Regeneration

Which is

understandable.

I mean,

she’s a king.

You’ve

unclenched

your

mandible,

which is understandable,

hardly

reprimandable. It used

to

be

a thing,

dead to understandable,

that she was

a king.

 

No . . . So

No

these

aren’t

whole

sculptures,

just

one

mark

against

the stone wall

I tried

to

climb

all

of once

in the ingenuity

of my stupidity.

There

is

no

genius

like

raw

umph,

until there is.

So,

what do you want

for

breakfast?

I’m too fast

to know

anything

for

sure.

Coffee . . .

maybe a blueberry

something-or-

other.

To Answer Your Question

To answer your question

with an answer

would

be

tyranny

to

my

autonomy,

as

it

breathes,

finally. Follow the only

star to Bethlehem, maybe

is the rorschach

  litmus

money-back-guarantee.

Either way, you choose

your own monstrosity

I know sounds

dead.

Paging

the numbers

is practically your

only

equanimity.

Should you stay lonely,

or

go

alone? I don’t know

the name of your

blue

planet,

   but I’ll

   recognize

   the animals

when they arrive

in the ark

of your

   transformation.

Tell the Soldier

Tell the soldier

to leave

my

smirk—and take

 my

 life,

in whatever language

she

speaks,

unless she is

beautiful, of course,

      in

      her

      pain.

The interpreter eyes

the homemade

bread

on the table

and considers

   asking

   the man

   for a slice,

before ordering him

a new life. The Soldier’s

pain

notwithstanding,

 we

 are

 finished.

Perfectly

Perfectly

  unsteady

our windy,

taller-than-suspense

   existence

hushes

      toward Hades,

     fades.

Buy a house overlooking

the Palisades, and I

will sell you

name,

or declaim: our windy

     existence

         fades.

You Should Sing

You should sing

your suffering

joy

to the memory

of the real

     being

here.

I was hurt

in a dark bed

    under

    belief

in the profound

lost

way.

So what, the animals

       say.

And I growl in

absolute

agreement

   and recommence

stalking

the day.

Sometimes we listen

to the pilgrim

God

longing for another

   way.

Scratching the Stone

The carolers have moved

on

down

the block

to where I can

     still

     hear

them, because I remember

when they were close

and I listened

until

I found

each distinct

voice, playing

its

own

heart

 strings

 of experience.

Like the sea lion

near Coronado Island

in Southern California

who

tangled

for weeks

with fishing wire

around its smooth

throat,

until

half-dead

from suffocation, the

SeaWorld rescue team

discovered

her.

Rehabilitations

later, she is scarred

and free in the wild

again,

with a deep deep

resonant

   voice.

Crazier Than Peace

I’m interested

in dirt,

more

so

   than satisfaction.

You already gone,

I forget to

hurt.

More

so than satisfaction,

she is what I need.

I forget to

hurt

   in the crazier

   than

peace. She is

what

I need almost,

and then she’s gone.

In the crazier

than

      peace

I hear an only

song

almost, and then

     it’s gone

like you, already.

I hear our

last

song

buried

in the rising.

In Your Stillness

In your stillness,

I begin

to wonder

if my boldness

      knows

the ritual to close

and open

in

   your stillness.

I begin to carve

an epitaph

within,

for certainty,

   in rhyming

   prose.

In your stillness

  I begin

to wonder how

my boldness

knows.

This Is Reason #50

The moon is moving

way faster across

the sky

than

 it’s supposed to,

 according to

 my

eye.

If I don’t say

anything to

anyone

about

    it,

will the why

deepen or

disappear?

You could imply

I’m sipping

raspberry

tea

against my cosmic

sympathy, or you

could listen

to several

suggestions

      apropos

of uncertainty.

This is Reason #50

why they won’t license me

to rhyme in

sign

   language,

which forces

excesses

of

  kindness

  from

  my

stone heart.