I gotta put this pen down

it gets to be too much
I get it

I gotta put this pen down

whose life am I living?
the people looking back at me

interrupting me

it’s on accident that I’m there to look at
on accident at best

so it gets to be too much

when I speak
when I need

you being the stronger one

be the stronger one,
walk away from me

a college education

to hear that tiredness, mom, in your voice
that beaten down snap at me,
not the snap but the fatigue,
mom, I just couldn’t do it sometimes

much as my stomach ached
even as hunger overtook my whole body, my whole mind
my whole mission for my life, for the day
I just could not ask

and so I have to say sometimes to people
yeah, my mom let me go hungry,
let me be hungry
just long enough
to figure it out

that I can feed myself
that a bite blissful is a miracle
is a reason to celebrate
to figure out when it’s time to leave
a desert

the mountain is a heavy sigh

there’s a secret on the surface of the lake
-- there it is--
for all the world to see

all the world is passengers in those cars

driverless, headed north on the freeway
headed south on the freeway
changing lanes, stopping
honking,
merging,

what the seagull knows is
judged. his entrance into my field of vision is
percussive.

this evening cries itself to sleep in layers--

with all my force
I could not guide your hand
to make ripples on the water

a draft

I remember my mother’s hands--

who is it that has us believing
that memories exist in a timeline
and that maybe that particular sequence is us

we folk know
it is like the air is made of gelatin
and somebody threw a stone through a church window
as it was congealing--

raw like the red meat she handled
burned with industrial quantities of industrial strength sanitizers
shrimp tails under her chipped fingernails
knuckles wide and knotted.

]short[

no hair in my face to the public--
the harsh, harsh edge of the mirror that does not meet up with life

that puzzle promised
we bought second hand

several pieces missing.

--the wind that I love on my face, the sun

untitled

point of contact
like a bullet shot through ice
suffuses the world with me, orange--
all oranges through which these moments bloom
take up the whole of time
for instance, streaking the window panes, for instance
staining a face
for instance
marking your hand when I hold it

impression/expression

when he walks through the door he says
I had to come tonight

I didn’t want to wait
he says, arms hesitating in mid air, until tomorrow

as he steps toward me the air stretches
the lamplight streaks the general greens he brings with autumn’s golds

wait, I have choked out, wait, I have reflexively coughed out, wait
but it’s too late, he stretches out a hand

and there it breaks apart
like colored glass raining down a well