Seaside

There was a freezing wind along the Oregon coast and the birds rested there
There in the saturated coastal air.
Two boys sat on logs near the water
And played songs to summon tsunamis
To crush the town that has kept them
Strumming songs about the road.
They sang for waves to send them floating
Across the continent, where they can sing
First for the ocean, then the sunflowers,
The tornadoes, the hurricane and finally
The apple orchards.
There the boys sit,
Playing their tsunami songs
Summoning the end of their stay
On the beach at Newport Bay.

Soma

A forked path, divergent in a wood.
one, a landscape of wooden men
who love to build fires from their arms
burning the inside first, then the out
my path is birch, all bark and no bite
burning bright and quick
and leaves little left for the beefeater to warm himself
(warmth is what you need when you live only in time)
Alas, eternity has its price
for I have taken the high(er) path
and it has made all the difference

Prophylactics Keep Us Clean

After daylight savings time
but before the first snowfall
night doesn’t last
so long as we’re up for it,
huddled close.

And life isn’t that bad
when spent in twin sized beds
with naked strangers. Sober
(“So long as your okay with it”) one
asks to hold my hand.

A whole season comes and ends
and said stranger becomes a friend
as a confusing haze dawns a question,
“So long as we’re both alone....”
A squalid love is formed.

And a year later, after I meet her family
I can’t stop seeing her mother while
she's on her back and coming hard.
“So long as you’re cool with it,” I ask
if she can start to straighten her hair

But our once pleasurable sex turns
vanilla at best and reaps sorrowful
results huddled close
(“So long as we work for it”) we agree,
something needs to change.

And then nothing begins to make sense.
And mascara stains twin sized beds.
And what ever happened to true romance?
“So long as we’re both upset,” she starts
and confesses she's three months pregnant.

How can it not?

After "Nothing changes, I suppose"

When he left to walk
into that oak door,
he left it half open
as if to welcome the rest of us
into the roomy comfort
of pictures, no regrets,
no age, no tired eyes,
no hangover mornings,
no embarrassing drunks.

We took note of the impact
face up, rain down
it was stupid
and stubborn
and selfish, right?

The night after we
tapped his forehead with
crucifix and sang
a couple of down-tempo songs
(echoing in the vaulted ceilings),
we armed ourselves
with strength in numbers
together
and drank, like Mitch had
that morning
before the funeral.

Smile?
He went home early
and frequently
I think he was the only
one that really
got it.

Amen

I am my own god
and therefore the only truth.
So, here it seems as though
the holy life is one alone.

I look up to
the late fall sky
(the mirrored pond
placid now, rests
among the buildings high)
and see my face
smile to the sky-
as-sea, -as-mirror
or -as-clouds.
A window bright
with sun and dust
reflects my God as
pure and just
and right.

The holiest nights I am alone
with saints: appendages all my own,
and light a candle- vigil's smoke
now darkens holy Narcissus' home.