the overhead light

squeezes against the slate colored carpet,

the white walls,

and the constant

buzz from a broken projector.

sharp words on a dull subject

bounce between one person

to the next as I press my pen

hard into my notepad

drawing endless circles

like a stone wall.

exhausted by the want

i’ve got a habit  of collecting
my dark thoughts for the night

and then i count them
like sheep.

The books by my bed
are just place holders for dust, bookmarked
with old to-do lists
written on the back of unopened envelopes.

I am exhausted by the want.
This anxious emptiness
that comes from imagining more.

first of many waves

When Theo graduates from college you will have drawn 2,843 more of your people, perfected
the watermelon margarita for Jennifer, and found a way to avoid all ladder work.

You will have taught your grandsons about the power of words and whiskey and sitting still.

Oliver and Theo will have driven down the camp road over a thousand times; they’ll know the smell of the pine needles in the same way they know their own breath; they’ll have memories to match each mile it took them to get to your house.

So much of who I am is because of my grandfather.

How he raised you shaped how you raised us, and how Kelsey will raise the boys, and so on...

Grandpa's stories are me. Even the ones I've never heard and he never spoke out loud.

I wish we didn't have to die.  It seems the ocean takes it all back only a moment from when it laid us on the shore.

So we'll watch Theo and Ollie ride their first of many waves in your tide
letting them learn when to swim strong and when to let the current take them in.

out of habit

our sheets feel stale
and the pale walls of our
shoebox sized room, squeeze
against the carpeted floors.

the digital alarm clock by my side
is unplugged, and the unread
books on my table are dusty and surrounded
by half drunk glasses of water.

at night, i cover the carpet in a nest
of yesterday's clothes
and sleep out of habit.

it's simple.

it's simple.
something about that olive
green t-shirt, a day
of dirt hanging
in your hair, and the way you fry up
a pan of brussels sprouts,
keeps me thinking about you,
hours later.
even on the hard days,
it's simple.

early spring (wishful thinking)

Paper whites peak through rocks
and ragged earth, only to find unwelcoming
winter-like winds. It all ends as quickly as the thought begins.

our night in

Work sits so hard
on my pursed lips
while words still whip
from the tip
of your tongue, catching
only my corners.

It’s out of our hands now.

So let’s watch, as the heat sticks
to the dusty fan blades
spinning thick thoughts
into our unguarded walls.

Orly's 4 pound frame hugs heavy
when he sleeps, and my cradled
hand starts to tingle.
I don't want to wake him, so
just like this living room, and these deep
red shadow curtains,
I too, sit heavy.

if i stepped outside, I
would hear the birds try
to rustle up some spring

but inside, white walls and this stall
ing silence press in.
It starts sweet, like a cat nap,
until even the idea
of moving
starts to prickle.

Finally (12-30-06)

when snow falls,
finely
dusting
brick and tar and tongue the same,
even the chickadees sit quiet,
pausing
for this exhale
into winter.

10-19-06 (last winter)

when my feet felt so cold,
I tried on your slippers.
my toes tried to touch
each curve in the sole.

your house smelled like hot tea,
compost, and baking,
like books in the basement:
ink mixed with mold.

I'm sorry for trying to fit
in your slippers.
I'm sorry for trying
your warmth for my cold.

I left them behind
just how you first left them,
empty but knowing
your imprints would hold.

............radicle..........................................................................
...nothing but a chance................................................................
.anchored in shifting soil.............................................................
...the seed starts to peek..............................................................
.....past itself, to seek..................................................................
.....out a stronger grip................................................................
.......like a raw nerve..................................................................
.........the first root:....................................................................
.............radicle..........................................................................

your fall

2:30 in the morning
and your face keeps sneaking
into my sleep.
It's getting colder now
and the trees start to mimic
death, bare branches
and creaking limbs
testing their roots.

I used to visit you
in your hospital room.
I'd sit and stare at your
end-of-autumn frame
and beg you to bloom again.

one good thing about winter

in the winter
just like in the fall
I will come home
to find you
leaning back in my
video game chair
maybe watching t.v.
maybe playing your guitar
maybe with your eyes shut
but waiting
just like in the fall
for when I come home
and it is time for our nap.

It's not that I don't like to share

but sometime between 2 a.m. and 7 a.m.
the sheets start to shrink
into a heap of tugs and wrinkles
that gather at the foot of our bed

and I want to corral the covers;
but you are like an anchor
made of legs and arms and heavy breath

Waiting with Macmow

Like waiting for a poem to form,
I watch your exhales escape you.
Nothing now but the frame of you.
Nothing now but the rhythm of death:
slow beats and fast breath.

Your sounds mimic the moans of labor
and so I scoop you up onto my lap
and try to follow your breath, panting
with you now, while we wait
for the final push.

I watch his hands dance
over the master card
arced like a wave, crushing
rock into the fine white line.


Now on my second drink.
Now on his second wind.
I'm holding my six pack
like a suitcase, searching
for something stronger.

a little springtime rhyme

let's pretend I'm like that yellow flowered weed
that sprouts up in the spring to nourish those in need.

now you're like the animal who's doubtful that it's free
but is tempted by the thought of some dandelion tea.

Delicates

Brown Egyptian cotton sheets
meet last night's underwear
in my washer.

I'm pretty sure it's all delicate
but the knob wont push past
cotton-sturdy.

I fish around the side sink, searching
out lint from the nickel sized drain
to let soiled suds seep through.

There's still whiskey on my floor
and on my breath from the night before
but this is just the first rinse.

broken

what if i had let go

that summer in Northern California
when the heat stuck to our backs
and our backs to the dirt
and the dirt hung
like your scent to my neck.

we camped on the edge
of a stream, below rebel redwoods
tempting the sheets of moss to stretch further.

my back to the dirt and yours to the clouds,
I tried to take you all in.
But once I noticed the first bit of forest, I noticed it all-
except for you.

I told you I cried after we made love
because I couldn't get clean enough.

We had spent three months in that tent
and three years in us
and now after a year without

it is still the dirt that keeps me grounded.
it is still the dirt that clings back.