Tuesday, October 1, 2013

bow and arrow

when i was ten years old, 
my parents gifted me a bow and arrow. 
christmas eve, 1997 
i became the most untamed human in suburbia lantana,
forever dressed in a bare chest and boyhood, 
this forty-five pound, 
slightly camouflaged compound bow, 
wedded my left hand;
with the round tipped aluminum arrows, 
quivered tightly inside the back right pocket of my blue jeans; 
their, solid colored feathers
brushing between my shoulder blades as i prowled the living room, 
i was 
an imagination
to be reckoned with. 

it nearly took my father's every breath to keep me indoors til’ morning,
and i remember the drive with my mother out to wellington, 
to pick up the three hay bales, 
that would stand behind a foam target 
and catch stray arrows.
i appeased my parents,
shooting at that foam target,
but all eternity knows i really aimed at much more fabled prey.

after school
i would rehearse, 
religiously 
in the backyard, 
like my future as robin hood depended on it; 
i imagined these scenarios in which 
i’d be selected out of a crowded arena
to step down onto the floor 
and shoot one arrow 
for the chance to save everybody's lives. 
i rescued and lost millions daily,
but always ended with triumph, 
and together with the rejoicing masses 
we’d tramp back into the porch
to celebrate with a bottled root beer   

sixteen years later,
my bow gathers dust on the top shelf of my parents garage;
and its string 
has most likely rotted;
but every so often, 
on nights my arena 
is crowded with a pretty laugh
and sea eyes,
i remember with envy 
how confidently 
i use to draw back that string to my right cheek,
aim and let fly,  
arrow to hay bale,
arrow to fencepost, 
arrow to neighbors yard, 
as if my ability to hit the bullseye 
had all afternoon to wait for the back pocket full of my best tries;
after all,
i only need one
the sun sets long in my daydreams, 
and she said a root beer sounds really good right about now. 

Saturday, September 21, 2013

A pleasure to meet you Fiona

I thought it was scientifically impossible to love two people more, until they became three, and before I knew it I was being introduced to their baby girl; as if God reached into my heart and made it exponentially bigger to fit each and every one of her red hairs and one month old tears to be rocked to sleep against her mothers chest, inside.

In 5 days they leave for Edinburgh; and to borrow the words of Zach himself, its rough that I don't know when I'll see you next. So I'll pray god willing and godspeed to you three; I hope soon we'll make four and tea in your wood floored Scottish living room.


It was a pleasure to meet you Fiona. You have the best parents a baby could ask for. Someday you'll know that; and I hope I can tell you about the time your mom called me, and said, "I just couldn't keep it inside Mike;" and the night your pops couldn't sleep, and in the 2 am Florida darkness of our living room, said he couldn't leave town without her knowing he was a changed man. 

You are the daughter of a great love story, best one I know. 

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

"look at the cathedrals"



“you know what we need right now Mikey? 
a joint.” 
he said it naturally, 
as if it were less his thought, and 
more his reaction, 
like he meant it; 
meant it louder than the honking of the passing street busses; 
and louder than the laughter of school girls 
impressing school boys. 

i’d just finished telling him why 
i needed to turn down his offer to lunch, 
my stomach, 
had been bothering me all weekend, 
and it were no different 
as we pulled into the parking lot near the largest 
outdoor shopping mall in san salvador; 
my bus stop;
i just wanted to get back to the farm and sleep. 

“god put the treasure in the soil, 
you just remember that,” 
and i would, 
i told him so, 
truth was i wished i did smoke weed, 
just so i wouldn’t have to tell him no 
when he cared so deeply, 
but i try to follow the laws i can, 

“they don’t know what people really need Mikey, 
they ban this here, god-given thing, 
meanwhile capitalism is a free market;
and the devil struts about, 
shouting: look at the cathedrals!
just look at 'em Mikey, 
all around us
pointing to heaven like middle fingers. 
jesus christ, 
at least we have the cigars, 
grab the cigars Mikey, 
really, 
i bought them in Guatemala.” 

and we did have cigars, 
old cigars 
dried out from a glove box 
and summer,
but the difference didn’t phase me, 
it seldom does, 
our gap of forty years
bridged by sunday sun and smoke billows;
i rested my arm on the downed window 
and forgot about my stomach, 
i wouldn't forget the day. 

a year later Eddy Brooks, 
you’re still a good man in my book. 

