Hope Remains

The Used Bookstore

I cross a threshold
no one greets me
with fake smiles
"Welcome in y'all!"s

The first person I see
a middle aged woman
makes eye contact
nods silently

There's an ancient energy in this
sad little strip mall
only half a century old,
but alive with memory

I'm not looking for anything
yet I always find
exactly
what I'm not looking for

A handwritten note
"To Clara:
My best friend gave this to me
and I hope you find it
as beautiful as I did.
Aunt Maggie,
17 September, 1963"

"Happy Birthday Mark!"
an inscription
from the author himself!
"May you enjoy reading it
as much as I enjoyed writing it"

Sometimes you encounter amusing notes 
scrawled in the margin with disdain
"Wtf is he talking about?!"
"Ummm, ew.  No."
"What woman would ever sleep with this troll?"
Yep.  You guessed it.
Bukowski.

I almost never try before I buy
I'm entranced upon entry
drawn 
to what I need

That one
full of memory
pages, a yellowy tan
thick, expertly crafted

A treasure
made to endure
the words match the page

No scientist
no engineer
can replicate this
because it is the magic of memory

Revealing our fate
a tarot pull
we don't choose the card
it is drawn from us

Poison
from a wound
Water
from a well

I carry my destiny to the front
an old man looks over my selections
feeling their weight
appraising their worth

He gives a "Hmmm"
and an "Ohhhh"
as if he just now remembered
that he had them

"$25" he says
"Are you sure?" I reply
"As a matter of fact, I'm not,
let me as my accountant...
Hey!  Luke!"

The old, blind dog
soaking up sun
lifts his weary head
"Is $25 alright?"

The golden retriever in his golden year
looks beyond us
through the twilight veil upon him
his cloudy eyes twinkle a chocolate constellation

He blinks the stars away
licks his muzzle and lays his head down
by the time we return to this place
he'll be finished remembering
"$25 it is."

As I walk toward the door
treasures in hand
I remember
I remember

Days like today

The sun crests the ridgeline just about seven
the morning air nips playfully
and smoky mountain steam shrouds us
in a wispy embrace
its tender caress endows us with a buzz 
better than any drug

Half past high noon sun simmers
a comfortable sixty-seven
sparse clouds show us the softer side
a lazy breeze does just enough to get by
the pale green bottoms of leaves
cut the glare from their waxy tops
tree bark forms a living mosaic 
no tile can touch

Touch them
feel them grow by the second
down into darkness
and up toward the light
slow swaying limbs
soft, flowing, fixed and firm
all at once

The acorns are falling
the greens are turning yellow on mountain peaks
and evening rain imbues a hard world
with a magical glimmer
taking the edge from even the sharpest pain
the grasses stand at attention
swell with life
and days like today
make it all seem worth it

I get it

I get why people think
God exists
beyond childhood indoctrination
and fear of death
Stop for a moment and look around

Clouds make no fucking sense
How can they look like dragons
and cocks and turtles
and marshmallows?
How can they capture us
enrapture us
with only air, water, and light?

Think of the atmosphere!
Yet another inanity
the universe expects us to accept
We're zippin' around the cosmos 
at 90 miles a second
and the air that is necessary for all life
just fucking chills
Doesn't get blasted into space because...
Science?

The energy from the sun
is powerful enough to be converted
a dozen times over
losing energy with every conversion
and yet
there is still more than enough
to sustain all life

It appears as if this entire world
was made perfectly for us
and I finally see
how people could think
Eternal Love
is how all this
came to be

Best

Let it go; Let it fly
way away; let it die

Let it go; Let it rest
its just a person
doing its best

Pin Oak

Every time I look out my window
I see a sad Ent staring back at me
a pin oak with a face made from pruning scars
he drops clusters of leaves by the branch
stripped bare
prepared for pruning
ready to bleed, scab, heal
carry the scar that is left

