Spring to Summer

Solstice

I.
It is that time for alter-egos
to resurface, and for the air
to swim in our lungs and
cause us to cough and sniff.

Watching smoke dance from
the mouth of a pint can,
writhing in the sunlight, and
wearing sunglasses in your room

knowing that the owls of
the daytime are doing the same.
It spells 'special' for those doing
wrong, and little more than 'usual'

for those doing right in the eyes
of someone, who might be no one
but themselves. Judging nothing.

II.
Fizzier than the head of a poorly poured
beer, you flail into the room, soon
to dissipate; mouth agape and laughing.

Spillage occurs and apologies are
met with pity and little reflection.
This is the evening you'd planned.

You curse about everything and
continue laughing, even after
everyone else has stopped.

Perhaps stomach cancer will
set you straight, or even maybe
cirrhosis. Which you're surprised

that you still know how to spell.
Oh well, what's one more sullied
shirt? It's a bandage on your pride.

You've done whatever it is you came
to do. You've inspired ugliness and
derelict distraction. Good job.

III.
This moment, this tree, this picture
untaken, and underdeveloped--

These things make you whole.
These things make you supple.

Go ahead and batter the world,
make use of its forgiving memories.

Take the time to relish freeness,
this pack of smokes, unsmoked.

Anything can take place when a
phone rings, or a car pulls up.

But no, right now, there's no
emergency. Nothing to pull you

under. This moment is an exercise
in patience, and tolerance of

the very virtue itself. It is blissful
discipline which will get you home safe.

IV.
Despise cold days and mathematical functions.

Forget of longing for the places you aren't.

No longer bemoan syntax or the logistics of home.

Remember that you have no home; rather a place with things.

Beleaguer the urge to bitch about nothing.

Command away the command to produce for free.

Disable all rhymes, and schemes, that may deter your actual sight.

Freely display your intuition as it displays unto you.

Laugh at yourself, and really do get tickled.

Never concede to your regal blood, because yes, you're still just reveling



You Were Worried

You were worried

You'd "fuck it up."
I'm not bothered though.

Fearing for the future,
That inevitable ugliness,
Is admitting you have no control.

And you don't.
Neither does the sky;
All its whims played through
Roughly or serene.

Nor does the dirt
Your bare feet tracked in
At four in the morning,
When sleep wasn't available.
Only smoke and numbness.

Right now, I'm not dreaming
Of tomorrow, sunny days or
Clean floors. Now it's about
What kind of home can be built

Out of momentary glances,
Grins, and the glaze of grace
That is painted on our skins.

We're but hides. Small people
With small lives,

Living, together.


Gymnasium

The church used to be a gymnasium
I'm sure of it. Something about the floors
and missing bolts from the holes in walls.

There was little left to do but scribble
on a small piece of paper and wait for
him to be brought in with floral adornment.

Terribly unfamiliar with the etiquette
of such a situation, making sure not
to cry. Only sweat to make me moist.

*

The procession was grand and oddly
familiar. So much family filling out
the ranks. Odd, but only six of 'em

trailed behind the box. There'd been
no prayers in my house for close to
twelve years. But they all come back.

Every line, every wince, every tentation,
every word beaten in by the parochial
parish of youth. All familiar distractions.

*

I'm glad that casket is closed. I am not glad
that casket is closed. Though I can not bear
the thought of seeing my friend all waxy again.

These prayers do little for me, as I know
it's just a motion that is being gone through.
We all cry together, tears of distant proximity.

We're all in the room. Even the invalids made
it. (perhaps to recognize that this will be them
soon). And all the sudden I'm jealous of them.

*

When the wheel'd box is delivered outside
I stay on the corner, exchanging touches. As
I make off down 2nd street, smoking through

a tearful smile, I see the hearse again and light
another; wondering why I smile at fortune
upended. We'd so many plans to carry out.

Once again, I'm naked and it is starting to rain.
The past week has shown me my worth and
I'm going home. I do not know the etiquette.