Friday, September 6, 2013

when angels take wings - a cover



by Alexander Alan Kaiser

the lump in my throat won't go away 
so i just whisper 
the name upon the stone 
that marks the fresh turned georgia clay 
like a flower on a hill 
she bloomed in beauty for a season 
the fragrance of her life 
like sweet perfume lingers on 

when angels take wings 
and fly away 
makes you lonely makes you blue 
makes you want to fly away too 
i know my babe 
is in heaven with jesus 
children sing 
children play 
life goes on it'll be ok 
still nothing i do feels right today 
when angels take wings 

she was my sweetheart
since we met in junior high school 
kept my promise to her daddy 
i'd respect his little girl 
like a sun that sets 
goes out of sight 
leaves a red glow hanging up against the night 
how to say goodbye 
to one you planned to love forever 

she was the one to paint a rainbow after the storm 
her love was the fire that kept me warm 
she was like heaven on earth in my heart in my home 
who would have thought 
she'd fly away so soon 

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

from here to there, like me to her

some days your 26 years 
fit within a metaphor, 
most nights a rainstorm is a rainstorm 

it is mid august in El Salvador and, 
no matter how much you grow to love 
and respect the rain
it will fuck you;
at a time when you just didn’t need it to; 
and 70 km away from home, 
with no cover to park your bike under,
you wonder, why did i even attempt this?
because to love 
isn’t brave,
it’s foolish;
wanting good for someone else 
more than you want yourself
runs against 
the very skin 
i am wearing,
and i know so 
because every time i feel it,
i wonder, why would she ever do that for me?


and little by little 
here to there 
seems less like 
something to work out or endure 
and more like 
everything i’m moving toward;
and so another meter homeward,
into the lightning that is dancing through the storm clouds 
like promised rain and self doubt,
and 
wearing all of it,
like wetness and distance,
i tie wishes to the red kites that are her affections, 
and fly moonlight into dark skies,
like candle flames; 
the wind is an old friend  
and he holds them in view,  
like promises
and all i ever needed to come find you; 

some days your life fits inside a metaphor, 
tonight, i ran into a rainstorm; 
either or, 
i wouldn’t change a thing from here to there.  

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

for brother

for the first time in 80 minutes
i was conscious of the refrigerator’s humming, 
of the beetles wings clicking, 
and the rain, 
falling more like loose rocks and pin drops
a thousand cracks, 
a thousand crashing reminders, 
to listen before speaking;
to substitute my commentary 
for brother i believe you 
brother i can see you, 
brighter than two million 
glowing kitchen windows 
passed on my walk home, 
when i promised that tomorrow 
i’d be less of myself, 
i guess we talked before morning, 
damnit,
can i swallow all that vomit, 
and move trigger fingers from my throat
to the guns that fire love songs? 

so i drew a deep breathe
and held it long enough to smother 
the demons running rampant in my gut,
brother hear me:
you are not for sale, 
even though my (love-for-self) is rich as hell.

(if souls are museums,
walled with unfinished sketches and portraits,
or manuscripts of unpublished stories,
i’ll spend all my sincerety’s fortune
searching for the only ticket to your opening day,
or a swallowable printing press.

we never felt like finished products
more like rough drafts 
works in progress
scratched through with red pens and edits
like elementary school teachers' reminders to indent; 
as if our reality's majority 
was lived within the typos and the x’ed outs).

we are simply hearts of fireball hopes 
throbbing inside of barbed wire chests; 
but i saw fence posts in the truck
and we both know empty fields to be therapeutic; 
to meet half way, 
to let our wildest - unfinished - touched up - ever changing -
missing color - missing words - dreams
collide beneath a florida sky,
and be what they are, 
'called by their right name;'
tonight, 
we’ll build new cages for aged fears 
and promise to let them starve to death, 
we never wanted to be shepherds of our own nightmares;
and if we start now
we can make it to the i'm sorries;
and still get to work by morning;  
tomorrow, 
we keep building.

