thinking about you and how
much i want to be near you and
now
the work in front of me is...
well,
work... and the thoughts of you are,
well,
precious.

when it appears that you have no one,
look around at all the someones in your life.

in wake we are apart.
in sleep we are together, at least
the oceans zip up, or
we slice across them with the
strength and dynamic of a
swordfish.
meet me on the shore. sweep my
hair behind my ear and gaze into
my eyes, the blue iris and the
yellow ringed around the center.
until then, look at
the sun.

for my peers or my generation or whatever you call it, the "wired" generation, the "plugged in" generation, with everything whizzing and whirring about it, it is not a question of no opportunity but too much. the world is here, there and everywhere, it is not just what we can touch with our own fingertips or reach with our feet or even by automotive; it's what we can glean from an always-changing screen; it is a process of deciding where we want to go today, and sifting through an infinite numbers of outlets to get there, and absorbing what we can in a world that never stops but with a body that still needs sleep and a brain that still uses just 10 percent. how does it all fit? it can't. we are a society where traditional values have been swept under the rug, where community and selflessness has been tossed out in favor of be all YOU can be (but not, heavens no, in the Army), do everything you can and be on top, top, top of the ever-growing mountain, no matter which way it pulls you. ironically, when values and sense of self have been overcome by immediacy and struggle, they have never been more important. they are the hand that pulls us out of the quicksand.

"Loneliness does not come from being alone, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important."
-- Carl Jung

what is this other side
you speak of?
it's been here all along and
is just as much me as the
other. don't call the
zebra by one of its stripes,
the woods for one of its bushes, the kingdom
for an insect. it makes
you a shortsighted fool
-- or rather,
nearsighted --
and you don't need glasses,
just a little more time.

on why I left you in such an awful fashion

because i need to be pushed but cradled at the same time.
because you made me afraid --- afraid to listen to myself, afraid to figure out who i am on my own.
you made me think i had to be XX, XX, XX.
so XX, XX, XX, i set my head on
and ignored my gut
and threw out my heart.

determined, yes i am, but in my own way.
motivated, of course, but i move at a slower pace.
i take it in, i breathe in deeply, and i watch
people's faces as they pass, and i memorize
expressions and impressions and each second i thank
the gods that i am here, and i
try to taste all the flavors, and that includes not just milk and honey, but
a) happiness, and b) sadness,
madness, gladness,
tiredness, and hopeless, impressed and distressed,
and every single color of every last (even the very last) brother,
and how we treat and (don't treat) one another

and i put them
into words so i can always remember. and i don't think
life is all about running.
running can cool the jets, running can make you forget...
running distracts you from the heaviness.
but i thank the lord for the heavy, i gladly carry
the heavy golden color of the sun and the heavier shadow
of everything it doesn't touch on my
ivory shoulders.

i live for the smell of books
and the rumination on memory
and the wondering why
and the contemplation of the blessing, and
how it shines in all of us, dark and bright, obvious and not. and
i mull it around on my tongue.
it tastes finer than
your finest manhattan wine.

i toast my own wine to you -- my wine of life. here it is.
enjoy your piles of money, stack them up as high as you can,
but they will never reach god.
down here where the people hum and sing, "hallelujah,"
in a unison
that shakes my skeleton
i have found a human divinity.

there was a fly on the wall
there was whiskey in the glass
there was an ant in the dirt
there was dirt in the ant
there was dirt in my eye
there was an ant in dirt in my eye in dirt
there was love in the dirt, loss and
tears (made of dirt) in the dirt.

sometimes i sit and tap my shoe
i type the words and words and words. it's a simple operation, i don't even have to
spell them right (the machine does it for me). sometimes i chew my gum and when that gets boring
i chew my straw, when that gets boring I chew my tongue, when that gets boring i chew my hair, when
that gets boring i go cross-eyed, when that gets boring
i close my eyes and think of
think think of your warm hard softness, and i can feel your hand
tracing up my spine, one vertebrate, two vertebrae,
clavicle, head, shoulders, fingertoes, and that
soft spot on my neck. i check the clock again.
tick tock, body rocks, your straights and all my curves. straight in the suit and a mess
outside.
sometimes i sit and tap my shoe.
i wait for you to make me a woman.

dear police, somebody
stole my soul. no one
saw them do it, it was a witnessless crime. i
didn't even catch it. see, this is a tricky one,
the soul is colorful to the heavens but
transparent to the earthly eye, and so I couldn't reach out
and grab it when they extracted it from my nose with a long skinny hook (well, that's how I'd imagine they'd do it, like the egyptians took out brains.)

if the soul
is like hope (and I hope it is) it is
a thing with feathers, and so that made
the theft that much easier, as my soul didn't really have to be pulled,
it was ready to go, it did what a soul naturally longs to do,
it floated on up and up toward
the lights and
the dancing, the painted colors and
pointed shapes.

i am dumb
my head is numb
my thoughts are all the floozies.

say little bird,
what have you heard? sing something loud,
undo me.