Sailing Song Two

I guess I'm good at living
but no good at knowing
when you'll be in town
or at satisfying hugs
from last year and the one before.

When it comes together for us
now we'll be knee fucking deep
in a patch of slow-movers
and my chest'll be bleeding
flesh and blood and flesh and
blood needing flesh and blood
all over the place, dotted
with Mom's flowers from this season.
That's how the last two got started.

In the summer they've been rampaging
in a quiet way; they mostly stick
to their guns and stick home
and spend Saturdays with mason
jars affixed to the dash and
sun searing cigarettes away.
I'm in love with them
just like that, so don't move away
from the sea of wood and deer and
old cars and rifles out there.

Doing Right

Had a dream last night
about losing a front tooth
and things just falling
into place.

Maybe it was really about
the movie with darkness
and motorcycles, which could
really be a few movies or more,
or maybe it was about sailing.

Four nights ago
I was stepping bounds
and stopped to help
write a song (take a
sip of wine) and even
took a sip and it
reminded me of the night
seven nights ago:
at home, damn we sang
fuckin damn.
Then two nights ago...
Fuckin hell
we say. It's what I've been saying.

Just don't call me the dog.

give me ten minutes

to think about pumpkins

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Sent from my Verizon Wireless mobile phone

I can't remember who I was
when I said I'm your man.

An Anniversary and a Celebration

I wrote this poem, with exception of a few revisions, almost exactly a year ago.



Shifting Decks



Leaving is many parts:
meeting new people
and the feeling of time lost
and “Don’t hug me for more
than ten seconds” because I’ll cry
(and in front of all these people at that)
and then also thanks so
much for that for allowing me
to spill myself onto your shoulder.

Heavy July and food on the grill
during the evening affair and then hummingbirds
at my Mom’s house
but wait, that’s skipping parts
and steps ahead and askew, but that’s leaving.

How places can be very similar
and how one of my first poems was
“When the Hummingbird’s Hum
Ceases to Hum” about death
in a sort of Keatsian manner
and how funny that is.

It's deck conversations and realizing
what months
can be
and airing jeans
on the line and snapping photos of them to get
a laugh
and cats that seem immortal.

Slow days talking
about new friends to old friends
and discovering role models
and then discovering new ones.

Poems coming together on the road..
One of them was
title “I Was Almost Crying Forty Miles Ago
and Pulled Off the Road
to Write This
Especially for Earl and Phill”
body “I
love
you.”
but we all know
that’s not a poem.

Finding connections before
departures realizing missed
opportunities
it’s casting lines out and breathing
and camping overnight somewhere strange.

Feeling joy for buying baby food
for my little nephew
and on top of that
it’s “I’ll see you again”s
that are both sincere and not.

And a stick-shift in my hand
and great smells seen
but hidden by goodbye cigarettes,
even a walk in the woods I grew up in
and even showing my dad a poem.

And it’s going to keep
happening and it’s coming true
and yes, it could be.

And if nothing else,
it’s lots of hugs and taking chances.

Kissing vulnerability on the cheek,
backing away with a little wink.

Not Quite A World Away

And not much has changed
after a week or two of
thinking I deserve this.
All of this.

And not much has changed
except so many things put
so damn close together out here
and someone's dancing
with a new face
and I'm finally walking
down the street alone
when I should
and walking away when I should.

I'll be steering away
from the sun today
and after a hard last night's
rest on the porch floor
I'll be daydreaming
into close-proximity smiles
and trying to avoid
being lured into wondering what happened.

Desculpeme?

I've missed you these weeks,
he said to me,
and I said,
yeah, we are more to ourselves
when we're free
than we might sometimes admit.

I've stopped saying cheers
in poems because it stopped
sounding special, but I've realized
you can make just about anyone
feel special by looking them
in the eye and asking about the day.

I've attempted to stop holding
friends to rigorous standards,
despite what I might have said
after a drink or two.

Tonight let's keep it simple
and not talk about
the last few months
or where we're from. Let's not
talk about late nights last week
or your theories on where I'm at.
Let's watch the mopeds spark
as they just miss garbage cans
and the neighbors come out to wonder.