brother, 
i don’t have all the answers, 
so only ask me if i love you, 
because i do know that one.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Vrsar

i was not born a magician,
but i can skip stones,
so in a way
these hands and wrists are more enchanting than you think.

the sea and pebbled shore
crack and click beneath my shoes like smooth marbles. 
i walk the arches of the Croatian coastline
with purely my backpack and a heavy mind, 
the rounded peninsula near Vrsar 
expanding from my vision 
and aiming at the pair of islands on the horizon
like a wand 

i do not know any spells, 
so i collect a pocketful of flat stones
and let them gallop with my regrets
into the darker shades of deep, 
hoping their ripples will carry my apology 
back into rocks 
where you sit to let the shallow tide-pools and sunset 
bath your feet

the layer of clouds float and observe overhead, 
spraying mists of moisture 
and bullets of sunshine,
like machine gun fire, 
into my bare arms and chest 
as i undress
and prepare to launch my own body against the surface,
vanishing into the water
like a white dove

i was not born a magician 

but i can feel forgiveness, 
so in a way 
i do get to reappear after all.


Saturday, April 20, 2013

april 19

if i had a say in how the world spun today 
i’d power centripetal force to make the one hundred euros 
come, to the nigerian prostitute leaning outside my residence, 
from anywhere other than the penis of some traveling business man with a blue jacket. 

i never know what to speak other than hello as i pass, 
but she called out to me as i continued down the road 
so i turned and said, you just have to trust that this is all going to get better some day, 
and she simply answered, “i hope so.”

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

even the most placid edges of my father taught me that water is for diving

if i had a prayer
and i knew god could hear me, 
i'd ask never to be taken far from the sea. 

i learned young to swim;
gripping the neck of my father
as he dove again and again
along the smooth bottom 
of our south florida swimming pool; 
his stretched arms and legs
forcing the water backward, 
and both mine and his body forward 
like underwater human row boats;

coming up for air just in time 
for the exhale from my lungs 
through my upward pointing mouth 
to break the surface of the water
like the spout of a fin whale;

(i swear i still prefer to let held breathe 
burst open inside of me 
before unlocking my fingers from perceived toughness). 

even the most placid edges of my father taught me that water is for diving, 
lengths are for swimming, 
there and back and back again,
and little boys, for tossing as high and as far as splashably possible; 
that skin dries,
that the cliffs are never as high as they seem looking downward,
prior to jumping, 
that the river is always deep enough where trust has gone before,
that oxygen tastes better and better the longer we've been under,
and the cold and the fear are always forgotten when you're back home telling the story. 

the sea shows me her shores 
and i show her my shoes; 
we are kindred souls.  

april afternoon sings all the right songs,
and the mediterranean is just too beautiful to let her dance alone. 

Thursday, April 11, 2013

springtime

'everything happens for a reason' sounds better when said from the winning side; after a promotion, or some serendipitous meeting turns into everything wonderful. as if reason had it out for me all along and knew precisely when it’d hurt most to crash and burn, i wonder who coined the phrase, someone sipping champagne or another, not losing, only comforting someone who was; i’ll be honest it’s never my first thought. 

i sat down dock side at sunset, to uncoil a week’s knots from my subconscious; i coffee'd from thermos and cigarette’d my way into a good mood, only to no-ink-in-pen my way into a good laugh. i wonder if god knows at this moment, that the demons inside my head are already winning, and merely wanted to make me pause long enough to let the last rays of sunshine and  breeze from his finger tips, harvest them out and away from the core of my being. 

springtime is god’s way of saying, “alright everybody, you ready? i spent the last few months sculpting green grass, flowers and blue skies into the most beautiful thing on the planet;” as if god is in the 7th grade, and he’s the brightest kid at the science fair; and the judges, mr. rathgeb, and everyone, including his father, knows he’s going to cure something someday; and he pulls the sheet from his display, and you wonder, where does all that good come from? because you know it’s not inside of you, but somehow seeing it in person makes you believe in the hope that it just might, it just might some day.  

i am always curious how tears form so easily when i feel so thirsty inside. 

