i.
   she, hand in hand, walks–
    her fingers swallowed by His palm
etched rough with living.

         the endless climbing stairway turns
     blood to snow to blood to snow to
  shifting flow as footsteps slow and
         down
              down(down)
                   they go.

    nineteen steps
         with that flaking ferrous slab
     as high as heaven high as falcon wing
          high as stars tangled in black moss
                  to her small eyes.

             over flattened mat,
  twisted stitch so rich in memories;
        each speck each single speck a
   life cast off from rough hewn boots:

       this one here,
  dropped in with snow long since turned to tears,
from life as granite to nurturer of good and green,
        or here,
   an inkling of a field now fallow,
         his hands once strong are strings now cut.

the light is low and heads raise, eyes seeking
        newness, strangeness.
  faces register, nerves unknown clenched release,
a tense silence fades.

     the steady snipsnip as she
slips into corner chair
      which leaves legs dangling loose as
  business-like she
sets about her business of
     sorting chaos–
          realigning the shuffled entropy of day to day.

     yellow spines aligned by
turning seasons.
      age is evident in their pages,
  glory tales of those long past their glory days,
eager anticipation of times too far gone to disappoint.

He smiles at her busy hands and
  chooses one Himself,
        its words well-known,
  of foreign wonders,
   distant men.

ii.
    at the Chair stands he,
       with glittering shears moving surely swift,
       a well-trod path, through piling drift.

master of this place,
       in fresh-pressed slacks,
           his father’s shoes,
       his own hair a reflection of his craft.

      the smile is there,
  buried just beneath the surface,
        ploughed up only in the eyes with glimmerglitter.

   the smile
           even in its depth
    flickers off when eyes glance up
          to door that led, that led
    that led, once led,
that leads to empty room,
     where fingers, her fingers, don’t count money,
  where eyes, her eyes, don’t check books for his mistakes,
        where no one sits,
              where no one calls his name from time to time,
     where no one waits to share that sandwich
       made with love.

  absently he spins the plain gold band,
      and the smile flickers back to life
  behind the eyes, though the bones betray this
          newfound age.

iii.
       He sits now,
               hands resting on leather black,
     the steady air as He is raised to height.

they talk, her He and he with
     scissors held in hand, with that name made famous
by Damascene revelation,
      they talk of town, of change

he, his silver flashes, he would wish the change away.
     it comes of nature,
         his craft is keeping change at bay,
  returning to that imagined ideal,
       that super real where life is like the pictures.

iv.
     her eyes watch as
         grey shards fall in snowy drift.
   pieces of the self,
      cut away with such ease as if
   as if who we are can just be shed
          as if life were a series of choices
    to refine the vessel.

       who is Paul to shape the He?
              to later brush those bits and
        cast away the truth can
   any see the castings anymore?
           years later if we could gather,
   gather all those ends,
         our Samson power,
    what would reveal?

           how much did we leave behind,
     in day to day on Paul’s clean floor?
           with every step taken?
     every scrap shaken free of loose moorings while
in the corner magazines were sorted for a
                           stick of gum.

   there is a whisper hush that
  slips between the bars and
unbinds the nestles that creep within the cage of
      calcium twisted heart-mongers i

    don’t think there is a
  new way to say but
        what i want to say is
      that this flower has flowered so
   bright and i
       can hardly speak so joyousfilled is
   all that whelms and over

you are
    that star that flashes across
          the night sky makes
     the other stars seem like echoes of a truth

     i thought i
   no, i did know but
      but it was different and
     this is just gentle but
    so truebelief and
             how could ihave
   spilled so much ink on
        all that passion all that
             impossible dreams of
    something that equated in the moment but
  in the end the math just wasn’t right.

              when i say
     and mean
icouldloveyouforalifetimeandmore
       it is for the first time not a
stretching towards a whatiwant

          i see the dazzle in the past and
  in that dazzle strove to find my blood’s mate but
          now i’mlearning (through your flesh) that
      dazzle is no substitute for substance or for
    truer truth.

youthough are that
            simply good and ease but not too easy but just
     ease and right and simple and

                when i whisper in my sleep that
    i could be happy in a lifetime of friendship than
         i somehow mean it and
             what does that mean for me?

   where can i?
         do you show me a path that
    love does not have to fit passionatefaking to truelovemaking but
         can hold truelove as the fullest ideal?

   or?

         is there to be an emptiness almostwhathave that
      striving and surrender to the
not quite but

        i
    could
       love
   you
       for
      your
           life
   and
       mine
    and
       they
       would
be
as
     rich
         as
    brandywine.

                                      this nettle flower
      purple in the filter sun
               is
     true in its truth and
      does not need a return to
     fulfill that truth but
                

  i would lie a million lies to say
that i did not
                        wishwishwishwishwish
            that you
      would
   love melike the sunandmoonandstarsandyouaretheone

          but i cannot chase
   cannot pursue down rocky trails because
     ive done that and won that and in
the end
           it ends and
leaves you with that
knowledge certain that
    yes, i did that and
      yes i did that and
    i will not do that i will
i am
        so worthy of a love that burns this way
    burns up not with passion i wrought but with truth that lies far
  deeper than passion ever could and

      i will not surrender and
i will not apologize for
                    what i scream forth is honesty unbridled by fear
and
       honestly unabashed and
          i am the true face of god
  reflecting down and shining out and
                       i will not be hushed

   though a thousand voices cry to me i
     will not be hushed i
        will eternal love and
  though in failure i will find a lonelieness as deep as abysmal depths i
       will still hold on
cling on
to

that truth that
     truth that
  i know so deep that
             i will loveandloveandloveandlove
  beyond compromise beyond
     those empty promises that drip forth from mouths
tender and luscious fruit

mine are
      what can never be denied or feared or rejected or
   i ask nothing and will
      never flee so

youre stuck with me.

