[H(a)i] Hop-(k)ins, hope yo(u) [(fare) (well)]

oafish eulogy

better get it in writing;

day-old muffin top

The Nation.

They come they go

as the tide, in and out.

Founded in desire to belong

a place to call out the word home.

But where?

Chasing the wind

to trod and scrape.

This soil will soon spit

out hard, unsupple nape.

Now here:

This is not yours to take.

It never belonged to a man.

Your heart is partial to sway

in such seasonal persuasions.

It is true,

Our descent brings no lasting rest.

No dot on a map

or plot of pasture.

The nomad can find peace,

the sojourner a safe haven

the visitor a warm embrace.

Remember to remember,

and find rest.

Ferry Man

 Ferryman

Brace your keening gaze between my lips.
See I've spit my silver, see I've spit my gold
and hang your shoulders lower, Nyx's foolish son
who chose a calling where no wage would pass your sight.

In your morning rise and take your ferry pole,
unlock the boathouse while your coffee cools;
your bark is smooth and baby blue; you wade
and guide her in that black and raging river.

No other sailor sends his boat so swift
as Charon poling on the river Styx;
he planes her prow across and guides her in
to where the hordes who died in sleep await.

Old ropes hold the ferry fast and on the dock
the register is set to whirring to recieve
the vaunted fee for souls, a single coin,
and ever Charon holds to foolish hope.

The elderly, the sick, the poison fed
all shuffle sheepish past his iron eyes,
they turn their pockets out and loose their pocket books,
but fail to find the price the ferryman requires.

Paper money, plastic cards, reciepts;
a man in silk pyjamas tries to pay by writ
and Charon shakes his head and motions him away
he sighs and asks "does no one pay with coins these days?"

The line advances through the hours apace;
the ferry sitting empty, waiting for a fare;
the ferryman is lowering his cutting sight,
but I approach (post future death) and call.

Hey ferryman, why play this foolish game,
why come each day to entertain this hope in vain,
why waste the time you could be spending on the water?
You know that all men pass a pauper to the grave.

ferry lady.

so ill prepared
for this life
trying to find all the boundaries

this winding road of blue over blue
brings closer a sinking feeling
maybe it is best to never be one, but two

a creeping codependency starts to setup
she said to me, "my insecurity is crippling"

this looming fear; more so,
the status quo,
it would seem we are all same at times, desperately lame
life <-----> flickers on an infinite screen

you did not pick me to be yours, everyday there is a choice
so sing along all old friends and new,
to the tunes you once knew
because they will still be there when you have no voice

even when all has faded from a memory
of the most obscure pages in history
this rumbling will remain.

i heard your record, it was alright
i saw your award, it was alright
i tasted your victory, it was alright
i held your treasure, it was alright
i smelled your wealth, it was alright

i sensed something amiss
though
all will fade into the sun
these decisions of any battle won

each whole is missing a puzzle piece that has yet to be found
it must be quite simple, maybe just shifting priorities around

as every other castle is a magnificent structure of sand
waiting to be slowly blown across this land

oh my love
hold fast to this embrace
as we can rest only in this perfect rhythmic pace.

Particular Evidence

We find cool places down
in crust crack narrow canyons.
River valley poplars weave and ebb

and this hidden river holds my interest.
It runs through shaded twists
and smells of must and mingled
blood on the tip of my tongue.

Light falling through these canyon walls,
profuses and obscures direction
so that that I could not claim
the water moves in both or neither ways.
And steady eyes are hard to hold on
any particular evidence.

It's waters feed two distant seas
both rich and warm of the great Northwest
and the wild, open tumult of the East
and I between
and ill at ease:

hear both raging, as oceans do,
hear salmon rush from continental shelves
then pulse beneath a single stream
thick, oily bodies colliding
and crossing paths in this deep bed.

Potent tension posesses.
I shut my eyes and bend to
touch dry skin to rushing water,
then ease my body in,
feel currents taking hold
and pull me racing down-
-river.

