in the parking lot

in my mind I'm reaching,
one last beer way back in my fridge,
and I'm not even home,
and then it occurs to me,

on this restless, twisting ball,

under exquisite light,

from fractured stars,

in airless black space,

hurled into oneself,
the-thrown-back-into-oneself,

this majestic but wounded mystery,

lost in the snowy mists are,

my vain efforts,

my empty hopes,

the physically impossible,

which limits my dreams,
rendering a desperate soul,

lonely, broken, helpless,

sleeplessly turning,

through the night's steady pain,

but in the still dark air,

there is growing,

there is life still,

can I get a drop of,

can I get a taste of,

can I get a swallow of,

freedom,

measured against,

the weight of destiny,

I kick the ice,
and watch it shatter,
I feel my thoughts,
recoil and scatter,
a singer on the radio says "courage didn't come,"

and that it doesn't matter.

the line and the circle

the mind is a straight line,
the heart is a circle,
to pursue the true,
we must go through,
the Samsāra up and down,
as we do.

olympian at the gym

you came alone,
a beautiful face,
your upper body toned,
strong with lean muscle,
like an Olympian,
your legs looked like they had been broken,
malformed or maybe paralyzed at one time,
you walked with two canes,
your self-respect commanded my respect,
I was impressed by you,
and I wanted to kiss your lips,
I thought about what making love to you might be like,

you moved with efficiency and purpose,
by the tyranny of your will,
against the natural god-given resistance,
and entropy,
in this cold dungeon gym,
your bravery made mine seem invisible,
your adversity made mine seem irrelevant,

one side determines the other,

like highway lights,
our life flies by,

I try to switch the mind,
and crack on.

parlour games (les jeux de salon)

whether park or parlour,
I'll sit,
amongst the carved and serious faces,
who have seen seasons change,
lovers come and go,
traditions become strange,
friends become strangers,
I'll have a couple for my shot nerves,
a few more to placate that fickle collective conscience,
a couple more in praise of self-amusement,
for in this Night,
no, life, of the Long Knives,
I intend to get loose,
get gone,
don't mind if I do,
and if I may,
I'll play,
along the way,
a few jeux de salon.

we used to be old

king of hearts,
on a thrift shop highball glass,
we were,
shelled,
bound,
unreachable,
but we cut ourselves free,
now we live out in the Difference,
opening,
changing,
being,
summoning imperfect courage,
you said not to worry 'bout nothin,'
and now I barely remember,
when I used to be old.

hands that feed

I couldn't sleep so I went out under a dark sky in search of a darker bar. I went in. I ordered two fingers straight up. A poet was on a corner stage, silhouetted through smoky shadows reciting, ranting and shouting in the darkness at the darkness. I had read her before, maybe heard her. She had a way of wrapping my empty feelings with exquisite words. I sat deep and listened deeper. When the glass was done I slipped out and shuffled home, where on the couch I fell into a deep sleep.

I dreamt of tall ships on a black, twisting ocean, untouched shores under a white moon, a small house hidden in fog with golden light in the windows. I was walking towards it. I could hear laughter and music. I could hear songs sung by people whom I once loved and whom once loved me.

I awoke in the morning to radiant light. I gathered my thoughts and prepared myself to confront the setbacks and usual apocalypses of the day.

But in my mind was laughter and music. Songs sung by people I love and that love me still.

flags

boatloads of pretentious, self-proclaimed poets with dog-eared notebooks from lint-filled pockets sink down smugly into comfy bookstore chairs slurping expensive tea, awkwardly wording their way past the thesis then the anti-thesis seeking a synthesis only to find another thesis waiting like a religious relic silhouetted in the window light of a new year's day sun,

but the best poets line the beds of over-capacity homeless shelters and push stamps over the glass counters of food banks, holding out for another day, another month, another year of inspiration borne of rotted teeth and tear drenched cheeks enduring the new days which sting like busted hearts of lonely misfit kids in an over-capacity world, while quietly humble and grace-full thoughts and deeds are drowned out by the bloated chanting of pop-culture, reckless investors, war makers and chest-beating Christians raising their proud flags in the public square,

but the there is no flag for truth,

it works tirelessly, often alone, in the darkness, feeding on a hopeful honesty, slowly breaking down ramparts and embracing paradox and, like us, it never "ends" because it never "began," it was always regenerating and regenerating again, like the universe does, so when we are gone we are replaced by others,

apocalypses only happen in the soul because we raise flags that block the new year's day sun,

God has no country.

Love has no church.

Truth has no religion.


Let the new year be happy.