--WHEREVER I HAVE GONE, THE BLUES ARE ALL THE SAME        

 

 I’m So Glad You Woke Up

The moon is quiet tonight,

knitting secrets against her breasts again
like a fastidious jeweler
as clouds shudder and shift
while the universe gazes back awestruck.
Yet, can I admit it,
to you or myself,
how there is a pin or pole inside of me--
a stake, a shiv
a shaft, a pipe
an icepick,
someone’s rusted jackknife or crowbar--
stuck all the way through
my hide and the shallow
measly meat of me,
chest to back,
pinning me to a wall
like a bloody poster left only to drip
and drip
and drip?
And I can’t move
or breathe at all.
There’s nothing to do
but watch your chest rise and fall,
study your back freckles as you doze,
memorize their pattern
and constellations,
close my eyes and pray
that this is really real
and not some dream I’m dreaming,
on my knees and praying
that you’ll be here in the morning,
head cocked on a pillow
with all sorts of flouncy hair,
saying, “Good morning, Handsome.
I’m so glad you woke up
and that I can see your face again.”

 

Small Gods

I am taking the small gods with me,

a trail of butterflies floating above my head,
each meticulously painted, as unique as snowflakes.
Even when I swim the lake, they shadow me.
Even underwater, these insects dive down, too.
On the shore, their beating wings dry me off.
I’ve never had such friends, so generous and attentive.
They lead me to a copse and then a clearing
smelling of moss and honeysuckle
where deer nuzzle the snouts of other deer,
hummingbirds spinning in place
like tiny prisms or tufts of breath,
sunshine breaching through each seam
of the swaying branches overhead
as if its announcing the first birth of human life.

I am taking the small gods with me everywhere,

day and night, today and tomorrow,
slowing down, taking the time,
finally learning to see beauty,
even when there might be none.

 

The Currency of Despair

Around me now

everyone is dealing in the currency of despair,
their hope shredded napkins,
confidence wrapped with barbed wire,
pixie dust locked up in an unreachable urn.
I want to tell them they
must have something to sing about,
someone to sing to,
songs that make the heart jump and hurdle.
The way to defeat despair is to never cash it in.
Pick a bouquet of blue bells instead.
Make crazy monkey love till dawn.
Dance naked in the rain
with hands held high
and mouth open wide.
Catch every drop of chilled moisture
and swallow as much as you can.

 

How To Feel Less Miserable

I am out of orbit again.

Gravity has lost its sense of reason
The sky keeps changing clothes and colors--
red dress, yellow dress, brown dress.
If there are pills to combat a feeling like this,
I want some.

Yesterday a woman claimed to be psychic.

She predicted a three year old girl
would be murdered today, but could provide neither
the name of the girl or her killer.
I’m not making this up.

People without a fear of heights

think you’re a pussy when you stand
far from the window, nervous and sweating.
It’s easy to belittle what you
don’t understand, and fearful people
have little to defend their own phobias.

Maybe it all boils down

to the fact that I’ve got
too much time on my hands,
thinking about things
that would better be left alone.

Like the fact that all the bees are dying,

elephants are being born without tusks,
and somewhere right this moment
a child is being hurt when it did nothing wrong,
but be born by wicked parents.

In two more days the sun will revert,

shine on my uplifted face while
the ocean mists my skin.
I’ll be a tourist, distracted by scenery,
with no time to ponder anything but
my own greedy pleasure.