The Thing No Longer Howls

In the winter
we eat sharp white cheddar
and drink the sweet cream sherry
we bought at a rural supermarket
in Oklahoma on a roadtrip.
It’s what we do to get us through
the spurning of the sun.
The thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
We sit by white walls
and fireplace fires,
old books
and feel the fibers of sweaters
against our swollen skin.
It’s what we do to forget lovers
who spurned us
and learn to know each other,
learn to grow old,
to somehow have courage as
we become cowards.
The memories of autumn,
the smell of fallen leaves,
the emptying of the streets,
these things seem sweet to us
now.

For
the thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.

What Westernized Adults Are Waiting For

Cars go by the windows
and Westernized adults
seem depressed
indoors.
They wonder,
is this,
all this,
really a scam,
some sort of sham show
they judge themselves
and others
by.

So the fan turns
on
the ceiling,
the air conditioner hums,
and
they get up to check their email,
then
go back to work tomorrow.

For it is in some other world
where they do not
go
back to work,
but meet other adults
from their
community
to discuss and address
the real problems
actually relevant
in their lives.

For in this other world
they
are not
propaganda bejeweled
dominators and subservients,
obsessed with myth and power,
but rather
objective listeners
and
compassionate actionnaires,
vested in both observant locality
and also relational reality.

And these Westernized adults
realize this other world is

waiting to be built.

Quasar Molten, Passing Into Love

  
I wanted to protect
your veins as you lived

They became muddled
and pooled in blood
before me

After the days, the years
I felt them in science

the velocity of gravity
met me in sunshine

it bathed me grandiosely
turned from outer space

and I knew your heart
bleeding there in your
wrists

Summer Little Beauty

She had a monochromatic mole on
her face

Just above her brow

It played with a poetry of brown hair
and
blue eyes

like the breath of the beach and the
blue sky above it

Every single moment that I walked
away from a window
where she stood
was like a new eon being created in
the cosmos

A crystal star, a crest of drawing ocean

One unique feeling
amongst all the lives that have lived
under
the sun

Divorce Or “The Non-Perfected”

We are divorced.
Divorced.
Now.
The children don’t walk into
the kitchen to see us.
The children don’t exist in
the garden
or the backseat of
the SUV
moving through moonlight
into the
mountains.

Your hair falls for some other
kind of
silence on the bathroom
floor.

The grime on the light switch
stays.

Another family moves in.

The heroic
Industrial Revolution is
winning.

It defeats the unpresentable.

The solo. The non-perfected.

divorce

The Graduation Party

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There are graduation parties around
town tonight
I won’t be there
under the Spring bloomed oak trees
souring scents of keg beer
and hanging bulbs of pink lights

Those days are fifteen years beyond
me now
My head is but a hazy haze each
new morning
Not filled with subjects of moons
and phases or the kissing lips of
fresh skin by the windblown lake

What would I do at a graduation party
anyway
besides toss cupcakes upon the
hoods of classic cars
then come round with a mower
the next day
to cut a damp and fertile lawn
to start the crusty ruse of economics
that the empty call adulthood

Fort Worth ’05

The summer was soft to us

That first one there

Fifty-something days of a hundred degree
weather

Though we laid close at night
in the cold air cooled by a window unit
and swaddled
in
cotton blankets my mother had given us

Trees lived in that place and we still held
hands
when we went for walks in the evenings

There was something there that made us
hold hands when we went for walks in the
evenings
and the scent of sprinklers spraying water
over parched grass and warm concrete
rose to meet us
and would stay in just that one way
deep in the tissues of our brain

when we were able to love

in such conditions so far away from the
callous city in which we met

When we were able to love, God
God, when we were able to love

The Hill With The Seafood Restaurant

The hill where that rundown seafood
restaurant once was
is gone

Not just the restaurant, but the entire hill

They razed it so they could build an
express commuter bridge across the lake

We once started arguing in the car
while driving by that hill

Our argument continued for about 2 miles
into the east, encompassing our entire
trek over the bridge

After that
their was silence and I sat there
staring at the plastic panels in the car
and reflecting back at that abandoned
seafood restaurant
we had passed

We Remember Love

She died an alcoholic.
Her love was in my heart
one thousand five hundred sixty-four miles away.
This love had made me more mortal
than all the orgasms and funerals in my hours.
This love had been with me in glances down
on muddy floors, dust on countertops,
and when noticing the drops of rain
caught in half-destroyed window screens.
This love had grown from nothingness.
So something similar to the Universe
lived inside my body, something similar
to art, the revolutions amongst particles.
Outside of particles was everything else.
So this love was for her and everything else.
The electricity in her ion channels
no longer rendered from the ethanol.
But the electricity does not die.
There is transference.
Does it go into the air, sail across sweet
tissues or meld into the walls, radio signals or water
crystals suspended in the snow?
But there was something in my heart, each time
she died I lived, I lived oft and oft again apart
born into the stasis between the living and the
dead that many of us evolve to ignore
nor have it in the genetic capabilities we carry.
That old continuum, the holistic continuity.
Many of us grow old and age and many of us grow
old and never age because

we remember love, the broken and the bountiful,
the cyclical, ancient and ever-constant.

We journey to the sun.

The Air, The Air

I believed in you like the sun.

Magnanimous, significant,
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.

I should have believed in you like air.

Always there, regardless.

That is how I suffocate now,
always there.
That is where you go with me,
always there.

The air.

The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
the window.
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.

The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air.
The air and sun are there.