The sun becomes a dozen dreams
the moon becomes a heart
the stars are never as they seem
and the world is far too tart.
The sun ascends to albatross
the hanging o’er the sea
The moon descends to emboss
the waves all drowning me
The sun forgets a cloud or two
the moon forgets the same
the stars forget what’s true
and I forget my name
I will provide memories of goats
in long sleeve footie pajamas
regardless whether you want them
If you need tea, I will want it too,
and steal it from a lady
who said, “I have enough,
thank you.”
If you want a zombie unicorn
named Alfred, I will make him
from jujubees and ski boots –
that will be enough, and if it’s not
then I will destroy you with fists
and cold clam chowder.
There is nothing more to say than this:
God provides, I provide
nothing but insanity
and the distant yearning
for daylight savings.
This is the truth: If I had long red hair
and smiled brighter than the sun
I would take what I wanted
The rage of my locks would be a legend
told to little boys who wanted nothing
but to grow up to be engineers.
My smile would be beautiful
kind and terrible and cruel
when I said, “Let me see.”
I would own whatever I wished
whatever i didn’t wish,
whatever I might someday wish
whatever I despise
For me, with long red hair
and a blazing smile, the universe
is not enough.
Yes, I am the crow
you know — black
winged & raw
voiced — and you know
me when I ca(w)ll.
If you weighted for me
for the unbearable length
of an unrepeatable moo(n)
you would see
how heavy the tide
how the light is borne
on the backs of cows
too slow to get back
to the barn.
Yes, you are the owl
I dream when I dream
who — who might breathe
in the darkness.
who — who might
dream me back —
touch by touch
like the memory of a hard fuck
in a cold barn.
Ca(w)ll
Ca(awwwww)ll me back
from a summer night
so the autumn might remember
the wind that warmed
(and never bit) the stone
(the hard cold stone)
that weighted (down)
the dawn as scandalously
as the dark forgot the moon.
Ca(w)ll
Ca(awwww)ll me yours
i am yours
crowing about the sex
we both hide so carefully.
If I were going to love,
I would love in purple
upon a turtle’s back –
I would be the sun, warm
him until he smiled
and swam happy
through the cool
endless sea of stars.
If I were going to be loved,
I would be loved in green
like the son of a turtle
pushing out slowly
from the rubbery shell
and the darkness
until I too could know
the stars and sweetness
of an eternal sea.
In a cold strange field, not far to the south
a thousand chickadees chittering about
the stand of birch where now in repose
the 20 saplings and six healthy lay close
The first icy proclamation of this winter
calls a single night of storm a sinner
but madness is no sin and thus I weep
and watch and wait for my own kind sleep
Yes, thin bark and brittle wood uncut
all lay silent there, & there & there for what?
“There are no words but words,” I hear him say.
Is this some white truth or muddied Grey?
“There are no words but these,” says he.
“What then,” I wonder, “What of me?”
“There are no words and that is all.”
Is this true? Is man so small?
There are no words he shakes his head.
“Alas,” I say and we are dead.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging lyrics or style or genre. I’m not judging at all. I’m talking about what brings a person to life. I’m talking about watching notes explode in their eyes and words make them cry and have them say things like, “When I die, you have to play this at my funeral.” I’m talking about laugher so raucous their toes curl and their belly muscles are pulled. I’m talking about the kind of connection to songs that forces them to learn to sing them, and play them, and share them with everyone they know because it is so meaningful and uplifting to them.
So, the “C is for Cookie” is just as beautiful in this regard as Metallica’s “One”, and classic tunes like “Eine Nacht Muzik.” This isn’t some endorsement or judgment of any style of music or song, it’s really a call to search out that poetry of life that lifts you up and makes you feel too deeply to explain in just one lifetime. And it’s also a call to admire and respect that poem, that lyrics, that tune in every one you meet. Everyone. Every stranger. Every son. Every daughter, wife, mother, aunt, uncle, grandfather, friend of a friend, salesperson, and cashier. All of them live to some tune, some poem you need to read. Dont’ forget that. Just – don’t. You need that in your heart, whether it is happiness or ache, suffering or salvation. I’m not telling you what music to listen to, I’m telling you what music to look for.
One of my great joys as a father is to see my children revealed in their passions and loves – their music – because I see that I didn’t raise a boy and a girl, I raised a man and a woman who are unafraid to fail, who are courageous enough to love, and who are as kind as they are brilliant, as strong as they are tender, and as loyal as they are beautiful.
One of my great joys as a husband is to see my wife revealed in her passions and loves, because in her I see that I didn’t marry just a pretty face, I married a beautiful woman who is stronger than me, more fearless than me, more courageous than me, more brilliant than me, more kind and more decent. When I put on her music, and listen to the songs she loves most, that’s what I hear.
I wish every husband could see his wife the way I see mine. I wish every father could see his children the same way. People wonder how an artist sees the world so differently from them, and I suppose it depends on the artist, but for me, I see it through the music and the lyrics. I see life through the unfiltered lens of poetry.
So, yes, I believe music is even more than a reflection of the musician or the listener. The music each of us choose to play, to sing, listen to – the music we choose to love – also affects who we are. So, I suppose, that explains why I am always searching for new songs, and connecting with new people. I am on an endless search for those songs that make might make me who i want to be.
I keep saying songs, and of course, I do mean songs, but i also mean poems. I find it completely un-confusing, but others might disagree. I do not differentiate between the two in this sense.
I’m a very simple man.
perhaps you guessed the truth:
if i was a plate i’d be a paper plate
covered in dead insects
and spiders – songless crickets,
and wings that no longer remembered
flight. I’d run away from lips
and men, from the dark recesses
where cool comfort holds my mother
I’d be neatly organized as a palate
for the story of legs that no longer creep
and the poetry of bodes that do not crawl.
I’d take all the homes of all the paper wasps
and wet them down and smear them flat
and dry them out and become
a tissue canvas for cheap red and green
ink flowers. This is the truth
If i were a plate, I’d be a paper plate
wishing all the legs upon me
would walk and rush and drive down
to the heart of every matter
ready carry lips and teeth
and scarier parts of the living creatures
I am so afraid of to sting and bite
and teach the painful lessons
kept close to dirt and stone
or in the back of cabinets
forgotten.
It is easy to be a sprig of parsley
bent in some small breeze, smelling of spring,
but every mole must dig and can not see
the gentle joy the light of day can bring
parsley can savor existence sweetly benign
growing with each rain drop and sunny day
the mole grows only tired burrowing a line
between each root without time to play
parsley’s humor may be chopped and dry
– a slender song of herb in boiled broth.
The mole can not joke and does not try
such frivolity is akin to sinful sloth.
Though parsley’s life is full of sunshine’s grace
I’d rather dig to find my God’s true face