Places Who We Are Today

Well, no, we are not Jews, but
We do know the same
God—4 letters—Mr. Quad
Fourier, Four, Yeah—Way
Way out there:
We are the thirteenth
Tribe,
&
Where
We
Belong
Is
Anywhere
But
Israel.

That sun—over there—never
sets on Thirteenth Soil;
The House Of The Rising Sun
Rests upon the Midnight Dawn.

Bullet of absolute heat and
Prayer could and blue and
Absolute Zero—Kelvin, Kevin,
Calvin, Calvery, Cross, Compact
Ranbow, Double Blue, Racked
Red like pool table cues and Green
Verdant Velvet
—if you please—
Rolling roiling brawling battle

Love is love is love
Love is, was, and forever shall be
Love is.
Viva las—
Viva de colores—

Que Vive Le Roi!

Ruddy red
Raspberry Supernova Red
Cherry creek-in-show red
My main militant Ulysses, I still
Stand here, waiting for our
Red Rapture.

Less Here

Like the clotted sky as it strains in its weight,
and loses itself in bits, as rain —
Like the grain by grain march of sand off the bar
as each rolls to the ocean floor—

Like the wood core of the log and the flame,
the embers that smolder through years of rings—

So are all my moments with you.

Last week when you brushed against my shoulder,
I think I lost at least a year, and
Two days ago, just talking, your voice grabbed me just so
—I forgot what listening to anyone else was, and

Then just last night again, I think I told a random joke, you laughed,
and I forgot everything I thought I needed to say.

I am always forgetting myself these days.

The minutes between our meetings pass as moments then hours
then days, the distance between us shrinks and swells like the tides
at the call of the moon, and my thoughts turn back to you like a
rabbit to a secret hole just before the fangs catch.

I can’t even imagine who I am anymore.

Let’s breathe me away like desperate divers on their last tank,
let’s set me alight like a midnight flare on the desert floor,
let’s rev me, race me, plunge me down the freeway until
fumes and speed and steel are all that’s left.

Hold me, please, until I’m
less here

Elegy

I

This was supposed to be—

—this was supposed—

    —this—

And when I hear an echo

    Through but your voice—

When I hear you hear yourself

Through the words that we find together

    Across this poem, that poem, my

Line, your

Rhyme, your

Return of my words back and better than

When they left me—this was

Supposed to be—

II

A lone feather in the wind

Becomes

Like the last condor in a sky;

It becomes the soft flutter

And cry and echo

Of the shadow sky empire

Of condors now past—

The skies were once so full

Of distant majesty, of promise

But promise now somehow

—broken—

As though God himself gave up and

Took all his condors back, and went home.

III

This was supposed to be

My elegy for you.

This was supposed to be

About you, and us.

The future was supposed to be

About you, and an elegy for me

Written by your son.

The future was supposed

To be mourning the forgetting

Of me.

This was supposed to be an elegy about me,

Written by your son, ten or twenty

Years from now.

IV

This was supposed to be the poem

I would never write

—an elegy for my son—

Lord, I am not worthy—

Poems like feathers

Collected from the beach sands and

If you didn’t stitch the feathers

And left your son only wax, then

—I am sorry—

—I am sorry—

—I am—

This wasn’t supposed to have to be

My elegy for you.