i’m going to start adding mp3s of me reading them, as some people have requested that. i might go back and do all of the past ones as well, but for now i will just start with new poems.

there is a language of loss
      spoken in couplets that
  trickle to roaring cascade stanzas
tied tight and tripping onandonandon

      where words find no end but
  desert-like sweep endless
       grains of sand stacking until the weight cannot
be borne but rolls and tumbles to swept breasts of cream where
             bones are buried deep

bones of our pasts apart
   our pasts together
flesh and skin picked off by whipping wind until
     white/white/white/pure/white and in
that purity
   the truth is seen
unmarred by sinew-blood-or-muscle
         and so the loss wells up from depth.

      love is a river. no.
yes, love, is a torrent roaring and then
ambling slow and gentle almost
    stagnant but
   the soul of the river is both:
            solitude stillness and whitewater.

  you, and i break you on to the page, you
    were(are) love and love and love is and is
so i, in this with cracking sniffling weepies, i
    love and the heart swells and bursts seams long since sewn tight.

the break, the shatter break shatters but shards still reflect the sun and
rainbows cast swollen color drippings on floor and ceiling and eyelids
  and memory is a burden and a curse and a gift and

regret is a stranger in this house of heart but regret
pours in now, pours in monsoon-like at time not taken time not
grasped as tightly as i wanted to grasp and grip and pull in to the tightest

      with hikes not taken in coasts still lost and(yes) friends still hike but
  a hike is a hike and yet the steady rhythm of feet does not compete with
the rhythm of hips as pounding against tree bark echoes pounding of waves
      on shores forgotten by all but seals and gulls

   a million millions, a million million millions of kisses and gentle strokes and
was there an inch of your face i did not kiss?
    i think there might have been, might be one little square of skin that
hid somehow, hid away for a rainy day but
   the rains are gone now and the sun shines down on you and a new lover and
        all i wish is there was no new lover but
    there had to be and
there’s nothing wrong, nothing bad in that, but
    sadness still fills the heart because

because i know
      because when i found her arms i found
    that solace i think that
grasping comfort and there is
   love and lust and
       slopes are gentle too but
  in the end the slip is
  almost right
     almost perfect but
  the fit is not so true not so
     gripping where it
  grips and
    you were a glove made of spring or
a truth found in shape conforming to shape or
       what a difference that brief topography makes and

still there is nourishment in kisswordstouchsweat but
  there is a loneliness too if i
  let my mind drift to you and the
  perfect fit.

        transcendent
where
       words in honey spill from honest places
     where
   fear is ever my watchword but with you i
   watched the watcher, fought off that fear for
       the most genuine i could be in
gratitude for the most genuine you could be and

did we stumble and fall? we did.
    did we tear down walls only to find walls? we did.
   but did we love so true and give so deep? we did we did.

  i have raged against a world that would build towers to
     mediocrity in the name of grace
and in this i found
       a battle for true greatness in the face of grace
   so we stumbled, so we fell but
         we fell from great heights and
         when stars fall they burnstreak through atmosphere and
     drip with wishes.

i would not change that stumbled greatness for a mediocre grace.
i passion miss and slip kisses into dreams but
      in spite of painful regret welling up at squeezes not taken i
   cannot regret the soul seeking soul in darkness.

                    so when i close my eyes i see your
phoenix shape burst-rise up flaming brightly settling imprint on lids and
     know i could have kissed you like the sun that
  you would have burned up like i feared but
      you would have been reborn from ash and
         in ash we would have found that smoky rut so

   i close my eyes, and i whisper to the wind.

There was a moment when he felt the flight,
when rustic rumbles underpinned his voice,
and like some slick and unfelt joy, fled truth.
Hold tight! Hold tight! O knavish trucksy tongue,
that hides some trifling thing from her mind’s light,
Hold tight! And for one moment, let it lie,

else of that love so strong you’ll build a lie
which trickles, ambles, down a hill so slight,
and still for so long gathers, feels so light.
Yet day by day he hears his traitor voice
and feels the serpent fork of his red tongue,
that licks and laps at crumbles still of truth.

To tell the truth–I’ll tell you now the truth:
he never meant to start it with a lie.
But when he saw her parted lips and tongue,
the way her shoulders slumped just oh-so-slight,
and heard the minstrel dulcet of her voice,
he could no longer live outside her light.

And so of past and passing times made light,
as though in joy he could still smother truth,
by adamant refusal to give voice
to all that deeply buried then did lie.
And if the peeks of harshest then were slight,
he’d glide them over with that golden tongue.

Rejoice as woven reeds spring forth from tongue,
and untruths breed like rays of dappled light.
As mountains roar in cascades born of slight,
and slipp’ry straying from the path of truth.
The child of a lie must be a lie,
the silence of my youth destroys my voice.

So when at last she fine’ly found her voice
it was to strip him bare with her keen tongue–
although she never knew the seedling lie.
And when one day she found her heart alight,
what ended it for her was simple truth:
that how in spite of love he seemed so slight.

His voice was tuned to dampen all his light,
as tongue wove wicker walls where once was truth,
and from that slight turn, life, became a lie.