Shape of Anticipation

There are a few little things
I notice when you're sleeping
One, I see a pull toward warmth, a closing
Two, I see a twitch, a tic, a stir, a stop
Three, I see stillness
I'm asleep myself before there can be four

Instead of running away or taking away
Let's call it something else
Like making songs or raking leaves
Or writing histories
Big things up close
Small things from far away

In the moment before
We speak of belonging
Or the moment after
We speak it again
I hear in the exhalation
A sweet anticipation
If I had to guess its color
I'd say orange
If I had to guess its shape
I'd say a bendy line
Two sides meeting, closing
Into a barely open eye
If I had to pick a place
I'd want to see that orange shape
It would be a finger length above
The smaller of the two big planes

February 28, 2007

May Not Have Been An Oak

the kindness you think is free
is broken glass to me
stained but shiny still
the kindness won’t, history will
the tree that stood forlorn
may not have been an oak
the words were not heartfelt
the poem was a joke

the cherry hair you pull
in strands from your white sink
glistens and meanders
its death a dollar drink
I will pull along for you
until the first desert day
when we reach the mystic spot
I will pull and turn away

the picture frames you build
from clear glue and trees killed
have grown weary with age
old wood, decline, rage
two spirits, deserted in a bleak sun
screaming “I’m the only one!”
but one of you is wrong
the older sister, all along

you tumble, gravely, to the soil
and listen to the dead ones
gravity is the enemy
the fallen freaks the poet shuns
and I know your eye shape
changes with each day
but that will mean little
when the loved one is away

April 20, 1998

Your First Time

the sky you saw the first time
you came to Chicago, a child almost
is a brittle sky, a breakable one
tell me all you know
about why you are this way
was it what you were given
when you landed in O’Hare
with a ribbon in your hair
and a suitcase full of summer clothes
even though
it was November

the first time you were young
you made a hopeful gesture
you thought you could handle
both spirituality and mayhem
you almost pulled it off
it almost came alive your hands
you’re so polite

but this city, this Chicago, is different now
from your first time, there are movements now
in neighborhoods, all over town
movements to make changes
small revolutions
international city

but, it’s not your Los Angeles
no place is as vital
in the way it moves
both for peace
and distance
cynics forget that distance makes the dust
irrelevant
distance makes the day seem a proud thing

April 16, 1998

Technology Drive

for the pleasure of your regrets
I will claim the system
has a root in the dead ground
of Technology Drive
when we were alive
it was all too good
it was all we wanted anyway

for the pleasure of your regrets
I will deem you weak
I will make your noise
turn inward on its late lost self
it was a different kind of home
leave my monkey alone

April 15, 1998

I See the White House

I see the white house, I’m hard of hearing
this angle, it’s a new one
the sun is bright, the sky is brilliant
the blue looks like it’s made of tin
and you as high as tusks of elephants
and you as low as limbo down
and you as warm as bread and flowers
we washed our hands of you
we washed because our hands were washed of you
I see the white house, I’m hard of hearing
the crowds have come to hear us
the claws of indignity are out and we have nothing
you think because I called out, I have a plan to carry through
but folks like me, we call out, we have no plan, we have no secrets
no secrets like some men do
I see the shambles of your roaring years ahead of us
you fell with trumpets blaring nothing good and nothing new
your shiny ways, your paste and cardboard, you should see it now
but you’re alone, asleep in gardens
asleep alone, you’ll wake tomorrow
I see the white house, I’m hard of hearing
goodbye to all that, sometimes it’s the truth

September 28, 1999

From Somewhere

Once not enough, too much
Light and wrath and comprehension
The thin line of dissension
The colors of the artifact
Its diagram pulse, the ratcheted rush
A call to weak arms, a warning
That marking the walls
With words like tragedy
Is a mistake
Unless you mean it

The carpenter ant’s problem, it seems
Stemmed from the moments
In between its pulses, its beats and fake movement
It was over
Before it felt it

The dynamic inside
The room caved me in
It trucked my intentions
Over the highway, over the country
Until the dam stood
Threatening to break

The thin line of resolute dissension
Breaks when spoken to
Speaks when broken through
But loud is good in silent springs
When cats and dogs and goats grow wings
To warn of
The end of time
The look of love
The book of days, a round world
Of emeralds, stars, and oil
But then, who knew?

The third page of the book
Breathed enemies into fire
And sold amateurs the secrets
Solutions for the last revolution we would know
But lifetimes
Roll over
And nothing dies, nothing is the last thing
Just the first thing or the worst thing

They called the rookies over
And read a list of grave mistakes
Heads nodded, throats cleared
Spires gleamed, truckers trucked

So the room, the party, got crowded
Breaths met breaths, cookies crumbled
Drinks were celebrated with clinking plastic
It was a beautiful moment
Until the mood changed
When the man in white mentioned
That the women in black
Looked like she was
From somewhere

Twice seems right
The second time for ruing
The first time’s regrets

October 12, 2003

The Fiercest Horse

I am the fiercest
of the dull horses, their sparkle
tainted by years
aristocratic years
of harsh words
savage, arthritic meditations
ones without vowels, no pauses
allowed
the guttural shaming of a language
has ominously
arrived

you are the one horse
respected but derided
because of your shocking
cover up, the courage felt
is heartrending
but meaningless to riders
imprisoned
by the shame of a language

I am the fiercest
of the free horses
run to valleys, forget
what makes you run
your weakness real
your hatred strong
but I am more fierce
it is a bell that sounds
eternally

September 29, 1997