It must be poetry month
the words are starting to show
on the trees, Paula has a smile
and she is telling a friend
about Tom Sexton’s carving in the park.

Dave is wearing a hat and playing
with his boy down by the river
because he knows the value of a sunny day
and it’s too early to surf.

Michael is sending messages out
to all the poets within two hundred miles
to come and love words with him

Paul is talking to Richard about this city
again, how great it is to share it all
with townies and tourists and anyone
else who happens by.

Dan is passing through on his way
to the train station, on his way
to work, on his way to help
just a few boys not so lucky as his own.

Bill is laughing by a big blue lake
with his beautiful son in the beautiful sun
worshipping all creation – because it is good.

Brenda is sipping a Mai Tai and eating fancy food
talking about her grand daughter
and the wonderful painting she will paint tomorrow.

Steve is selling paint to a new guy in town
ready to fall in love
with the mills and the river and the sunsets.

It must be poetry month again,
and there’s just so much to say

it is may – maybe, maybe june
cold spring road is quiet
by the pond at the corner
i watch the tall grasses reaching
toward the the first best sunshine
a black and gold sun turtle
rests on the bit rock
part of a poorly constructed raft
thirty feet away on the short
half-submerged, i wonder
if i can make it float
if i can reach the turtle
if i can catch the turtle
if the turtle will wait for me

he hears me on the short and slides into the water
and away.

There was no gentle in the Dallas air today
only the rumbling voice of maybe-God
the debris of all we can not have

There is no heart beating in the twisted steel
no angel’s breath in the mottled laundry
no archangel’s sword to kill the plunderers

But there is a smile, not ironic or warm,
hollow, maybe only the echo of a real smile,
but still – lips upturned and grateful tears

Mothers in crowded rooms singing
where the world did not fall apart
to scared babies unable to sleep, afraid to dream

There is soft gentle in the air in Dallas tonight
tender gentle in the fingertips of strangers
holy gentle in arms that hold and the tears that fall.

into the muck, my foot
all the way to my ankle
I pull and hear the suck
as my shoe stays behind

the smell of skunk cabbage
and decomposing plants
twists my nose in a knot
as i reach down to pull it out
by the tongue

a few steps later, i do it all again
because I learned the wrong lesson

Cathy and Tricia and I sat in their father’s kitchen
as Nana and Papa and Uncle John talked downstairs
over a dog – cute enough I suppose.

Def Leppard hung in the air, and I sang the wrong lyrics
to make them laugh. Then we talked about Jackie
and their mom – how hard it was.

I told them they should come up to the lake
with their grandfather next time, and they said
they should, they should, but they never did

I wondered, about our blood, about the ways we are the same
about the ways we are not.
Love is a choice, that’s all – I decided

Elton John came on the radio, and I saw Cathy
still standing there, looking tired – so tired
like she lost a year and could never find it again

Tricia was playing with her hair, feathering
and twirling and considering hairspray, maybe
though she was beautiful enough without.

I heard Papa call me down, “Time to leave!”
Gave them hugs and kisses and said,
“See you soon.”

The saddest sort of unintentional lie
we tell for the sake of love.`

I met Laura on a Tuesday
in a large open space
full of sunlight

She was carrying a bag half-full
of newly purchased books
and talking to Dawn

They were talking about a city
about a boy, about a car
about a night – not long ago

I was watching the sun
pour in and wondering
if I could ever be a boy
they would talk about.

There was an accident,
Dawn said, and Laura just turned away
a bit. So we talked about Shakespeare
or Biology – or something completely irrelevant.

I forget what.

I would tell you the secrets of little girls
talk of kisses, of walks on beaches, of boys
and boys to come – I would, I would
but some secrets are not mine to share.

If you must know, then listen behind the shed
where they snuck to watch the boys smoke
or at the mall outside the lingerie store
where the boys giggle as they pass

If you can not live without knowing
run – run down to the beach on a hot summer night
and stand just outside the candy store
where the taffy is being pulled and watch
the little girls heads loll back sweet
in cackled glee

If you are so small – so sad, so lost –
that a secret is like a scab in need
of picking – then wait in the grocery store
beside the hygiene products
and all will be revealed

or not.

For the love of trees, I tell you
they are fine. We had a powwow
and talked about the bad old days
when there were fewer of them

There are fewer now, you say?
No, that’s not true, there are more now
than anytime in the last hundred years

Scarcity is growing scarcer,
but trees are not. The trees are good
playing frisbee, eating cheese, mocking people
with fat dogs full of shit.

We made plans to go to a comedy club next week
if you want to tag along.

It must be poetry month,
I saw a grackle eating a potato chip
a squirrel watching a newt dance under a log
a fat feral cat fidgeting under a pigeon
a tree gripping the wind title with a broken branch
an awkward skinny kid in a volkswagon bug beeping at a girl
a stature of Geezus dressed in a hawaiian shirt
a man in a “Fabreeze” shirt smoking a stogie
a deer staring at the headlights of an old lady in a buick
a young boy with one leg catching a fish with one leg
a totem pole with my face on it
Elvis on a unicycle
a lady crying by her father’s grave
planting chrysanthemums

tiny trebled tribulations of bush
by bush along the warm path
fingers tips high-hat brush hair
in preparation for percussive kisses
along the back of the neck

the long delicate apocalypse
the soprano of heat from the road
the jazz notes of every star tromboning
in as the day slides out

embers snap along to the glow
of the journey’s convection
a dedication of whisper and breath
before these memories become ash