He is not revered like his brother
the peerless white
coveted by all that build or craft
shipwrights, carpenters
the Church, once
the Amish, still
his beauty, durability, strength
and general quality of being exceptional
in every way
marks him a picture of perfection
each piece serving a purpose
every plank, prime lumber
the prized child
pompous and pure

Nor can he compare to his other brother
the towering red 
that steals the show wherever he grows
He reaches toward the heavens
with regal crown and cathedral grain
marking him as holy
worthy of reverence
No mark can mar him
No force can fell him
Untouchable and indomitable
heir to the kingdom

The sad Ent does not aspire to such things
He soldiers on, unadored
adorned with pockmarks and shabby limbs
that cause some to exclaim
"What an eyesore!"
And yet his eyes meeting mine
do not seem sore
No malice lingers there

He grows in conditions his brothers
dare not suffer
Planted in poorly drained, compacted soil
his roots require strength 
his brothers could scarcely imagine
His leaves breath in the toxic smog
we breathe out
of cars, buildings, bodies
sparing us the worst of its effect
Every dropped leaf, bare branch, and pruning scar
a silent psalm of sacrifice

He grows quickly, lean, and gnarly
the burdens of surviving this harsh upbringing
He will never be revered or adored
never be greater than what he is
Yet still, he dances
soft, light, and lean
his branches sway at the slightest touch
tendrils of leafy life
spiral and swing 
in currents of green

He dies young
younger than his brothers
scarred
scared of losing one second of self-
sacrifice
His eyes, stiff and wooden
bear a depth of feeling felt only by his kin
He sees me
I see Him
A communion renders us both
whole for a moment
lost 
in love and life

They fly anyway

Leaves whirl by
scrape the sidewalk
blown by forces 
beyond their reckoning

They don't know
they're dead.
Like ghosts whispering on the breeze
they fly anyway...

These Bodies

These bodies are alive with memories
those sparks of existence
that find us and link us
that ancient resonance rippling
traveling through time
teaching us toward eternity

These bodies decay like furtive fens
filled with futility
fading fragments of flesh that confess
we chose to fall 
to cling to what's left
a bog where all life
comes from death

These bodies tend delicate networks
neural feedback loops entwined
tenuous connections held
only by hope
threatening to unravel
with every touch

These bodies look inward
toward divinity
finding depth 
only where shadows echo
our cravings and our crimes
haunt us even in the light

These bodies follow sensuous curves
meander toward paradise
This mortal flesh lives
everything we were
are
one day will be

These bodies are strange gifts indeed

Everything

Every act in an unjust world 
is an opportunity 
for rebellion
for hope, for love
for the future

Every dollar spent funds another war
against disease, against hunger
against women, children, and the other(s)
spend it like life
depends on it

Every intention held tenderly
brought into the light
is manifest
as destiny
create life, always

Every moment of an ordinary life
can be magical
claim your power
wield it
whimsically

Every silence holds memory
Remember
who you are
what you've done
what you're meant to

every thing
is 
Everything

Rain on tin

There's nothing like the sound of rain on tin
or the crest of a trail
where the wind whips wild
there's nothing like the belly laugh
of an innocent child

There's nothing like linen
laying soft
on skin
nothing like following
every foolish whim

I much prefer the chaff to wheat
the dirt,
a trail beneath my feet
a path
that starts and ends with me
a heart that beats
like rain on tin

Home Is

"Home is where your rump rests" - Pumba, The Lion King

A sand-battered tent
beneath a fiery sunset
the squeaks of the sleeping pad
     and shrieks:
     "Would you stop flinging sand on me!"

