My Heart is the Milk of the Moon

My heart is a caged tiger

     rattling the bars

My heart is a feather

     floating this way and that

My heart is a sunbeam

     blinding on the road

My heart is an empty bottle

My heart is the wine in my stomach

My heart is a beetle

     desparate on his back

My heart is a wolf chasing

     a rabbit

My heart is the rabbit also

My heart is the milk of the moon

     slowly churning

My heart is an acorn

     misplaced

Many more secret things I call my heart

because her kiss is fresh in the morning

    but dry in the evening.

 

Side Walk Meeting

Little Beetle on your back

little baby Beetle

rolling arms and legs

 -walking upside down

carapace wings

precious delicate antenna

I am so afraid of you

 

Weather Make Us Play

What greatness?

What immortal literary conflict?

Probing

throbbing

rain.

Beating

bopping

wailing

rain.

Let us out mama,

let the soaking street kings

outside.

“Fresh as children,”

we, 

slick mammals,

hold our

heads down

hands up

tongues steady. 

Rain,

like slippery piano

keys

plunking

at the muse

of a whimsical

Water Otter,

coltranes

to the the tiny

wet

teeth

of

our planet.

     -Here come the dogs, purple and slobbering.

     -One, two, three junk yard cats ash colored and oval shaped.

Everything hiding, everything exposed

Buddha weather.

Fat glutton, Buddha weather.

Everything happy, perfect,

and sacred.

Everything wet,

dripping,

smoothing,

shuffling.

What silly mortal rain music?

Soft noise,

white noise,

drums -high hat and snare-

dark noise,

hard noise,

jealous horn noise,

scuttle noise,

There he is, walrus tisk whisker noise ,

on the sidewalk walking home.

sustained hush

charcoal noise.

static.

sudden hiss tongue

spraying pavement water

sacred otter

silk mammals

ephemeral

fingers

delicate jazz sky

animal song.

 

Who am I oh Lord?

At the end

of a choked down

 drawn out

shot

of spiced rum (true story),

I saw a flicker,

a stutter.

Commotion

in the tiny laughing

world of plants

coming from my

Bursting Heart,

Burning bush

tree.

What else could I do?

I lit a cigarette.

secret:

I saw

 a small twig

or a stem move.

As I approached, 

this little leaf

changed himself

into a lizard,

and I had scared him away.

 

Redirection

I think it strange that I should be so elated by the release of a burden. After all, I am the one who chose the weight. In my attempt to make amends with the past, I realize that moving forward sometimes means I’m running away.

 

When I arrive, I won’t know anyone.

It’s amazing how much I can love. I love my life. I have a warm place to live, and so many possibilities. I also love the ones I left behind. I love the smell of leaves as they sleep on the ground, the smell of hay or rain. I miss the drunken laugh of my friends, the advice of my father. I love the driveway of the last place I lived. I miss the hills and the places I’ve been, the sun behind closed eyes like red velvet, snow, a fragrant pipe against rain covered streets, night time loneliness, wearing jackets, farms, holding my breath for spring. I love my aching heart. I love the touch of skin before I fall asleep. I love bravery. I love the shape of Ohio. I love my lover’s ciriticism.  I love hope. And slow anticipation I also love.  I love the idea of not knowing where I’ll be tomorrow, and when I arrive, I won’t know anyone.

 

Thomas Jefferson on Legacy

“I am a warrior so my son can be a merchant so his son can be a poet.”

 

A Clear Room for Onions

A Clear Room for Onions

I keep my life in a paper bag,

one of those straight, brown

bags you might get at a grocery store.

What I’d really like to do

is stretch out,

build a house

with rooms

for each thing in my life.

I’d have one room

with a plaque that reads:

ONION ROOM

another plaque that says,

PLEASE RELAX, YOU DON’T HAVE TO EAT IT.

I KNOW YOU DON’T LIKE ONIONS.

Another room for apples

all in red.

I would put my books

down on a shelf in a gray room,

gray like the color of smoke;

smoke is the color

of listening.

Sometimes I wish I would 

spend more time in this room.

I really want to have space.

There will be plenty of clean light

from windows and lamps. 

My guitar will go in a room

with a plaque:

DISTRACTION.

Each room will have colors.

A blue room for the water

I carry in a canteen

because I’ve learned my lesson.

I’ll have to put my heat

in an orange room.

Red has been taken by apples,

and yellow is reserved for my childhood.

A clear room for onions,

transparent like my love.

What I really want is a house

to extend my back through

and yawn.

I’ve heard that

if you put things

in paper bags,

they ripen faster,

but I keep stumbling over objects in the dark

and the humid smell

of paper is stifling.

 

1,400 miles

Houston Texas is hot

so is my little Ohio in the summer.

The heat is like being angry

at a lover. Feels so good in small doses.