ask, to feel, to grieve...

I slather it all over my morning toast and choke it down. I make a bed of ashes and flop around until i fall asleep - I get lonley. I get so lonely I do insane, unforeseen things. I cut my own hair. I scream a string of cuss words to stray weeds and my dusty shelves. Minutes or months go by.

Just then, when the tip of my nose is cold with this pain, I reach far back in my attic, grab a few memories and snuggle the hell right out of them. I sing a song of forgivness, of apology of praise to my dad, to all dads and birds and babies and mothers and flowers and possoms and friends and to everything and everyone who's ever left the earth - I miss you, i say. I love you, I'm sad and I forgive myself for.. for whatever.

And then, the lilacs are striking every chord, the sky's blueness blinds me, each dandelion smiles her teethy grin; love and grief, and love because of grief, overwhelms me.

We are graceful creatures who fumble around in the darkness after chaos and tragedy, but we are always searching for the sun's light to warm our faces - and most of the time, she's already found our flesh.

-amen.