It’s time

The light changes things
Three weeks is a long time

The rock changes
No connection to history
It’s just the wind
The midpoint
A scab on a knuckle
Word of the day

The rock changes
So unfimiliar with real love
It doesn’t move or try.

Maybe I am the first to notice
An astronaut of rocks
I see the dents, soften

They are like I was
I am like them.

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The paper lives 

The paper lives
We take it seriously
Or not

The sticks we sit on
In in waiting room

Wet leaves
Beneath  our
Hospital beds

The art work drips
From the side of the staircase

Keep us from falling out

We decorate with rocks
And native grasses
The dog smells the day
From the back steps

The millions of coffee mugs
Not properly washed
When the work creates
Dirty dishes serve many purposes

Middle ground

Some say you can never go home
But if you are born in Kansas
A part of you will never leave.

The sky is painting
The essence of flatness.
Everything else
Fancy words,
Games of light and color.

Always look outward
Out, out, out.
We are not beginning or ending
All the time.

Mystery is everywhere
We hold it in cracked hands.
Steamy machines on cold mornings.
We take in beauty,
Share it in a carving on a picnic bench.

Wave in passing,
Compare notes about the work
On the way home.

Control Respect

When you showed your father
You could hold that snake
Without flinching.

When you heard them coming
Wrapping your finger around
The plastic trigger.

When you first glossed over.
Feeling the truth in blood
Learning to hold the leash.
The thrill of releasing the lie
About meat and making things happen.

Curled into a ball, in your bed
Anticipating unknowable lightening strikes,
Listening for the RAP TAP TAP of rain drops
The thunder shook your walls
Like the sides of a roller coaster.

That day in summer camp.
The tools and the protocol
The wood in your hand
The passing of the torch.

It’s not about control.
It’s about respect.
Respecting the fear
The sacrifice and distant thunder,
The child
And childhood that ended.

Coercive Diplomacy

The leash follows your explorations
I keep my thumb on the button
I’ll bag your shit
For my neighbors

You feel free and safe

We limp along
Two bullets at the bar
Patriots under duress
Hollywood guilt
Outside the body

Boys find their purpose
Playing guns like guitars
Piece of wood
A Samari sword

At what age can I start judging?
To save a life
How big do I have to be?
How important
To me

The earth of my skin

Has been through so much
Frozen and thawed frozen and thawed
I am starting to nap
The next ice storm sends my body into hibernation
The birds need so much
They eat fast
Leave their broken shells beneath the feeder
So much time looking for the ones that dropped
Winter has no time to mourn
No time to consider gender or spirit
There is one sun for every winter

Fire men

Excuse me, sir?
You left something
Right there on the bench
Next to me.

Marks on the launch pad.
How many suffer
For a flower to grow?

“We burn them to ashes
And then we burn the ashes.”

We learn so much from fire.
Everything burns the same
Beautiful and bright.
Everyone in the room knows
When it’s on.

A million tiny tongues
All going at once.
Do they taste anything?

“If I could lick my own balls
I might never date again.”

Fire changes things
With one quick click flicker
Forever.

The gaze of a father
Turns the skin to Silly Puddy.
We forge weapons
During commercials
Hack away
At the hanging bags of Jello.

The fire is in us.
We feel entitled to write books
To burn.