Poetry

I search for light in the eye
in her that put me away.
Though, I do not understand why

you lock me in the padded closet, keep me from the sky—
Heat from the static tv, a breathing bane.
I search for light in the eye.

A Blue Bear, Purple Pegasus, and Hanging Jackets I personify.
The repeating of Mickey Mouse VHS tapes is my chain,
Though, I do not understand why.

Mother, let me out— Long hours go by—
I struggle to myself, am I just a stain?
I search for light in the eye.

The door opens and I’m about to cry.
My favorite color, sky blue, but instead I find rain,
Though, I do not understand why.

I was once a Monarch Butterfly.
Mother, why end my reign?
I search for light in the eye,
Though, I do not understand why.
 

we talk of alcohol
taking classes at our age
our kids as toddlers
collecting too many things
you’re seated on the table
without students for a day
just us for awhile
until other grownups want to share getaways
their winter high points
I would prefer to leave my blue chair
arrive to your table
in a rare silence
my hand to your cheek
inform that I’m here
without a word
you grasp my hand
peer as I stand closer to you
without surprise
across pull-down maps and hum of the heater
sun descending on other side of the park
leave the door closed
we can wish for each other

            “a kelp forest is one of the undersea wonders 
            of the world….We will try to explain the secret 
            of this sea kelp.” – Se-Kwon Kim


Avert your eyes from kelp mounds, stretched across
the beach like walruses from other worlds, 
deceased but hungry for attention. Up close,
their meaty lattices, unkempt, intestinal,

deep breathe with flies. Their tentacles now lax, 
bear swollen bulbs to float them vertical.
Experts refuse to label them as plants –
no vasculars, stomata, chlorophyll. 

But kelp has tired of living rootless, vain 
extending for the sun, the boring sway 
of tides, and soon they lose it, snap and strain
to shore, creeping boneless from the waves.

They long to green and harden, make canopies,
put down legs, and join our life of gravity. 

I’m making the end of the line explicit /
see it tilting toward the right—forward /

to the breech—then return to another /
origin, another chance to begin, blank /

where no slash is necessary even /
a \ to mark an opposite to the drop off /

a redundancy among what some may /
claim are already redundancies though /

in this piece, I consider them not /
—instead the implicit unfolded, signaling /

I am aware of the finite line, which two or three /
a scholar might quite distinguish with a /, not that I’m /

an inveterate obscurantist or ornery cuss /
just making it clear, willing to discuss /

Day spot free warm wind 
soft sway supple trees so - 
wood mellow burn smell 
gentle breeze crisp
cool and fragrant streams. 

Amble dapple shadow stone 
smooth worn feet - 
tall grass green fan
luxurious under bough
bower pale place to hide.

All heat waft humid
rain handsome high hill - 
ajar wood ahead door swing
men rush aghast all
dull swords swung high. 

The ground seems to rumble. 
A jar breaks. 

White statue amid small
ripple man wades the deep - 
bent tree cypress blow
up rise vacant shadow figure 
mumble behind locked doors.

Sunshine inside frail echo feet
patter marble hall call -  
fire burn cauldron incense 
smolder rubble rock wall 
peer a lone man out.

While fan gentle breeze 
rain mist faces so moist -  
rich smell fire roast
crisp string so sweetly so sing 
hoof beats roughly rumble. 

A jar breaks. 

Rhythm cross sweet
bridge sacred cow cry - 
white dress woman vanish
shadow noon haunt fountain
children play all alone. 

A door slams. A yell. 

Still scent sand remain no
song hover bygone breeze -
nap dream rich wine red
night share fire rage 
through sweet gentle field. 

A jar breaks. A rush. 

       This
is the life I wanted 
               all that time, the one that held itself

away from me while I kept choosing
lovely cups and creatures, circus-like 
               and therefore real 

        in all their shining. A man at the meeting 
says at least today I’m not doing anything 
               that’s killing me – I think, apart from living – 

yes, this is the life 
I wanted - an instant  
        newness,

          livable at last, and sometimes
lived. And even when its shape is distant, this life feels closer
               than the walk home from the shift 

telling myself not to stop at the corner
or do anything that might turn 
               myself out for the rest of the night– 

         walking to the end of the road 
I would face myself 
              in the direction 

of the house 
where I would go inside 
         where I would not be at the end 

        of a park’s shadow, looking up at a botched moon 
and down at a baggie that had appeared in my palm
             thinking the two were the same.