I wish to evaporate in a bolt of lightning
like Powder,
ambling through a field
at staggering velocity.
Unlike Powder,
I want a full mane of hair
lashing my cheeks in the wind,
kind of like the passenger’s seat
of a long ride.
This life
is a long ride.
It’s always a shame
when you hear about fatal accidents,
but suicides: those hold a grain of beauty,
because at least you know the person
got to choose the way their curtains would close.
I don’t claim to be an expert of death,
much more a friend of it,
a lover if you consider how often
it comes up in my thoughts,
like gray whales for air.
Gray whales share the same life span as humans,
but ten times the capacity to hold their breaths.
That’s the stretch with people.
We have a hard time holding things.
yes, i’ve the skin of a page,
see me be or seize this tree
& colorize me however you admire
whatever you’ll accept, except
if it’s white again,
i want substance,
& volume,
i want your thoughts
lodged in my margins,
don’t allow the color of your ink
to stop you, don’t even let
the borders stun your right
to write, aviate your pen
& my ears will catch every word,
my leaks will ingest your conviction
& embody your pain,
whatever you do,
don’t leave me be,
don’t leave me the same
God created short people and tall people, large people and small people, skinny people and fat people, black, yellow, red and white people. He has never indicated any preference for any one size, shape or color. Abraham Lincoln once said, “God must have loved the common people for he made so many of them.” He was wrong. There is no “common man” -no standardized, common pattern. He would have been nearer the truth had he said, “God must have loved uncommon people for he made so many of them.
— Maxwell Maltz
he taps the glass
of his booth’s jukebox
hard
so they look
& admire his selection
he makes marks in things
to leave a sign of himself
in something that lasts longer
than its memory or body;
in something’s body
that is also its memory
he’s yet to find ‘Home’ in diner menus
-the waitress is honest
says the coffee tastes like sand-
he imagines she memorizes his order
as she repeatedly writes ‘Help’
on her pad
her body looks like it chants
aboriginal songlines when run
under a record needle
teardrops of Altjira in her step
when she hands his drink to him
their fingers brush
they think nothing of the touch
if not a fleeting lust
because the transient
is more valuable
than the permanent
emotions do not stretch
an immortal distance
without persistent witness
& vivid mental visits
so he & the waitress
let it in
the breakdowns, break-ups,
& heartbreaks that led to this
the medieval measurement
of a moment
is a minute & thirty seconds
but that’s why
those times are gone
things matter
we feel more
he’s developed a patience
that’s almost like a prayer
that his food will never see
his side of the flapping doors
that every waitress will have used
tip-change to get on a bus
to anywhere
where they will find
men with laughter
they can unlace faith from
men with whom they’ll stitch skin
women empty their veins & visas for
you have options:
you can limit yourself to options
or think for yourself
this man has never felt so full
& so guilty for it
because the best things happen to him
when he doesn’t try
because he makes marks in things
& keeps his claws out of people
but neither last
so neither will his memory
making his memory
worth more
than forever
