inspiration does not come
in bright colors, or long skirts
It wears nothing
and arrives unseen
I tell you this, so that you can run
away from the wolf
inspiration does not sing
hymns or carols or dirges
it sings nothing a capella
and you are a fool if you accompany him.
I tell you this, so you can run
from a knee to an ankle
inspiration is not silent
except in prayer
but it never prays
on anyone but you.
We poke and we prod
and we wonder if God
has plans where we both shall meet
We slip and we slur
and we ponder what were
the ache of a friendship complete
Such is the truth
of a man in a booth
drinking a whisky and rye
Such are the quirks
of a chick in a skirt
loosing the smirk of a sigh
There seems in the dreams
the twisted sad schemes
to be no joke as we die
So let go an odd poke
and slam out a hurt prod
but hold back each question why
suppose i were a tree
fat in the trunk, thin in the branches
no leaves, or leaving or sunlight
suppose I were the dead husk of a tree
no one remembered, except
as the best fire they ever burned
in the warm red brick fireplace
their grandfather built when he was a young man
and I still a sapling.
beloved, it is too much to ask me
what I am, who I might be, where I might grow
most tall and healthy
How I might reach for the sun
one more day
suppose, I were a tree
still young, still strong,
still green and lush and honest about shadows
suppose, we were both trees
together in the cool bright wood
alive and mad with the still love
of every sunny day
and every glorious shower
Beloved, it is not enough to ask
let us be
are the ashes
and the dust
and endless dream
of every perfect summer
since we met.
A thin red cedar by a small lake, clear and full
of life, in the worn out remains of the top of the world
sings of madness
The lurid truth – there is a majestic impossible arc
that curves back on the unverifiable truth: We can not think
about another person, unless they think of us.
The tree bends into the last blush of a nowhere day,
the lake ruffles under the horizon’s gentle breath,
and we think of eachother and how light bends
around the gravity of our situation.
I dream of long reeds
by cool ponds, turtles swimming
in the first whisper of sunlight
I say, “this is earth.” You laugh,
“No, this is heaven.” We both laugh.
The rock in the middle of the pond
is sunbleached and begging the turtles
to come and rest and wait for the warmth
to save them.
I say, “this is heaven.” You sigh,
“No, this is Earth.” We both sigh.
The tadpole kisses the surface
where the water was glassy
now ring by ring, the moment
drifts toward some other shore
we see but do not know.
I say, “What is this?” You say,
“I do not know.”
And we are happy. God,
we are happy.
i beg the bride of lizards
be the beast of bad choices
she says, ‘ok,
i beg her, please please
be that wild ravager of no
the ecstatitious mountain of mayhen
and calamity. she giggles,
‘ok, sure sure, just stop, for God’s sake
and the world crashed into the empty space
where the dark part of slivered moon hides
with a boom boom boom and a soft Goodbye.
the poor pus of anything
swims against the current
events. gray skinned and hoping
for something, damn.. some thing
the porpoise of anything
swims even better with the current.
events do not gray, they become
vibrant. Hope becomes that alive
something that blesses everything.
Everything grows deeper
Deeper, and deeper
until that thing that was cool
becomes the thing that is too cold
for anything to survive.