four lungs

inhale
you can breathe me

it's ok
to be this momentary lapse

no need to ask
forgiveness for the need
to collapse again

even you can't hold that breath
forever

stale would be the least of sins
and
not to worry
there will be another
arriving shortly



wb

reflecting

two broken mirrors
crying face to face
into the cracked lips
of deflections of self
reflected again and again

broken infinities blinking back
asking where the story ends
and why it had to heed the call
of the starting gun at all

kiss these jagged cheeks
make me believe
that seven years
is too long to repent



wb

atlantis

for now,
there is nothing to say
the weather is the weather

all sound is muffled anyway

human speech, audible
and unintelligible under water

submerged is everything
that was once known as land

the ocean decided
to climb everest

time to sink
or swim
as far as wings can
carry out the masquerade



wb

i choose the apple

been making white bread
out of your wheaty
golden stalk

been stalking the diseased
portion of the lobe
responsible for speech

been speaking to you
without letting the sound
express what i mean

been meaning to write
but these hands have chosen
crippled professions


i miss you
i miss you
i must profess
i miss you,

my Eden



wb

away, but never far

you can look at the moon as a circle
but there are no single sided lines
and that one has three

one towards you
one towards me
and the other,
away from everything

but it does not bisect

it is the shortest distance.
though, longer
than the meandering trail we're used to
wrapping ourselves into
when it's cold
and body heat is the best remedy

but baby
i will not be far
merely a finger away
when you trace our steps
across the kitchen floor
through the bedroom door
and behind the lids i kiss
before curling us into cutlery




wb

revolution for sale

a salesmen sleeps
with its ears open

"we need to get there"
it overhears

a commercial vehicle arrives
promptly waiting with its slick logo
and slogan:
"delivering revolutionaries since '61"

but
commerce is rarely the ride to the revolution

and participation
affords no ride at all

it must be marched to
then sat upon

because one can drive 26.2 miles
but it won't be a marathon



wb

comfort food

the oaks
they are home
i was once an acorn
under a grove

the moon
she is my mother
the enigma
watching over

the fall
i am his son
the harvest of dirt
and light and water




wb

simple minded

keep things in.
keep things out.

mutters the fence

keep things in.
keep things out.


why couldn't i have been a fence?




wb

agnostic zeal

i wish for no conversation with
God
the capital G, the Decision,
the Creation, the Destruction,
the Obstruction between here
and the heavenly
the All-powerful Sieve
the Great Perfectionist

no,
i do not seek to speak
to intimidation

let me speak with angels
the neither omnipotent nor earthly
benevolent nor impotent
the unimportants, the in-betweens
heaven's migrant workers
breaking their wings
on the weight of our codependency
with saviors

let me speak with you
the not me
the view i cannot see
the internal outside this body
let us be one thing
that is neither whole
nor incomplete

let me speak within
without talking
nor note taking
swearing
deprecating
trying on invisible linen

let me wander the streets
in these unclothed conversations




wb

don't come back (but you will)

what goes is prodigal
like light from the heat
our home pivots from

here comes the revolution
of our daily do-over
that is not what it is
but is what it is not

and so, this status update
is on cardboard
between hands that could be mine
for the one who cant speak
to say aloud:
     please love me anyway





wb

unfinished business between the lines

everything green turns black
when a room fades

from illumination

to: i am not ready
for you to come calling
asking for your
pied piper's penance
in exchange for

you

will not catch me
with the three corners
you have in mind.
you will need

more than everything green

turns black
when a room fades,
and illumination becomes

the chandelier

has no business
on the street corner
at this hour
and neither do i
which is why i'm here
waiting
for everything green to turn…




wb

learning about love

we were talking about the skin

the professor
came to the topic of glands

“several different types of sweat glands…
apocrine sweat glands are located in the armpits, groin, …
secretions…
body odor…
active during emotional sweating and sexual activity…”

even in a room full of adults
adolescence is never far away

usually in the back seat
driving

the class protested with laughter
“B.O. doesn’t turn me on!”


i sat with a quiet smile


all i could think about
was the old t-shirt
you sent to me in the mail
when we lived 6 states apart




wb

just black and white noise

and here it is
on the front door step
on the other side of the screen

yesterday has arrived
with the newspaper
     in black and white noise

the discomfort of contentment
           did give birth to this

and my contractions,
they bore their purpose
even in the absence of the inebriation
of an Icarus myth in action

and here i was
believing
it would never come
…never become a yesterday

that i would remain
in a collapsed lung of a day
when a sky fell to an earth;
an aerial membrane meeting an earthen membrane
their deflated tissues giving way
resting on each other
like someone else’s love
on top of someone else’s lover

and the two touched
who were never supposed to meet
much less
touch
...like that

punctured and drained
of their obligatory atmospheric pressure
they came
...together


and i couldn't breathe


and i believed...
i couldn’t bear it

but today
that is news.

a story
 already told.

and sitting on the front porch
with the newspaper
it is written
and old
and just
...black and white noise




wb

whywhywhy is a-political

even i
wonder why
i even
wonder why
i
wonder why

when no one else seems to be concerned
with anything that isn’t why
their why is why

when does it begin
to be the start
of something else

something other
than an end
to a means
to a mode
of transportation
to arrive
at the mean
the median
or the mode

who will you be
what will you do
when who isn't you
anymore




wb

dear swan,

a never
an always

      a forever

we know
these are reckless promises

bricks stacked
without mortar


this is no static world
we wander on

we would be fools
to house our insecurities
in these precarious castles


only the fickle finger
can build such monuments.







