A long rant about nothing

What is it that confuses you?
Is it your expectations?
Is it that your expectations are met all too often, all the same,
All the words come out like you think they will
lineate

It’s a wrapper.
A transparent red wrapper with the foil insides
That so easily wrinkle
You wonder about the person that made
It, so cleanly printed
And before it had creases,
Would you ever get a wrapper without creases/
Will you ever work in a chocolate factory
Or will you never eat chocolate again?
Or eat too much?
And then after this would you go somewhere else
Or get stuck there wrapping chocolates for other people
Who can’t slow down enough to eat them
Like me,
Maybe i’d like to be on the other side
Giving people something to savor
And wishing them to slow down
And wishing them the best
And taking it slowly myself, all figured out and well travelled and happy
And living in the stars
Mmhm,. Living in the stars
And I’ll have my muscular arms and hairy legs if I were a man
With a beautiful wife
And I’ll have my spontaneous husband
Who cooks rice-cakes,
Or something soft and light and crispy wonderful
If I were a woman
And we’ll live
All of us with our wrists in the stars
And sit in the cold fresh earth
Because we’d had it all figured out
And we all needn’t worry about our sisters and brothers we can’t see
working long hours in the chocolate factory
because the wrappers ceased crinkling a long time ago

One Captain

Fishing vessels enter and leave the harbour almost like clockwork. Six out of the seven days of each week, they face their broad noses out to sea. Each time, the captain fearing, on approach of a dark horizon, maybe I won’t come back. And then the reassurance that being suspended in limbo might not be so different.
He doesn’t live much, except between abrupt edges of boxes and the cool breeze of a cigarette on a sunny day. He’ll never smoke inside, though, and never on deck.
He picks up his toothbrush in his tan fingers and tolls the thing around the crevices in his palm. He’ll then shove the minty thing around in his jaw until he feels clean enough. There are days when he is sure there cannot be any scum left in his mouth, other days, he is unsure why he bothers.
This captain doesn’t eat fish. He’s seen too many beady eyes unplunged from their life. It used to be that he could picture Jesus saying to him ‘Lower the nets, now, my dear Captain. Trust me, you will reap a great many fish.’ And he’d stand in awe at what colors magnified in the oily scales, half thankful for the income. But like shells and rocks from the ocean floor, they lose lustre when dried. He doesn’t correlate out of the sea with death, because if you go back tomorrow, more glittering rocks have rolled in.
At sea, the captain loses his worries. He is where he stands. The little rooms comfort him for a while, and then he can reach his fingers into infinity. The sky pulls him up and forwards and he understands. It’s the same color in a fish’s eye. He believes the fish is part of eternity. Mindnumb. Accepting. A god. A part of God. A drop in the bucket of God. And some days, he’ll imagine his eyes, too, are the colors of fish. The more he thinks, the better the salt spray feels on his skin, waking his senses, cementing his pores into a solid thing. That’s when he knows he’s in control of his body. Then he and his crew will stomp port and starboard turning on machines and moving and hauling and forgetting to hear the sounds their work makes.

Internal Flight

perhaps song inside me will be played out
it will come,
when it comes.
all
of me is right
here.
how can I help?
it is a forest
in focus,
how some standing branches
pass by the other
as you move by,
closer they go
and spread and change
only when you’re walking
past.
Perhaps my song sings out
when nobody is looking
now, until we remember it-
Oh, that was -you!-
and whatever encompasses my wrists
does not matter
because you can’t hear those
after you’ve walked past
and I’m sitting below some green canopy
of rustling mind.

golden vibe
puts money to rest
I am the sunflower,
and you the stem.
Then I am the soil
and you the thin roots
and then I am a glimmering talon
and you the feathers
all in blue-

here we are
walking past another sitting song,
voices
arch out and in and directionlessly smooth
dipping only with elasticity, saying
you are the sunflower
and I the stem,
you the soil,
and I the roots
thin and tendrilously smooth
you the talons and glimmering eye
and I the feathers
tearing at an unmeshable blue.
taddle, paddle
ear, here,

‘ere
wakes the toes of giant
buried ‘neath a sloping mountain
that must never be moved
you sing in warning
knowing all too well
it will
when it will
at exactly the right
corner of time.
Pluck, pluck
the petals of your mind
gilded only to your eyelashes’ content

Swim.
this is your song
as much as it is mine
and you know how it goes
as much as I know
how to follow
putting things
from the left
behind and
over to the right
and then nowhere at all,
our song is a cloud
on a mountain
and I let you wail
let you wail
let you wail
because it comforts us all
to know perfection is
imperfect.

and if we found it
it would be empty.
it would be a great chest
covered in the dryest blackest
dust
and when cleared would reveal a
long broken lock
that perhaps had never been
shut
perhaps had never
meant to be filled.

What have you found to love?
past fingernails?
past split ends?
I rely,
I decay,
I declare
contradictions
so

respect.
Life will find you
in your happiness-most
moments.
that’s all I can
declare.

first, human, then perfect.

From beneath a sultry cloud
pokes a brown pair of Birkenstocks
and just above that,
on the side closest to me
joined by eminent bones and skin
exists an ankle,
wholly visible from the pue.
Who would have thought
something so human
such as a well used ankle
lives below Father John’s
white robes?

rainy day

Water only sits in the white chairs
on the back porch
because the clouds kiss the armrests
with their wispy bodies all caked together
instead of a summer sunbeam
or a singular butterfly,
I wonder what it must have been like
to travel in giant flocks,
all those monarchs following magnetic pull
or some navigation
so few of us want anymore.

legs, lungs, and the ocean, again.

Legs are made of fire,
of a slightly differential black and
white tingle.
Ready pulse
while the I floats,
a broken packet of color-
for a moment spread in mid-air.

Then, there is the ocean.
Clear/black circle
from which everything with lungs
will crawl, perhaps.
Those in the ocean
don’t worry about the heat of limbs,
it flows in and out.
But it’s always in.
and it’s always out.

Lungs are large, almost top heavy
but like a perfect tide
air goes in, and out,
keeping arms from lightning
and legs from falling still.