A place your pup peppers you
with pitter patter paws
pouncing
like Simba on the Savannah

A hot pot on flames
the smell of curry
red beans and rice
Nawrocko's tacos

A moon man drinking in the sun
A sun gal winking at the moon
A crab abandoning his shell
A ram lowering her horns

Home is
everything the light touches
where all you gotta do
is shine

Studio 1

Death to Smoochy is the worst movie I’ve ever seen
despite seeing it in that enchanted place
The second place I told you, “I love you”
The first place I embraced it
The sound of tires spitting rain
off saturated streets
still quickens my pulse

Bittersweet

Slice a beet
watch it bleed
stain the cutting board
with blood so sweet
The taste of life
cannot be beat
The taking always
bittersweet

Treatise on Love

Love is what we feel when we touch
Love is what we touch when we heal
Love heals every pain we feel
Love is the pain of being parted
Love's the best part of the story we started
Love is the start of a heart on fire
Love is the fire that burns in every breath
Love is the breath that fills the spirit
Love's spirit is always present
  fully conscious
Love is conscious of being
Love is being
  who you were born to be
Love is born at the edge of a dream
Love is the dream at the end of a scene
Love is seen only when it seems
Impossible - Love is not
Love is every possibility
Love is the ability to see past hate
Love hates to be stuck in place
Love's place is hands and arms and lips
Love wins
Love wins
Love wins in the end

Love ends every story
Love stores every hope
Love hopes to be found
Love finds us out
pulls us to places we'd never find without
Love, without bound
Love is out of bounds
  through the ups and the downs
Love sticks with it
  through the brambles and the thickets
Love flits and it flies
  like a songbird in tune
Love sings and it cries
  asks every question and tells us no lies
Love lies in prairie grasses and fields of clover
Love is its gentle sway
  over and over

Love is over itself in moments of bliss
Love's bliss can be found in a single moment
  in a single kiss
Love's kiss is the truth we already know
Love knows when to hold us
  and when to let go
Love lets go
  not bound by itself
  not bound by time
Love's time is now
Love is the light
bright, shining
source of life
Love lives 

Long live love

Fertile Ground

There are many people in the world today
living without hope
I see you
truly

The hope that lives in me
that sings and flies
did not always have a home here
in this body, this strange gift

There was a time that I hated:
neighbors, friends, women, men
celebrities, politicians, actors, the condemned
the poor, the different, and on and on
but mostly
myself

It was a time of bitter toiling
alone, without hope
But something along the way changed
something erased the hate
little by little, it simply fell away
and I no long see competitors
conquests, tyrants or fools
idols, role models, or people I might lose
I see...

Vast, boundless, and unexplored 
unknowably beautiful worlds
the unbridled joy of discovering you
discovering me
I feel...
wonder, intrigue
endless possibility
and love
finally, love
the place where hope lives

As it turns out, 
hate is fertile ground
for hope unbound
springing from the remains
of hatred's bitter acrid taste
it doesn't fade away
it is transformed
when your time has come
to be reborn

I know at times its hard to see
I know right now, that maybe,
you can't believe
Doubt and fear are a part of this brief
beautiful existence
and I know one day
you'll be free to fly and sing
to hope
to hope against all things...

But until that day
that the hatred and the heartache
finally give way to healing
I have only one line worth saying

You are loved

Brilliant

For Gioia

You are brilliant
blinding, I'm beset
by your radiance
that never dulls or rests
My keenest words can't express
your dark-star depths
swallowing me whole
the brightest light can only bend
while you absorb and reflect

You are beautiful
beaming bliss, my only wish
I write your name
over and over on my bucket list
even this
baleful existence is rendered rapturous
your name upon my lips

The tip of my pen dances
to the sway of your hips
honied ink drips
Aphrodite's jealous - of you
my muse, my vigor, my truth
everything you do
makes me feel brand new

I don't tell you enough
every word of it true
I wish there were more of me
so that I could give even more 
to you

Create

Hope is an image
a work of art
that points toward a future
we hope we can start

We hope we can stop
all the pain and the tears
become what we hoped
forget all those wasted years

Call them our hated years
never-made-it years
couldn't-fake-it-anymore
we just-can't-take-it years...

But hope still lingers
still remains
a picture
a stain

Picture this:
abstain from hate
use your pent-up anger
and create

Pour your pain onto the page
watch the flooding rage abate
the space that you inhabit
can become the change you chase

Embrace your hardest moments
let the flooding rage abate
your fate is your future
the future you create

If you can hope it,
you can make it
write it, draw it
create it