301.50

Poetry is like histrionics-

every detail magnified,

distorted by the thick lens of metaphor,

the slides of emotion

looked at under a scope,

until we are

more to each other than strangers,

and I am as deep

as the space you make for my words.

 

Poetry is a beautiful hysteria,

that I no longer crave as often

as the bitterness of vinegar 

on my tongue,

the hard edge of my tub,

the things that say to me

real, real, real.

 

I will ground myself in

the ever moving soles of my feet,

I will reach up to you, knowing,

tomorrow I may be reaching down.

I will glide over my emotions

like a bird on an unexpected updraft,

or falling,

wings pulling like the oars of a boat,

beak pointed skyward.

 

Short Story

The whole story
only fits
in the smallest space

because I never
know what to say 
when faced with you,

because you tear
pages from my diary
and read them to strangers,

because you and I
only fit
in the smallest space.

 

Up, Up

He was a small man,
small enough to be folded up
and placed in my pocket.
 
Not something to be done
without the necessary mental note
to first remove him before laundering.
 
But if I forgot, and found myself
at some bus stop, reaching
into my pocket for change,
my right hand would brush
 
against his hair,
and I would unfold him,
like a telescoping rocketship,
 
surprised and alarmed,
until delight would overtake me
lifting me upward
like a balloon into the sky

 

Stream of Consciousness 

It's fall

and my hands are trembling

like two turned leaves

alive in the wind

I want to give myself to the wind

to feel it tear the sound

from my chest

to beat me to the ground

to be the wind

but my ego is like

the stem connecting

the leaf to the tree

holding me back

and this duality

frightens you

you want me on the tree

I want me on the tree

I want me in the wind

but it frightens me

and the tension pulls

words out of my hands

they spill on to the floor

and I kick them into piles

of red and orange

such joy that I sing

tears clouding each word

with darkness

rich and clear

from my internal wind

from my internal tree

 

"Nam tua res agitur, paries cum proximus ardet.”-Horace

(The latin translates out to "Your house is in danger when your neighbor's wall is ablaze.")

It has been six months

since I have been living with a witch.

 

That sort of thing is supposed

to be difficult for Baptists,

who are not to suffer a witch to live.

But neither of us are suffering.

 

Right now we are lighting

the candles on a Menorah,

and as I light them

I see in the glow;

 

The disciples of Christ

crucified and flayed,

the Chosen Hebrew People

in box cars and showers,

the Khalsa Sikhs training warriors

just to survive.

 

I say a prayer of thanksgiving to God

for the oil that burned for those eight days,

and as I set the candelabra in the window,

 

I feel a spiritual kinship to all those

who continue to hold up

the branching light of their belief

without lighting their neighbor's house ablaze.

 

 

Measurement

 

When I was young

a heart wasY shaped,

the soul a safety pin,

its sharpness safely encased.

 

Two cells from two different hearts

will synchronize

when placed in the same petri dish,

the same way my thoughts

synch to yours,

the strings of words,

the clumsiness of grammar,

crumble into

the sinus rhythm

a flow of numbers,

that  twisting pain in the chest,

when the soul tries to expand.

 

But when I was young

we measured height

up from the ground,

 

though it is not as accurate,

I believe,

to stand,

spine straight,

chin up,

and draw a pencil across

the top of your head;

as it is to spread your arms

and measure

fingertip to fingertip.

 

I am your measure that way.

 

The Trouble with Three

The word love,

spoken at the wrong time,

is like old candy,

melted and stuck to its wrapper,

cloying and papery,

chewy where it should be crisp.

 

At least that's how much

of my experience with the word

love has been-

like forgetting a crayon

left on a vinyl seat of a car,

it's inevitable.

Both the crayon and the seat

leave their mark on each other.

 

But to omit the word love

would be like boarding up

the windows of a house

because the world is too polluted,

too violent,

and the weather is always partially cloudy.

 

I don't love any less

because those fluffy clouds

are really chunks of ice;

neither is it fair to expect

to make sherbet out of them.

 

But I always keep a spoon in my pocket;

even though I can already taste

my own disappointment

sticking in my throat,

waxy and sweet.