Old House Made Of River Stone

Because I was afraid to sleep alone
I turned to her.
I turned to her boobs.
I turned to her food.
I turned to singing folk songs too.
In that old house
made of river stone
in that old neighborhood in
Fort Worth.
I turned to my cats too
when they’d go clickety clack on
the hardwood floors in the night
my heart would call out
and I could tell the click and the clack
of my polydactyl girl cat from
the pit and the patter of my little blue
boy cat
in that old house
made of river stone.
I could call out in the southern
and they would answer me
and come lay by my side through
the night
until the morning sun turned the air
into that phosphorescent tone
of orange and white.


Fort Worth ’05

The summer was soft to us

That first one there

Fifty-something days of a hundred degree

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

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

There was something there that made us
hold hands when we went for walks in the
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

Those Quasars Unitarian

With you, for you, I shaped a
thousand planets.
Trailed freckles and oceans.
Believed in your breath and doubted
your words in the shadows of
timber rafters in houses,
because you are imperfect,
mostly in the corridors of humans.
When driving in a car on a country
Fort Worth and Granbury
the Universe was born.
There, on Spring, ten years ago
you noticed we’ve seen
these worlds a million times over.
So then we become afraid to love.
Turned into man and woman.
Red rock and grasses.
Surrounded by oak trees.
Our emotions are mathematic.
Something that is for and from before.
We’ll kiss in dreams at night.
We will be unformed.

Robots Driving By The Oligarchy

I can’t sleep when you’re on vacation.

My hands are small, smaller than they’ve
ever been.

The kittens were born ten years ago behind
a modest wooden house in Fort Worth.

The cats will die someday. I’ll cry like a
baby then.

I personally think the bacteria in your stomach
and anus are what’s ruined you, you know

soured you as a person,

in the midst of this lactic war.

Biologists think the big red spot on Jupiter
is fueled by lactic acid,

the lactic acid, that is, in its upper atmosphere.

I thought for a moment;
kind of like your robot stomach.

You do
love a lot like robots driving by the White House,

reporting on domestic spying initiatives
tossing Molotov cocktails.

Your sheets are folded perfectly.
Your bed is made quiet nicely.

These are not codes, Shipley Shipwin. They are
not codes.

Alone In The Distance

old country road

I’ve made pilgrimages
back over the roads
we first drove
when we moved to Texas

country roads
Fort Worth and Decatur

footnotes of the West

blackbirds up high on wires

brush fields
and hills

yellow horizons and dust again

but driving back across
these roads
cannot erase our moments together

so I look these landscapes
in the eye
and feel them in my heart

little farmhouse
alone in the distance

And Last Week’s Reese’s Pieces

Last week’s Reese’s Pieces
are still in the trash.
You haven’t called
and the Spring birds are arriving.

The sunshine makes the front room
a place to be ancient,
so I think of my deep fibrous feelings
for you.

I’m white-lighted with a vaporous breathing
my house of beautiful silence.

I’m proud to say
I feel very human about all this

and not like a god or deity,

a tired legend.