Rain, they say.
I’m planning my fedora.
I’m making an appointment
with my trench coat.
And I’ll wear my grubby boots.
Rain, so rare
in the Texas state.
Like a gift of tears,
like a breath of oxygen.
I’ll count the raindrops
as they hit the roof
and name them
one by one,,,
say hello and good-bye.
I’ll give each one an message
to give to the ocean,
if they make it that far. . .
it will keep me quite busy,
thousands of raindrops
each with their mouth open
laughing as they fall.
The birds will drink
some of them, and the gutters
will drink some,,,
but the lucky ones
will go into the trees,
far from the roads.
Or, right into the river,
right into the river
when they fall.
like a butterfly in the wind
like a sailboat in a hurricane
I want to begin.
I look for a compass
and imagine a map.
And wonder if it matters
because I could sure use a nap.
No matter how long I watch her, or hear her smoky voice,
or listen to her hot words, while her lips caress the language,
or how closely I watch her dance, and swing her hair around––
she is like a beautiful mystery, forever unfolding,
like watching the ocean~~wave after wave, from infinity to
infinity, luscious, dripping, ripe like swollen fruit.
upside down in reality’s playpen.
swinging on the monkey bars of everyday dreams.
flowing with the notion of the motion of the ocean––
rocking steady and sweet in the heartbeat
of cosmic love.
time with fuzzy edges.
time leaking linearity.
sitting on an airplane one afternoon.
on my way home from visiting my father,
who was finishing his life, and would be gone
in a few months.
I’d been looking through photos of my father
when he was a child.
I could see him as a child, and I could see him
as the man who was my father when I was a child,
and I could see him as he was then, a man
preparing to say good-bye.
I was sitting on the plane looking at all the other
passengers. We all woke up somewhere that morning.
Groggily. Knowing we would travel. And we would all
fall asleep somewhere that evening. Cozy. Having arrived.
Now we were in the air.
I could see them all as they were when they were babies,
and I could see them all as the people they were right then,
and I cold see them all in the future somewhere,
leaving their bodies behind.
What is time but a practical and ridiculous way of slicing
tiny slices from a lovely round cake that we could enjoy
just as well, if not better, by keeping it whole, and sharing
all the moments, each and every, now and always, as one.
nothing up my sleeve
these thoughts like rainbows or
other things . . .
loop-de-loop spirals pretending
to be real. as real as imagination.
on and on.
we’ve heard it all before.
they all keep saying the same thing.
but whoever this is here writing this is
still an animal that likes sugar and cuddles
and lives more of less for
comfort and not victory of any kind. . .
would just as soon be cozy
on a rainy day and play scrabble with
loved ones or any friend than
go fight or get noticed or hear someone
say look at that, you did it,
you left your mark,
what mark? I just want
was hounding me
on that cold
I was locked
and I was locked
I turned around
a fire started
I turned around
a gun went off
I turned around
my baby wanted to
give me a book.
Crow kept telling Mr. Bones
that he wanted to fly to the sun.
Mr. Bones tilted his hat back and looked at Crow and yawned.
“It’s been done,” said Mr. Bones, “Icarus, for one…and––you––too,
remember? You’ve done it before––look how that turned out.”
“Not all that bad,” said Crow, “I’m still here, aren’t I? Besides,
this look of burnt to a crisp charred black is rather fashionable in the long run, eh?
So, what’s the harm?”
“Do what you want,” said Mr. Bones. “No way I want to talk you out of it.
But, I’m curious. . . . what’s the big motivation to fly to the sun all of a sudden.”
“I don’t know,” said Crow, “I mean, you gotta do something, right?
You gotta do something. . . . I’m down here–– the sun is up there––
I think it’s time to tango.” And then Crow flew, straight up, to the top
of the sky.
invisible matters as
smoke swirls up into the light
of another nightclub dream.
no clear destination
only fantasy of something like happiness
or bliss or maybe just victory.
fire is as easy as the lighter in your jacket pocket
but then the conversation is a maze of clever
double entendres and innuendos.
eventually it all becomes blurry and magical––
things go the way they will go, no one can predict it exactly,
and then it is morning again.