Month: January 2011

When
i.

raise a glass.
pour life.
don’t say when.

January
v.

my returning
makes you wish for
days I’m gone
said the wind



in forgetting
we uncover truth
said the moon



let me bring you
a picnic
said the river
let me sing
a lullaby of
tree tops
tangled roots and
bones
because I remember
rocking you
because you are all
I hold

January
iv.

I’ll meet you there and
race right back
again
said the wind



I do not care for
cheese
said the moon



people forget
said the river
it’s easy to see how memory slips and
settles

January
iii.

I tend to evening chores
tomorrow’s worries television news
lend me your apron
said the wind there is still time
to drift and dust and
polish smooth

in falling
we rise
said the moon

filter out what’s potable
replace with
chemical equations
partake when good and ready
dredge dam redirect and
levy I could tell you stories
said the river
ripples only if
you see them echoes only
if you hear

January
ii.

I am dashing
said the wind
charming steam
from smokestacks whisking it
away as dreamers wake
still reaching

At the end of it all
is beginning
said the moon

I will wait my turn
said the river

January
i.

I bite and drain cheeks
of color said the wind
steal breath from those intending
to live forever

In the middle of cold
is no cold
said the moon

I am still here
said the river

Freedom
v.

Footsteps crunch.
Air cuts like knives as wheels
revert to stone.

Everything grinds.

Even the moon
is slow to rise.

Beneath us,
rivers wait
for Spring
and
freedom, always

freedom.

Freedom
iv.

A few things that = freedom from combing hair:

dreadlocks.
hats.
sleeping all day.
being bald.
being five. or the baby of your family at any age, unless
you are already bald, therefore free.
not having a comb.
having a comb but not using it.
having Fisher Price hair.
there are more things but it’s time to stop this list and find
a comb.

Freedom
iii.

To The Guy At The Poetry Reading Who Ran Into My Eye:

First of all, I didn’t know exactly how to address you, so let’s just
say Ben.
And second,
I didn’t mean to stare in the first place, but
there you were:
in the way of my eye.
Listening to
the poet,
which I was supposed to be listening to, too
but got caught up
in watching you.
I wanted to see
how the words got from the poems
into you. So I could sneak in behind
and
explore two or maybe three
parts of you, like
nowhere near
that tattoo,
and the hand holding
your notebook, and the space
someone else might have missed
below your knee–

But just one knee, Ben.
Because there is freedom in
not knowing.