umbilical cord

some boys are born on thursdays
like me — premature and tiny

their mothers love them
because some boys are loved

even if the pain is overwhelming

other boys are born on otherdays
like someone not me — on time and fat

their mothers love them
because most boys are loved

even if the pain is overwhelming

the rest of the babies are girls
and they are born whenever they please
and they are small or large
and always loved by their daddy’s

either way, boy or girl
the pain grows greater every day
just like the love

for the sublime

everything explodes, because there is space
to fill between the notes. there is a rhythm
to the motion of stars, the knowledge of gravity
and all the things i need to say

everything retreats, because there is pressure
to fill between the notes, there is rhythm
to the light of stars, the knowledge of distance
and all the things i want to give

everything, because there is space, becomes
the music or the stars — the knowledge
or the words

let loose the voice

if all the sublime is you, then sing
because the stars — because the moon
because the bitter bitter bitter cold

if all the exultation is you, then sing
because the sky — because the sun
because the bitter bitter cold

if all the beauty is you, then sing
because the word — because the song
because the deepest honest truth

a short essay on point of view in shakespeare (or something else entirely)

i sense that you’re afraid
of fat and old and ugly too
all the things so me
and not quite you

i imagine how it might be
to love a man so half-like me

i sense that you’re afraid
of blind and sad and so lost too
all the ways a man is me
and not a bit like you

i imagine how it must be
to love a man so very me

i sense that you’re afraid
of hurt and pain and undried glue
on paper everything so me
in reality so unlike you

i imagine how it could be
to know a man a bit like me

i sense that you’re afraid
of hope and faith and bad beef stew
of being played by some man too me
while you’re being there so very you

i imagine now it must be
horrible to half-love me

the theology of under employment on a sunday afternoon

Suppose Brazil is heaven – not so far away
as to be impossible to get to, but far enough
that I’ve never been. ¬†You might say this is fine
and I’ll get there when it’s time. Perhaps
you’re right, but more likely, because I know
I’m broken and lost and forgotten and feeling
like nothing more than a bag of bones under
a broken couch in a dirty parlor by a cracked sidewalk
in a busy little city half-a-world away, more likely
you’re not. More likely Brazil is heaven
and I’ll never learn Portugese, so that even if I get there
I’ll be alone, unable to find the toilet or the water
or that incredibly tall statue of Jesus — arms
outstretched, telling the real people who know
how to be there that they are forgiven.

if you do not

if you do not tell me
your name, i can not tell you
how the world is round

i can not share the intimate details
of a cloud falling through the nothing
to the ground

if you do not share
your name, i can not whisper
how the moon is fleeing

i can not tell you when
the darkness will descent
upon we so most unseeing

if you do not tell me
your name, the silence becomes
the endless reaching

i can not imagine what”it means to be

regarding accents

we speak sometimes
of art and hurt
and time — as you pass by
without dessert

other times we do not speak
except to say
good bye
for another week

we speak sometimes
in smiles and bright eyes
in almosts and of course
long sighs

other times we do not speak
except to know
the cost of doing business
then we go

we speak sometimes
with nearly words
with loss unimaginable
the irony’s absurd

other times we dare not speak
for fear we’ll understand
life is very short
and every day is grand

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