want something to do with you
want love thing to do with you
want dumb thing to do with you
want drunk thing to do with you
want slam dunk to do with you
want anything to do with you
want bunny thing to do with you
want money thing to do with you
want honey thing to do with you
want onion thing to do with you
even if you
don't want anything
to do with me
that's okay because
i
i believe i am alive.
i believe i am love.
i believe i am salty sea spray of the ocean, mother.
i believe the poets.
i believe music is god.
i believe god is change.
i believe it’s all in rhythm.
i believe harmony is joy.
i believe everything is impermanent.
i believe i will die.
i believe death is an illusion.
i believe life is an illusion.
i believe i am alive.
we are dust
and nothing matters,
yet we scream and
cry and jump with joy,
exhilarated sentient mud.
ZEUGMAS FOR ZOË
here is a poem for a friend
and deadline missed—
inspired by a hurricane
and heartache sweeping through the week,
neither less deadly because announced—
all amid a virus
and head of state threatening the nation
with fever and shortness of breath—
preceded even earlier by warnings
like vowels clearly sounded out—
crackling forests and firecrackers
a drought of rain and new ideas—
so to kill the time and not ourselves
we
play piano and video games
watch television and the seasons change
drink wine and the doom-filled streams—
hoping we can remember our dreams
when we wake up
in a new bed
in a new year
under a new roof—
the same old constellations.
KENNINGS FOR KURTZ
when ice-cotton falls, falls, falls,
and the land-water rises, rises, rises,
and the wood-congregation burns, burns, burns
and the wind-spiral spins, spins, spins
there’s no one that can stop em—
but soul-people exist
and heart-people can feel
and brain-people can think
and body-people can dance—
and dancing is just
seed-planting
shoot-sprouting
sun-seeking
fruit-bursting.
GNOMIC VERSE FOR MS GROSS
ultimately
at the end of the day
when all is said and done
there is a way in which
how you show up
put in the work
hit the right note
in the eye of the storm
shows your true colors
gets in your head
cools your heels
not one iota
when hell freezes over
in your own little world
amid the pandemic.
two great pines the color of ghosts
streaked grey and faded pink
through two square, wood-framed windows
greet me with morning—
i walk the misty, gravel road with my dog,
two bellies grumbling the dawn.
buttertones singing inside
my friday night skull, my tongue
sticks prickly red
but i remember honey: just a spoonful
sparks rivers, alluvial fanning
on the inside of my cheek,
gladness.
how do you read a poem—
you speak
the lines on the page
one word at a time.
how do you dry socks—
you put them in the machine
on the line
in the wind.
QUARANTINE GRATITUDE — DAY 21
Life. I’m thankful for life. As horrible, terrible, disgusting, and messy as it can be, I’m thankful for life. It’s just awful and we’re all going to die, and that’s why I’m thankful for this breath. A breath of fresh air, a glass of cool water. The crashing of ocean waves—terrifying, awesome. The simple things, easy as a spoonful of honey. Ice cream. Cookies. Pizza. Relaxing on the couch. Feeling good, feeling the flow. Lying in bed after a busy day. Making love. Dancing. Hearing a song so beautiful, you cry. Crying, crying, crying those tears that make you choke and gasp for air. Feeling that surge of anger rise in you and knowing you should remain calm but screaming instead. Deciding to conquer your emotions, jedi knight style. Watching cinema, feeling elevated; watching a stupid movie, feeling like your brain’s sippin on anesthesia; watching TV, happily sharing in the collective stupor. Sharing a meal with family, with friends, hysterically laughing. Playing with a silly dog, petting a purring kitten. Yes, good hair days. Yes, one day my hair will be grey and then later my head will be nothing but a skull and then later still nothing but dust but today my hair looks good, thank you very much. I appreciate you. You remind me to treasure these infinite hellos, here-i-ams, goodbyes. Exchanging smiles with a stranger. Going to work. Getting good work done. Pay day. Watching the sunset, waking up to the sunrise, bathing in the midday sunshine. The entire length of your body against bare earth. Staring at the Milky Way. Sitting by a fire, taking a sip of whiskey. Returning home from a trip and taking a steaming hot shower. Sharing ideas, conversations. Working together, creating. Writing words like this in a giant stream of consciousness that maybe only one person, your mother, will actually read the whole way through. Always a little too much death for her taste. But black is just another splash on the canvas. Beating the drums, laying down the track, keeping it funky, singing the spirit loose. Making something real, setting it free.