wb

directions

a passive transport
portends progress

a new location
for old dilemmas

to move the plaque
i must remove myself

a passenger
in the wheel wells
of the axis
is still
still




wb

petals in the bayou

flowers float
while their color lasts

i'm sure there is
     a scientific rationale

(maybe something about oxygen
     and chloroplasts)

but i'm looking at
     the cosmic one

a bigger picture
of this little ripple





wb

on the wall

a poet tree

when i break

i dig

six deep
six wide

i throw myself in

wrap myself
in the skin
of dirt
i've unearthed


i wait


and breathe


this poet tree is what grows
of me


welcome
to me

broken
and
born





wb

for a yellow dress in san francisco

indian summer looms
in the distance
like that fog
that hangs
huddled around the feet
of the golden gate
until the fall finally exhales
her held hot breath
and the gray's holiday
on the coast
evaporates

the real summer
of this city
is always late
because, in san francisco
even the seasons
embrace rebellion

so reassure that yellow dress
growing restless
at the back of the closet
that she must only hang in there
a little longer
because her golden bloom
is coming




wb

she is an island

the sound
of a saturday rain
on six moody strings

the song
is for the one
who can't hear
but isn't far

the sound
is the same
as the reach
in my sleep

the same reach
as before
she was there

but now
my swimming hands
find the island
they were looking for

except for nights
like tonight
when she is still
a day's swim away





wb

depression inversion

con
vexing
the con
cave
that dwelling
that invites me
too well
to sit
in the dark

i am going
to con
your con
to vex
your cave
to take
your upside
downtown
taking
my side
making
your valley
a mountain
to conquer
again




wb

always looking up

hot sunday
on a monday

but baby blue
they're coming for you

the thunderheads
are on their way
to whisk you off

that is how it is here
this time of year
1 part sun
1 part storm

you are not one
to be ignored





wb

homesick

since my arrival
i have found myself
unwilling to let go
of my San Francisco
who built a womb
around the fetal position
she found my body giving in to

so i've kept a secret quiver
loaded
with greater than
and less than
symbols
my chalk outlines
of dead arrowheads

i find myself pausing
at street corners
and cafe counters,
bridge crossings
and grocery store registers,
to place these side lying v's
like flowers of mourning
with their wide side facing west

and i know it's time
to take a trowel to each one
fill it in
with wet cement
and drag my finger through it
to engrave my lovers initials
next to mine

i know this isn’t when
i should be choosing to crouch
beneath the shelter of these acute angles
keeping myself from the other side
where these angles are sprouting
feathered tails
becoming fresh arrows
telling me where to be
and showing me where the next place
will have to live up to

so New Orleans,
you need to know
it isn’t you,
it’s me






wb

so i run

in a sky and a place
who's first name basis
is far from autonomic
i brave the wave of necessity
that pushes me out the door
i need to sweat
i need to breathe
like only this can allow
so i run

i do not yet understand the words
of these giant grey dinosaurs
who rumble and crackle
their way across this afternoon

i do not yet understand
whether they are telling me
the sky will erupt with cats and dogs
as if something had disemboweled a lake
in the heavens, or
that it will rip in half
over and over
along seams of white heat
in fleeting flashes of anger

or both.
or neither…

and i see this giant grey herd
of brontosaur lining up
in the distance
and though i don't know
if their presence is ominous or majestic
i need this cleansing
so i run

with an eye on the sky
reaching for comprehension
of the language
falling on my foreigner ears

as i run
my anxiety begets gratitude
i am grateful
for the presence of mind
pulled out of me
for 34 minutes
until i click the stop on my watch
and unlock my front door,
breath heavy, sweat permeating, body unscathed

i may not yet understand
the speech of these ancient beasts
but i believe i may have just learned how to say
to this sky and this place
"hello, my name is..."






wb

a larger triangle

two days and 2200 miles later.
already out of range.
though, the telephone works better here,
the communication is lost.

i feel like my words are flapping uselessly in the breeze
clothes pinned to the wireless technology hung between us
strung out bits, mouthing out the hugs i want to reach you
but won't reach you like they used to
and so i feel less than powerless
and lost along the lines drawn
between states of country
and of mind
i am here and not there
and this damn phone
has chaperoned my emotions
into emoticons
and i know that you know
that i love you
but i want you to be able to taste it
the way that it was
inside the triangle
of easy chair, couch
and easy chair
with nothing filling the air
but our poems
and now those corners are so much farther apart,
but i need you each to hear that it is like that
that i love you
and the damn phone can't say it
so thank god for the poem



wb

as i fall asleep... (w/ audio)

it is still quite a few nights and daylights
and some hours and some minutes yet
that i will count down
as a lone, prone body beside this window sill

and yet you are right here already
with the pillow holding your head
next to mine
and already i am savoring the smells
i will retrace with my fingers
in the creases we will make
for me to hold under my tongue
when the distance collapses below us
and i can scoop you into me again
and my bare knees can touch the back of your bare knees
and i can lay awake in your sleep again

and when you leave again
i will leave
my heartbeat in your pocket
for you to find
when you reach for my hand
in your sleep




wb