This Amazing Life

We were all babies,
some cute some not.
Now, we are adults having babies
that are cute no matter what.
Soon, we will be old, stinky,
and then dead to rot
as earthworms eat our eyeballs.

The Knitted

Her thoughts become the knitted;
complacent loops of sniffles or sighs,
flocks of cares passing by,
a room to fill with noil.

Hastily, she seperates
the scarves from hats,
another way to combat
her nerves for the things
not made for looping.

She knows the right side from wrong,
how to inc or dec,
to bind off and repeat
the purl of life,
a great yarn over.

She slips into out-of-consciousness,
A blanket,
A memory.

Howl

I dream a big wolf stretching
its strong body
pushing out my stomach,
through the between of my legs,
and I see the number 11
flash across my vision as
I awake to vomit,
or the pressure of you pushing
on my small but willing frame.
I feel my structure shift,
rubber band muscles,
a boulder on my sacrum.
My hips afire,
a shaking from my soul to
warn me of your arrival,
I wait.
This is me listening,
quietly taking part in our first show, our first and most important life work together.
Your the main stage,
the director,
the main character,
the spotlight dim and shining.
I wait
for your cue,
to hear you
come howling into this world.
And, I howl for your howling.

Made from Dirt

This morning smells of worms,
a wet world ne’er sleeping.
Our man-poured pavement seeping
with reflected clouds, and
entrails of what once longed
for the cool stroke of that
slender green and growing,
of the ancestral breath from
roots not showing,
a life burrowing from
songbirds
or those finned for swimming.

We live for the caress of rain,
the heartbeat of the sky,
the sacred dance of earth alive,
for the simple glory
of how we are made from dirt.

Made of Life

A calico purrs,
an auburn cockroach sits satsang
as bats flitter remnant wing dust from a moth I thought was my grandmother.

An eight legged nun preys
by the evening chimes.
My lady birds lay roost on
a fruitless pawpaw
while asparagus and dill
decide if tomorrow be
worthy of sprouting.

A warm man-body
made of life, sleeps.
Breathing in, then out,
beyond a dreaming doubt,
he will rise like the sun.

Made of Sand

I used to be good at this-
lying prepared before nights
of gifts and written words,
all ideas for just your smile.

Awake before you,
asleep always after,
my rest in sifting
your hair, my thoughts,
for moments I’d remember.

The kitchen, the couch,
our bed, the smell of
summer nights and
the sound of you home,
the quarters of laundered trust.

Picture you and I,
a rope burning flesh,
a glass of time shattered.
Picture painted fingers dry,
a life creating hurt:
an ocean made of sand.

Made of Fire

the burning house blue
from fire not yet set,
and a man made of lonely,
cold snow adrift akimbo legs
shot down by this
hard rain life.

my vinegar mind
traced flames abandon,
no mouse remembers
the him who set no trap,
the dog running at full moon
never looking back.

no cries for the mystery of
a man robbed
even after death
as hushed embers burn to ash,
as souls recluse from
fears made of fire.