Rite

A new teenage mustache, almost apologetic,
two smudges of blond and a bald spot under his nose.

He rummages for a razor. Shaving cream congeals around the drain.
A stroke. A cool, clean lip. Ink-through-a-tissue blood, clotting.

A quick glance into the soap-scummed mirror, he smiles,
embarrassed and terrified.

He smashes a tissue to the space between his lip and his nose,
dots of blood filling in the ungainly space between boyhood and not.

His hands, trembling, are too big now, his head, feet, voice. Baby-faced
and crooning like a foghorn, deep but treble-cleffed.

He races on, suddenly impatient, whisks the shaving cream from his face
like milk and plays with the little kids;
shrinks away, too, though,
staring

three feet in front of him, where all
present uncomfort seems to cast out past pain. He touches
the spiky hairs,

checking a bruise. It hurts. To be a man,
he thinks, he'll use his big brother's Schick. He needs him to notice

his roughening, these strands itching downward
constantly, like fingernails.

Road Songs and American Sonnets--the South

Green country

waving hills of green gnarled oaks
rolling under waves of grey clouds
into the dusky horizon
turning blue
pressed close by these thundering skies
those tornadoes
the warm hood
and leafy embrace
of grandmothers and oaks.

Oklahoma

Little lips of Indian paintbrush

     Kissed in the wind,
bright red eyes
     washed in waves of green.

Bare flanks of gulleys
     hillsides rash and red
under peeling green.

Blood red, water
     collects in the cattle pond,
ominous eye in the field’s green face.

the churned up underbelly of earth,
     the deep rust of the plowed field in little clots
sitting upright in the sun
surrounded, encircled by the welcoming, waving green.

Arbuckle

(Can you imagine this land before it was etherized,
Dissected?)

The neon Exxon sign floats above the deserted station
swallowed in these rocky hills
ancient spines of continents,
islands rising above Jurassic seas, now
      bones breathing in the wind
expelling the marrow of centuries
to settle into dust
          and grass
          and trees.

(What life can we etch out on these eternal shores?)

Texas/Rooms

abandoned gravel drives,

trucks parked to rust under oaks
     beside the tire swing.
trailer covered by vines
     a swing porch
     a breeze in the pines.
the cottage the yard the fence,
     swallowed in the dry heaving of time.

the car dealership holds up empty concrete hands to the sky
     under the auspice of haggard palms.
dusty red brick main street
bright with American flags
to hide its decrepitude.

dashing trucks flash, freshly
washed down the highway past
     the Baptist church, abandoned barn, white stone graves
sinking into the rooted red dust.

houses fall into disrepair,
     lives, sandals, shorts all wear out,
pour into rust
in rooms beneath the trees.
and clean new rooms rise

forever under oaken arms.

Shoreline

All along these extravagant American shores
washed by the wind and tides and depths of ages
danced upon by the moonlight, the starlight, the stars,

towers sulk soulless
dull halos against the night
     repelling the furrows of black
     to hide along the horizon.
cars plunge headlong into the night in frantic drunken exclamations past neon bars lighting the hallowed rooms of our lives.

They say the sea speaks in waves
     but no one was listening;
the stars scream eyes
     but we are all blind.

The darkness deepens
as endless waves and words
lap silently
against these luxurious shores.

SC

I bought it all with my eyes
everything the billboards were selling.
and when my throat screamed, scathed with lust,
It was only the dying, headlong necessity
buried deep in the belly
finally pouring out over this wide, wanton land.

