sailors
who I am is looking out from far inside of me
with stories I grew up on of sailors lost at sea
who studied stars and prayed towards heaven on their knees
to feel again the firmness of earth’s stability.
original mode
was it wading through waters towards land
to start over on sunlit rock and sand?
was it drifting off beneath the stars
to wake with songbirds and canopy wars?
young-blooded tigers fresh from a nap
were confident too of their place on this map.
was it hunting on foot with new flexibility,
or mastering beasts to claim civility?
did we evolve this way for leisure time,
the thrill and grace of an imaginative mind?
did the first artist carry a flame
too contagious for one cave to contain?
when we speak of the memories of our cells,
the expanse is vast to know them well.
the ocean held us as life in womb
then forests fed us a rainbow of blooms.
always earth presented new space to roam,
and for a moment, everywhere was home.
before revival: exploration
we moved across the country to experience something new.
my friend sang Denver mountains wrapped in white sky blue.
I met the lonely girls at work in gas stations in small towns
who, broom-in-hand, shot a serious glance at every door bell sound.
I stayed at the edge of a lonely kingdom surrounded by the sea
escaped the gun in a child’s hand, watched dreams melt down to vanity.
at night the screams in the street tried calling me by name.
why won’t you help us, freezing, bruised, terrified of the same?
we spread like something wild on fire, for the sake of visions, not escape
to watch our country split in half, like a young tree wasting away.
four boy scouts on a train
four boy scouts on a train,
four reasons to refrain
from setting off down strange roads
with wolves for men in sheep’s clothes.
they pass used needles,
avoid gangs near home,
shepherd each other through it so
they can survive San Francisco.
San Francisco
on a foggy day while the sun hides away
screams rise up from the street.
three men on the train shout in our face
while we wait to be let off in the street.
then a barista with sky blue nails
smiles and takes my order
as sirens wail a familiar tale,
we light a flame inside disorder.
sketching animals
they can twist your words
into animals of their choice
and call it you,
then call out the animal
when you share a room,
this version of theirs.
why bother with it?
some like discovering beneath the surface
while others prefer to write on top of things.
wanderer
reputation is a strange bird.
for some, something flying high at first
above the canopy and that which might oppress
or drive it back into its nest
in which case it may forget
the capacity to stretch its wings…
hot cheetos
Arizona and New Mexico
are the same country to the eyes.
just beyond the Amtrak window
hawk wings quiver against one sky.
wasícun was the name they gave
for the man who took the best meat
for himself, most concerned to save
himself from hunger only.
now after the fact insulted
by the hunger their children know,
those adjusting to badlands soil while
gas stations’ sell out of hot Cheetos
whose red dye made from petroleum
was deemed safe by our government
to package and sell to children
of warriors, here once prevalent.
the way of the wounded warrior
there’s a sad but real place shared among children
where they end up all of the sudden
like foreign creatures here, except it’s their planet too –
it’s where they learn to lie.
I know, my heart.
I know the cadence of your soul,
and it is not safe here.
cellular 33
so the poets have chosen the champagne glass over the night,
the bouquet as told by colors in the light
over the moment shared in its exchange,
while the flies on the wall have learned to engage
comfortably in the angle of their choice,
glad to trade the 2-D for a voice
while the beautiful forget to abandon cages,
their faces cemented now and across new ages
as if to capture quick, eternity,
offending the gift of mortality.
considering time
we walk in a hallway made of mirrors
and endless in all directions,
so when we love, or know, or fear,
no matter what, reflections.
“what are you?”
I’ve heard it many times before,
and a younger me danced through that door
unaware of what it meant for me
to decipher history so quickly,
each twig involved in those family trees
that have rooted many centuries
to be torn up to plant new seeds
before white stars and Old Glory Blue,
tall tobacco crops and rocking chairs too,
before the dark warmth of lively wombs;
except they wished to know my surface.
I was darker in parts with olive skin
which although has helped me to blend in
still gave me away yet I was proud
to stand out among the common crowd
who shared less scenery in their speech
and cherished straight lines, tidy and neat.
I am the mess of combinations
still coming together all the time
by intuitions and predilections
that can occasionally surprise.