the sailboats are rocking, front to back, perpendicular to the crests of ripples rolling into the harbor; birds are singing off pitch, the clouds are percolating the first of a few stars, and my scarf is still laying on the ground beside me. 

two men in love kiss nearby; a little girl is holding her father’s hand; a mother is aware of her son peering into the water; and as each of them continues on down the boardwalk, i realize that our happiness, theirs and mine, is swelling inside of us from the same incoming tide, the same seaside, the same sun and one god. 

some days the things happening for a reason feel fantastic,
some nights you learn to measure healing from one cup of coffee to the second; 
but the creativity behind what makes day turn into night just won god first place at the science fair,  
his face is beaming, he receives his blue ribbon, 
and i cannot wait to celebrate with pizza afterwords. 

Sunday, April 7, 2013

o you live


if we collected all the cracks 
stepped over on the sidewalks walked
to make it home after days felt misread, 

and lined them into stencils 
shaping silhouettes for letters;
we could borrow colors from our fantasies
to paint the words 
‘o you live’ onto the soles of our shoes. 

we got tired of wearing down the earth 
with all the thoughts of she we locked inside ourselves, 
so instead we’ll decorate these hopes 
onto a direction
and pray she likes our penmanship.   

after all, maybe she is 
following at a distance everybody,
reading our steps,
like a book she keeps in the red knapsack she carries everywhere.
there is a spellbinding story behind you
and she is skilled at unscrambling insecurity.

believe me, 
most days we wish to paint more clearly, 
but i was too raw to spell ‘i love you’ 
and i only own one pair of shoes. 

so all days 
we, o you live across town
without a dime against the seaside,
with the seagulls and the carousels, 
into the bar playing Earl King, 
into the chair backed to a corner 
facing the arches
beneath the painting of a lady with a compass for a face
next to the group studying medicine and the three girls who can’t concentrate; 
me neither;  
only on nonsense and fairytales
every few seconds glancing up at the entrance way
to hope she’ll walk through and to our table, 
saying, 
“how dare you think yourself some french poet 
i only want the boy not fooling anyone.”

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

eyes

mine
stare holes 
through entire evenings;
it’s a shame 
i couldn’t do the same 
to whatever passed and future heartbreaks
were guarding your consistency

yours
stared whole 
into my sense of being; 
it’s a shame 
they all the same
cut me to puzzle pieces 
and left without a single picture of us 

if park benches had rewind
i'd replay cigarettes and white wine; 
when lightning 
reflected like tree roots
through yours and mine;
and we planted forests of the way i talked of brother
and gardens of your india by the sea in summer; 

if eyes are windows,
i'm still unplanting splinters 
from the years i stood too close 

Monday, April 1, 2013

selene selene (selene near the sea)

the only thing that will dry a rainy afternoon in venice,
is to pause for a cigarette 
and the girl reading something opposite the cafe.

i was nervous to ask your name
because i knew it'd be a hard one to let go. 

i asked, 
why aren't you wearing your crown today; 
you answered: what? so i said, 
never mind. 

who are you?  you asked.
i told you the wind,
and you thought about it for a second. 

do i know any french? 
only how to smile,
but you'll have to wait until you know me well enough to hear it. 

we were, 
seated next to a window 
bordering the exposition of pastries and treats;
all the passerby's pressed their noses and grins against the glass, 
pressed their noses and nationalities into us;
snapping photos of the chocolate row boats and candy bananas;
i said, 
if you need proof that we're celebrities, 
check out the lady with the british flag umbrella. 

selene selene
are you naturally guarded, 
or are you purposefully attempting to make me want you desperately?
either way, i'm not bothered;
only be conscious that i will begin to love you. 

i've always known beautiful gets more colorful with time,
i just never knew a face could wear so many shades. 

you asked what i was writing down; 
and i told you, a good thought i do not want to forget. 
you inquired if you could see; 
so i said: always, 
there are mirrors everywhere.

maybe you are perfect, 
maybe i just imagine so in the story i'm telling. 
whichever is true; i'm fine with the reality. 

you were never flesh and bone 
until you let me walk you home. 
i was cold the entire way; 
but you looked back as we parted, and that felt really good inside. 

