Will Listen: No Cost, No Catch

[1]

my middle american city, small downtown, clear
pockmark free pavement and brickface, uncrowded
air above symmetrical city streetlines, here

light moves through the empty body-space
of soldiers somewhere abroad: deep desert,
sandstorm weathered rocks, scorpion-faced

and falling ever into sand, slipping
toward the autoclavic center, molten back
again eternal, ephemeral: 'burn' is not enough;

creases formed in the coarse fabric, time
coheres around the pink rose bloom, dissipate,
the accretion of ash unfolds the mountain flat

and ripples someplace in the oceanic dark;
scour the chalk flaked pages, the water-written books
for an eschaton's coordinates, the map-point of safety

that hides in your body, embedded beneath skin
and spirit bespoke by imperceptible growth
of trees rising from the moss and muckgrass;

as the millimeter bug clings to the coffeemug,
twenty times toeing the porcelain perimeter
above the steaming black, so too you return my stare

with quiet constancy; bodhisattva peace amidst the city-rush
laps against the shoreline of your soul, whispering
through your ventricles, a rebellion of quietude;

with warm bread, ballast and seafoam
we unfetter ourselves into breath, evanesce out
capacious and comfortable in our negative capacity

[2]

I broke from the tenets of the city,
washed myself up on a black sanded shore

and then I made way, I carved
a space in the air for my body,

moved about among the tree branch,
slid down the water-rivulets worn into rock

only to wake in a sun-lit forest
of people contiguous as quilt;

the acorn's center, the foot-clapped pavement
hum something sorcerous, framed from inside

as the tree-bark hides an outward expanse,
as under us air around arrowroot gloams;

some substance half outside of me sings
and spurs a nascent sentiment

like washing your hands in warm water,
like familiar arms round the waist—

let yourself glory in the opening day

Learning to Destroy the Teacher

[1]
I call myself out from hiding, I call to the things between, the things found
when mid-summer springs forth, the flaxseed sprouting in open field,
laying lull of lilacs in the breeze, bowing their Tyrian purple crowns—
Be not modest you luscious kings of fields unwoven!
Be not modest you who reads me in time unseen! I have felt
your diaphanous span, felt the humming of your inevitable arrival, it is not
a gift unwarranted, it is not much more than mine, not much less.
What wonders of your world surround you of which I know nothing?
What wonders of your world surround you of which you know nothing?
Do not shy away from your sovereignty over encounter, shy not from the singularity of our span,
from the kitchen mouse scurrying frantic over the tiles, fleeing the head servant's cleaver,
from the fields of corn towering toward gray sky, waving briskly before the coming storm,
from the oaken wardrobe, crafted by warm and rough-worn hands the color of cinnamon,
from the children playing on mounds of snow, bundled warmly by mothers and fathers,
from the riverbank's silt-lined shore, otters rolling in the gray-brown muck,
from the young ladies dressed for Friday, laughing their way into the taxicab together,
from the sound of a hunter's footsteps, crunching quietly over fresh snow in the forest,
from the stillborn's mother, her sobs echoing over the heavy arms wrapped around her body,
from the crash of football helmets, the flexing muscles pushing against, the stress and competition,
from the flight of a sparrow, pointed light looped line across the billowing sky.

[2]
On the Michiganian shoreline I spread myself wide and invite the day, I pause
to call out to you who stops not at the lake, who hurries past holding your hat to your head in the wind
and say I do not despise you in your rush, I too know the ebb and pull of business affairs;
I go with you down the steps of the subway, elbowing through, swiping your card at the turnstile,
waiting and crowding in toward the 4 train as it screeches to a halt, doors close, slowly forward, faster, the sway of the car, the muffled music from headphones turned high, the stops and new people, the shuffling
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feet and newspapers, the people looking up, around, the eyes turned only toward shoes, the novels'
pages fluttering between delicate hands, the eventual halt and final arrival; in Tribeca we rise up
into the open air, my spirit lagging behind to admire the height of skyscrapers, running to catch up,
ascending the marble steps, nodding as you do to the receptionist who's wearing his inerrant smile,
tallying on your phone the tasks for today, chatting baseball with the elevator steward as we climb.
This is the accomplished man, well-fed, smartly dressed, a fine suit, an overcoat for rain,
not unshapely, well-shaven, going home to enjoy a cigar by the fireplace, collar unbuttoned, tie loose
and perhaps a fine red wine, perhaps a sniff of bourbon, all the while clear headed and content.
This is the destitute, yellowed nails long and brittle, head bowed beneath the bridge, frayed and
molding blanket draped over sagging shoulders, the rainwater pooling black at his sides.
This is the sunshine on your skin, the heat and color, the squinting to see, the ethereal blanket of warmth.
This is the mouse caught in the trap, its fur fraying and ruffled from the struggle, eyes wide and
voice shrilly calling to no one, neck half-broken by the wire, vision fading from us like a dimming lamp.

[3]
I speak for you who does not speak, you whose voice is caught somewhere, I unlock
the latches on your chains, give gladly water and bread, I slide some solidifying
secret under your tongue, there it starts to vibrate and resound with something not quite unsaid.
Who can tell you you're done? Stop and sit with me by the rough water's edge or
by the bar in the dimlit tavern, here the beer is hearty, quiet music's playing and I'm in no hurry.
Where are you going? Where have we been? I pray you; stop trying to close your borders,
what is open is open. There's nowhere you aren't that you're essentially
supposed to be. Let's have another drink, linger here away from the chilling evening air, bathing
in the glow and warm smell of small candles encased in frosted glass, flickering back 'gainst the woodwork.
Share with me a few more of your readied words, your deathless stories. These are weighty, real, these
are not the last words. There are no last words for the way the dusk-glow that ripples over the horizon
melts into the star-birthing nightsky overhead, no words for the way you carry your
laughter in groups, your contemplative nights in moonlight through a window, your running in youth,
the first bed you'd ever shared, somewhere within you—vibrating like the eyes of a Bengal Tiger, everystep.