once or twice or

a thousand times more

the earth travels the sun

or the sea laps the shore

the quiet that comes when

the silence predicts it

the strange counter weight that is

needed to say it

you don’t know what is right

you guess only what’s wrong

you won’t take that road

that you knew all along

was the cul de sac

at the end of the road

you steer past that sign

for your very last act

that queer undeniable

heartbreaking fact

look over your shoulder

it’s useless, retract

she will always be rolling

that infinite boulder

she will until she is
immeasurably older
and stops for a minute
in webbed retrospect
knows she should have been laughing
seeking a cryable shoulder
once or twice or
a thousand times more
she lives to fill in
innumerable cracks
and that, as they say, is always that

waiting for the storm

it’s easier than you think
especially in the quiet
of invisible ink
first it’s there and then gone
all right

curse the wand
and the magic’s inner weight
takes flight and we learn to wait

what am I pining for?
this half-eaten heart of mine
what am I waiting for?

this handless time
remember when snow
wasn’t scary?

remember it meant

free to be contrary?
when the steps you took
over bodies wrapped in white
when you didn’t look
to the left or the right

only plodded in giant steps
away from the monster   

a small child in padding
demanding the answer

without a compass
unburdened by loveless

it’s easier than you think
in aging memory on a winter night
if you’ve caught a snowfall
in dreamlike flight
storms once had a life of their own

we had no fear of

those moments we owned

the snow will come in
a preordained storm

what we have still
is a place in our home
to venture outside when the
need is to roam
in snow or in rain
in sunshine or possibly war
it takes the same imagination
it demands the same score

a storm is a win when
you’ve plodded though it

snow never sins

only innocents know it
waiting for the storm

it’s easier than you think
especially in the quiet
of invisible ink
write it down

discard it

that trail embark it

no snowshoes, no mittens, no sled dog

to market

all’s swell what the hell
it’s midnight so fuck it

Fuck Bob Dylan

he wrote the song

I was meant to write

Shithead Bukowski

settin’ in his grave and laughin’

has no mercy on my calling

write the fucking poem he sez

he’s already in love

meaning you, my passion

today I went to the soup kitchen

and felt the full strength of

her fasten herself to me

like a crab, or kangaroo or a newborn baby

this was too much and too little

all at once

she saw the kindness

I knew the outcome

she wept and hugged

and then some

How would Bob write this

genius aggression

me on the ground

me saying things

I shouldn’t say

She fell into me in a doughnut of heat

I activated the life vests

on both of us

Don’t let them see your tears

they won’t understand

so much is in their hands

every week

every week

They are hungry I said

and she wept indiscreet

they are just hungry I said

and she nodded and left

came back a bit straighter

came back without a word

came back and served

Everything I want to write

has been written

even my epitaph will be stolen

we are a band of thieves

we are humans left longing

each moment is

churchless and

stateless

formless

friendless

nurtured

graceful

wronged and

faceless

Each moment is gone