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It is all perfect. This is all entirely correct. The small-
ness. The triviality. Sheer, daunting, cliffscape minute-
ness. It is of vital importance. In every pursuit except excuse.
Or alleviation. From the one inarguable commandment of life.

Continue.

Let us start at the beginning. At the heart.
Each tiny minuscule cell beats. Contracts.
No heart is squeezed, or pressed, or gripped into action.
Just broken into a trillion seamless pieces
All showed up to orchestra rehearsal on time
Ready to start.

No matter the proportion.
All life is collaboration.
And the further we stare exclusively outward
The smaller, less consequential, more unimportant
Problems unreal
We’ll feel.

Because there is no universe to know outside of us.
Everything we are meant to know can not be avoided.
You are Atlas.
The boon of self awareness.

The realization that you are currently highly covetable real estate in the universe.
You’re third violin in a symphony of millions.

There isn’t one cell in a sea of heart.
You are the heart.

A heart cell.

To declare the answers to those questions are and have always been within.
And the only way to claim ignorance against them is to ask them out loud to the world.
And never whisper them alone under your breath.

If you ever so desired to learn if there was a secret purpose to life
Why should you need to ask anyone else other than yourself?

My Window

Lake all pukey green.

Once white teeth stained yellow by its acidic churning.

Sour-looking. Running the wrong way. This lake.

Is a mask set on top of a river. By the TVA.

This lake cost a lot of people their homes.

Dented ridges climb the other side then taper down into Damascus.

America is a crapshoot for naming things.

White can be seen through trees against mountain scalp like dandruff.

Undisturbed beneath thinning hair. Itchy-looking.

Dry cold makes a wet nose and specks of dust out of falling snow.

Virginia. Old girl. I have decided not to say it.

Wind. Sucking at the windowsill. Battling doors.

Carrying the recyclables all across the yard.

Bombastic voices on the television warn us ‘stay indoors’.

Polar Vortex. Man wears a rolex. Catches light

point out Saltville. Bristol. Then Wytheville.

Only flurries, near Hillsville. Blue eyes pierce.

Stared into camera two.

May as well give his ‘back to you’.

She. Muted. Tells about lost and found children.

Geese bowl over one another down by green water.

White birds stalk yellow waves. Winter wind.

Pushes the river the wrong way. Backward.

Black birds beat wings against the weather.

Took them ten minutes to clear my window.

Concrete Poetry

We are taught, first, desire. After that. We are free.
To bend all facts into confirmation with our conclusions.
Desire plus history multiplied by tradition equals expectation.
Which is the bane of contentment.

What if we were taught, first, anything except desire.
Perception, born of reception, as simple as keeping eyes open.
Especially when everybody elses are closed.
We would see. Maybe. Desire is nonuniform. Flighty.

Expectations are founded on desire like blueprints are paper.
We end up putting poems down in concrete.
Currently reading a canon of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue.
It’s not an accident. It isn’t coincidence. It’s birthdays.
It’s Christmas. Allowance for doing the dishes.
All hopes and wishes.

Everything parents ever wanted but never received.

And so, we were taught, first, the desire to be deceived.

TV Guide

Television. Documentary. Playboy Mansion. Coffee cup. Canadian whiskey.
My taste in liquor is better than a mirror at showing me who I really am.
TV shows so much. Everything. Commercial in the middle.
How am I supposed to know what to do with this.
Man selling leggings. Woman in a dress.
Hair pulled back in ponytails behind the heads of girls.
Boys in blue shirts and buzz cuts and thick rimmed black plastic glasses.
Reptiles encased in clear plastic.
Foal colt hesitant to nurse.
Exotic animals at eight.

I am sure a game is on.
I don’t have the remotest idea what station, or the remote.
Don’t care enough to fetch it. Syndicated programming on repeat.
Eyes closed dog curled up on my feet. Cat occupied hip dent.
The room I am in. Television. Channel in the three hundreds.
Actually. Two hundred and sixty four. Fiance snores.
Heat clicks on and sings through slat-wood vents.
Food they want me to buy.
Coffee they’d like me to drink.
Pizza.