-----

(people question if i have a love life, 
and i tell them, only with the ghosts. 
no a real one? they say.
well then yes surely, 
we all feel the rain, don't we)? 

-----

i suppose love is like Venice:
i'm never quite sure if i'm lost or found, 
but it's always near the sea. 

Saturday, March 30, 2013

Elsa

the little girl dancing 
in red rain boots is beautiful. 
her blonde hair 
bounces with her feral foot steps 
and she giggles like she knows god. 

she offers me a french fry, 
and when i chomp down 
like some savage, 
she completely loses control. 
she cannot have more than two years, 
and yet she and I 
have been running in a field called playful 
for centuries, and all morning. 
her nanny speaks spanish. 
we have the same level. 
cual es tu color favorito?
and she tells me. 
(if the world spoke as children; 
the only thing we'd be lacking in the lives we lived 
would be theories on how to do so). 

she is unpredictable. 
her mind is mapless. 
she slides, 
hands first, 
up and down the cafe stairs like fingers on a piano. 
the entire room is resounding in the melody of her exultation. 
i am singing along. 
she is back for more. 

she launches 
onto the booth seat next to her mother. 
her father, reaches a hand to catch a potential tumble backwards, 
but only instinctually. 
they continue speaking. 
she is on parade. 
she tramples my books and things. 
her destruction is unwavering, (as are pardons to the joyfully accidental). 
i speak quietly to the apologetic mother.
there are countless pens, journals and rucksacks in Germany. 
there is only one radiant - red rain boot dancing Elsa. 
thank you.

............

a solitary coffee is, at times, like a companionship eviction notice. 
when i finished this one, this morning, 
i saw god in the dregs. 
he doesn't always look like the paintings, but he does look like we need him to.

some day, 
Elsa will organize her dancing. 
always, 
Munich will smile 
from march winter and thursday morning;
at least at me anyway. 

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

were i a hummingbird

were i a hummingbird 
i’d hover,
over earth until guilty verdicts 
reverberated from the laws of gravity; 
(i were sentenced to freedom 
from the day i learned to fly).

were i a hummingbird 
i’d make home 
of your garden, 
(the green and golds of living room, 
steeped in afternoon and iridescence
percolating through the trellis 
to the terrace where you bathed),

were i a hummingbird 
i’d live 
swiftly, 
so swiftly you did hear my colors 
writing songs through your lantana. 

were i a hummingbird 
i'd flicker,
into summer and through asia,
like the interweaving lines of your left palm 
re(a)d,
and out from every single one of your fingertips. 

were i a hummingbird 
i’d return, 
today, and every today after.

were i a hummingbird 
i'd hope, 
she were hearing,
i'd hope she were seeing
she were smiling ,
i'd hope that she were nearing
i'd hope she were
were i a hummingbird,
(and she would be).

Sunday, March 24, 2013

castles and archers

let me start this over 
my hands are flailing dangerously
you know how terribly i want to be somebody else 
convince me that it's worth it to remain exactly who i am;
i saw a movie once, where a boy loved a girl before leaving on a journey 
and i thought to be a movie scene, 
without letting myself believe that reality doesn’t fit so comfortably into the back seat;
break the merits 
i am holding myself up against 
cut them, like ribbons and sheets
with kisses to my cheeks  
a thousand plus a thousand, 
please,
these medals do break apart 
and i will, let my stars down, 
lord knows i need a hand from time to time 
in mine, without letting go 
when stumbling how are you’s 
and questions that I shouldn’t,
can you blame me 
have you seen how beautiful you are;
trust me 
i never intended to let my confidence of its leash
out the window and down alley ways,
it is more stubborn than you are, 
and it doesn’t listen to my reasons anymore; 
only to the queen it made of you the first night we walked alone,
speak to me 
tell me a story 
i know it’s cold outside
but theres a fire building inside my chest 
and i’m only away collecting sticks to burn

when god made you, he put strength, 
like castles and archers, behind your eyes;
he put oceans behind mine, 
and you said you loved the way my insides flow, 
but they didn’t support you tip-toes when you tried to step into my soul
good thing its spring, she said
i hope the waters warm