Rust Colored Mountains
That eye. Fat sky. Cloud full. And mountains too.
Bumped up rust colored rashes from once in the past
when almighty earth scratched poison ivy into its own ass.
Past time. Last time. Father son hike.
Climbed up one and never came down.
Leaves burnt brown. Turned down.
Serviced by hands that, if everything goes according to plan, will never be seen.
Minimum wage. Cinnamon rage. Stoic faced.
Lumped up clumps of similar enough faces.
Worst cases and bests and rights no one wanted
graciously regifted to the rest. Of us. Love must.
Be more. Restore. Ensure. Far more.
Than any other word before.
Eye in the sky shifting slowly right
bowing like respect over hard headed mountains.
Fat sky. Clouds full with imaginary snow.
Filled solely with invented only for fun.
God’s eye in gray clouds.
Poison ivy rashes rust colored mountains.


Meta for a God
We can talk about God. The meta.
Above, below, without, within
grace, purity, sin
the beginning and also the end.
Or we could talk about creator and not pretend.
We can say this is not real, although it really is.
We can claim imagination on the borderline of genius
and dismiss it as child’s games, pirates or orphans
imposed on bolted plastic playgrounds,
wobbling against the sandpit of earth.
And we can bring up God, but that may be Its birth.
Not here before yesterday or a century past,
or two centuries ago. No removed.No meta.
Barely a creaking toad. One sound, long then short, time after time.
One bird’s lonely whistle repetitive not stopping. What is a meta?

Where is the god in that dull sound? No matter what is said,
we know God is the God of now. Not then.
So why should we look for gods below
above, within, without, forward, back
left wrong, right?

Tell us so we can at least discuss It in relation to us.
Not below stones and gravel and soil.
Our creator’s setting was formed at the thin tip of a pen.
Not above. Soil of another sort. Space and time.
Laid out like a bed made up, only when we lay down heads and dream
do we see past the workings of God into what God means. Not without,
and not within, although these places are crucial.

The cliff edge where the final leap will be taken. Into what?
The open arms of empty metaphor. And why, what for?
Just to know.
So we can hum along with the song.
This word will be hard and bring no satisfaction. God.
To us, beyond. Gone. But with Its signature scrawled into existence.
A fire to sit around warmed, thinking of a metaphor God to discuss.


Could Be Greener

Laughter, when it isn’t yours.
Success, when it isn’t either.
Sunlight, when it’s off the moon.
Sunlight, when looking right at him.
Blue skies beyond clouds or imprisoned in prisms,
whole curved highways of color backed up like traffic,
just waiting for the light to change.

For reddish orange to grow green, release us
under flashing caution, let us go yellow and old.

Turn taupe skin tan and khaki brown and chocolate
blue like night is black against the backs of stars,
which is what we call suns when they are not ours,
and what we call people when they are.


 

The Word Love

When we speak of love,
valley girl texting,
prophet stranded at the peak,
thinking the way back to birth from death,
we speak of a word,
read along unprinted scripts of its definition,
and experience love in every way but truly.

Love is too much for one or two lines.
Vast enough to fill up encyclopedias.
Vastly human enough still to speak no consequence.

Love is this. Love that. Love moves.
Love accomplishes. Being more than four ignorant letters,
love fails.

If love lives it is only by way of minds, close by hearts,
where the word defies all definitions. And if one matches,
even slightly, it catches our disease and will surely die.

For love to be love it must not be love.

No more lettered shapes scratch translated into meaning.
It must deny, put down, rise up from the demise, stood tall
feet cold against the ash from all the pages people have filled,
believing they cast a revealing light on love,
when really they were marrying sparks to fuel.


 

Writing #1

All things handwritten pass through pens.
Created under rolling points spilled clean paths and shapes and lines.
But nothing is ever done for a pen.
If a thought is not tugging a line in the mind it sits still,
straight, truer than any text staining the other side,
or any picture drawn by the tool’s plastic rigidity and firm pressing spine,
gentle rubber-dotted grip, click cap and carbon ink heart.

Writing with one is no different than a chimpanzee holding a twig,
fishing methodically for termites.

Only the termites are different.


Window Frame

The glass could stand to be cleaned.
In another house, it would be. Squeaking beneath different hands.
Breaking open brick walls in this home, beyond this hand,
you find nothing but dingy windows.

Light splashed across pages broken by intersecting shadows.
Zagging dull trails streak dripped powdered white tails
across a solid white stroke of misplaced paint,
some brush that missed its mark by miles,
dead center in the pane.

Shadows are most solid on the page. The windowframe
tells more than a huge impenetrable story about a backyard.
Jotted over with notes from a dog’s nose, a bit of snotty prose,
on the topic of curiosity. The dry poetry of the unintentional painter.
Covered in more fingerprints than a detective could ever dust over.

Proof.
Irrefutable and damning.
That this windowframe is the place.
We came closest to knowing the world.


Some Friends

Some friends are shooting stars.
They burn up bright trying to get to where you are.
Some friends are comets, like dogs on long leaders
we pull back before they can wander too far off.

Boys will be asteroids and girls will birth worlds,
rolling flour clouds into balls of dough.
Some friends just can’t act right.
Hard against the earth like meteorites.
And some, cold and numb, far flung, no strings attached.
Defiant gas giants and terra-formed friendships
seem only to begin and have no end,
growing lonely in a post-sun din.

Relationship eclipse.
Blotted out by your closest star’s closest friends.

Tapping the shoulders of strangers with fingertips of shadow.
In perspective and in patience and in temperature and timing.
The molten iron masses we keep buried within.
Electromagnetic armor coolly worn so thin.
So that only a friend or two ever truly makes it in,
and always leave a crater wherever they land.

Many more get whipped like boomerangs and reach a certain age
to come crawling back tail between legs with gilded stories to tell.

But just a few friends are like shooting stars.
Burnt up trying to get through who you are.
So you would know exactly where they fell.
Making wishes while friendships fall apart.