More nutritional information on dog food commercials.
Cold medicine. New show. Fat actor. Black doctor.
Dodge the Ram. Spoil the lamb. Jail time. Kelsey Grammar.
Each rule obeyed. Expectation betrays.
Animal shows make us cry.
We lost the foal.
No one said why.
The words I write keep being spoken on the television.
No lie.
I must have the vision.

Call me the TV guide.

I see things yet to happen. Same as you.
With eyes bright and wide.
In the television room.

New shirt. New shoes. New continents.

Who will care if the answer wasn’t in you when you started.
Who minds that you made it up.
Improvised as footsteps on stones across a running creek.
Write the wobble. Write cold water halfway up your calf.
Pouring in the open mouths of shoes around your ankles.

Write until you grow numb and blue. Keep walking.
New people. New conversations. New problems.
New shirt. New shoes. New continents.

No trail where you walk.
Make a mess of it anyway.
Write it urgently.
All the time in the worlds you write is yours.
Yours alone.

Four eggs

Hollowness. Behind the eyes, in a stiff flat steel line down through the sternum. Guilt. Regret. Begets tension. And stress. Like Heath Ledger clenching his jaw. The deep buried pop when stumps split. Judge me for this. Blame I. Tie me to all of my bad decisions. The world wonders which one of all of us sinks first. I’m waiting to see who learns to breathe underwater. I have. I learned to breathe without lungs, even. So underwater is no problem. Far off outer space isn’t either. Death is a sort of spacesuit you take off in order to stand naked before God. And God, is a sort of word we use to describe what language and science have yet to adequately name.
In order to give it the blame.

Fire. Twenty feet higher. Than the house six chickens burned alive in.
Four eggs in the garage.

Hollowness. Sadness.
Did you know the human being is the only creature that can survive gutted.

Happy birthday to an incredible woman, and the love of my life

Still laughs like a little girl

Where comets come from. Yes, you are brighter than any star in the sky
and you have a magnificent tail. But I’d love to know where you dwell.
Should you choose to take me there. Until then, I know you’re a sign.
Of something. Beautiful. And terrible. All by your lonesome.
You’re a volatile couple. Ashley. Americanized Cinderella.
Do I know how you hate that. But we love you for it. Honey.
I need you. More than I have ever let you know.
This has all been for you.
In hopes you’d give some back to us. You’re American.
You’re British. You’re Scottish. And gypsy. And arrogant.
You are America.
You are the cloth high up on the mast that catches new wind first.
Before the sails that push the ship even.

You move your own direction. Respect.
Head nod. Eye contact. Embrace. Stoic face.
As streams rain down and embers soar, sparks fly.
Celebrate. Nothing more. Than more light in the sky.
Sulfur smelling air. No care.
Dressed eighteen hundreds.
Beaming in red bursts with white gold finish.
Disappeared.

Smiling steady in sporadic flashes of darkness.

Dry Hill – new poetry book – INTRO

Don’t read these words like you actually know me. No. Pretend I’m a stranger. Make believe these are pages you found bound together on the street. Please. I am lowkey begging you. Give me that grace. I’m asking for it, even though I know it can’t be given. An impossibility. Grace just is. By no work or deed of your own. The hated are loved. The weight of full hearts breaks others.

I just want to write my way from beginning to end, birth to death. Things I can own and those stubbed toes and stumbled steps I might in the long run rather omit. I am going to write it down. For myself. For you. Though I recognize you didn’t ask me to do it. For my son. For Ashley. For the kids two thousand years from now, for when they fight through the fray. When they ask, I don’t need to articulate what. Just, when they ask.

Is why I write.

 

 

Blue Mountains

The mountains are two dimensional.
And blue. And minuscule.
Rock mounds bound behind clouds.
Sound. Muffled in a muffled room.
Ends too soon.

Almost didn’t start.
I might not be smart.

Mountains might actually be massive.
Clouds could be vapor. Lighter than air.
Ridges more red-white than blue.
Who knew. Clear as a bell windows.
Still aren’t see through.
No matter what lies on the other side.

You see a window too.

There are no such things as mountains that are blue.