Diving Bell

Sun carves passages to us
down below the flies
They've been falling for eight months
out of the rising sun
and just now arriving on the breeze
Thundering in squadrons
eager to tear flesh and shed blood

Then down beneath the wind
we swim in illuminated dust
learn to breathe it like gills
unsure if we would survive
were we ever to surface

The heat, we think, comes less
from the hunting rays of an indolent sun
It radiates from our persons
ensconced, as we are, like cosmonauts
treading the surface of a swiftly shifting world

Our pillars and edifice
rise around like a coral bed
for us to move through, silent, in shoals
pathing dusty swaths and eddies

But we do emerge at length
and we bleed out of the yards
leave the dust and heat
for sleep and sweaty dreams
of summer and salt water
of swimming, always swimming
down upon some ocean floor
flooding our new lungs with cool water

Tectonic Irony

We say the word foundation as if it means forever -
As if that fragile, concrete shell we lay down and lay money on
Can make us forget that below foundation lies fundament -
The hot, tectonic heart of things, agitated, yet biding its time.

We forget that we are standing on this shifting
Jigsaw puzzle we call Earth, so we build credit card towers,
Vying wildly for height and ostentation,
Carving our names and souls upon our dollar bill thin
Layers of comfort and security.

But unplanned gates appear in all of our fences,
And though we try to lay out our paths with straight rules and razors,
Still runways crack, sidewalks buckle, and weeds push stone aside;
it is a seismic activity that goes on regardless of whether
we've saved or invested, or spent enough time with the ones we love.
And any vestige of faith still left in us compels us
To cry out in our ruins and beg for the answer to
The only question we can still think of to ask.

But yet we go on, idly trying to understand science,
Convincing ourselves that we must adapt to survive,
Forgetting that we even questioned; for what is there to question
But the sharp, inevitable desire of continent for continent?

But as our swollen eyes survey the damage and the ashes,
Even the weeds see past our empty rhetoric
And push through the floor boards as if to tell us,
Look at how fearfully and wonderfully you are made!
For if you were made for the entropy of this world alone,
Then Earth's shaking foundations would not shake yours.

Untitled

Your lips pull and tear
like slow waves
breaking on my beach

The rocks of my body bones
worn deep with furrowed scores
pitted from a thousand rains
eternal body to my body
water to my stone

I want a thousand years
so you can shape me in your image
beat a tattoo of decades on my skin
turn my stone body into sand
to run into an ocean
stirring and renewing
you'll be body to my body
constant water to my stone

then sing hymns when I am lost at sea
pray deep prayers when you hear telling
of my ship in wicked weather
for we have become humans

No longer elements we feel
earth beneath our feet
we feel clouds begin to break
and go on like this
till we rest together buried
shallow in the soft dirt

Soon a thousand years go by
and seasonal rains arrive
they trench deep rivulets
within our hidden bed

And now a river courses through our bones
milling our bodies to deep dust within the earth
turning old flesh to new stones
and old bodies to new bodies
of water to melt into the heavens
pregnant with thunder they groan

rain down
rain down
rain your body on my body and your water on my stone

Kelowna Wind

down off those cold bald peaks--
down in the valley,
where the trees scratch their backs against the legs of the hills,
and the rocky shore aches against the lapping waves--

you reached across the lake
with your feathery fingers
and ran right through me.

and in the explosion that follows
I became the million singing birds, winging
their way to freedom, to some greater heights
than I have ever been allowed to know.

but then you wrapped your arms around me
curled your hands around my shoulders,
lifted and shook me

and I became a tree, and I took root
among the spreading wiled willows
along the shore.
straight and tall
hands uplifted in exaltation
branches swaying in expectation.

you caught my face like a flag
and I lifted it up,
unfurled.
Unfurled to what?

there must be hands in these hills!
there must be a song that sings these birds!
there must be a seed that spoke these trees!
just like there must be breath in this wind!
there must be a banner on this flag!

Whose banner is my soul, my hands, my breath, my face?
Could I be the temple of some unsung, amazing grace?

Welcome to the Cave!

Welcome, friends and followers of the divine madness.  Cave-dwellers, poets, quasimodos, Emily D's.  This is the belltower, the drawer tucked away where you can stash your poems. Except that we all get to see and share in what you've written. This is the wall of the cave where we get to scrawl our verses like figures in red ochre.

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