Knowing nature Vs. Being nature

In an impressionist painting
the tiny dots of individual color
remain unblended
so that the human eye can learn
to form the shapes on its own accord
so that each person sees the shape
slightly different
but the painter's message is not lost,
just open for further interpretation.

In a novel
the editors strive to show each character
clearly
so that there is no confusion regarding
the nature of the man or woman
so that good and bad meet to form
a developing plot and clear moral,
a succinct message,
the only things really open for interpretation
are the individual
words.

A Lake in...

A glass of water motionless with ice
sits on a desk
amidst two months worth of dust

It wants little
on a coaster
It waits to be picked up

The sun rises
and glows hot on the unsuspecting ice
It distorts the image
of everything
beyond
the steadfast glass
Frozen
Now it wells up
with sweat

Somewhere outside
a cloud survives
the sun
A light goes on
above the quick
shrinking ice

Unlike plants and mammals
water doesn’t need
natural light
to grow
beneath the surface
of the earth
a myriad waterways
toss
and turn
uncharted land make paths
few gods will ever know

The cloud moves beyond
the now setting sun
A light goes out
allowing the moon
to illuminate a thing
motionless in itself

The glass is no longer cold
It's grown hot
lukewarm
and diluted
with small pieces of skin
that sat amongst
two month and one day old
dust.
The water waits

It wants not
what humans crave
It wants

Only to be left
quietly
as victim of the sun

A Response

After a lark
with a stranger
it grows earthy in the room
and our bodies stretch out
Rich tones, dew shine, a draft
dries the sweat

Outside,
a day laborer hammers the
brownstone across the street
It wakes us up
unexpectedly
and I can’t help but think
there is somewhere
and someone
I was supposed to be

In a sleepy confusion, she mocks my misstep
"You fool,” she laughs
“Those men don’t have enough money to be someone else”

It is quiet in the room
It has become so cold that I try to feign sleep
so I don’t have to
deal with
waking up in the afternoon

Steaklatechip Cookies Chapter 2

By the first week, Griffin had been annoyed by the lack of space in his car due to the aforementioned oversized dresser. Annoyed so much, in fact, that he decided to procrastinate no longer and take the damn thing apart. He had received it as a moving gift from his grandmother, along with a plate of the best meatballs this side of Genoa. Tawny had been on his case all week about the dresser, but when he suggested she take it apart, she merely acted annoyed and walked away. The hinges were rusty from the vapor of bruscetta and plate after plate of Christmas cookies, making it increasingly difficult to remove the sticky bolts and hinges. Without any help from Tawny, Griffin dismantled the beast and moved it piece by piece to their second floor abode. One flight of stairs felt like three.
Meanwhile, Sal was putting up his Ziggy Stardust poster, predominantly displayed opposite the bedroom doors.
Griffin, armed with the front left cabinet door, passes him. ‘That’s tacky dude.’
‘You’re tacky.’ Sal elaborated, ‘Its a reminder that today is it. That you don’t get another today until tomorrow, but that’s another story.’ Sal would not consider the significance of this until much later, when his story was quite another indeed.

It was the sunset of summer, of one to be forgotten, of one where the destination is unimportant, but the path is everything. The past few months had succumbed to the post-adolescent changes. Griffin sat on the stoop with his feet on the fallen tree. He thought about that day in the park, after school let out. He thought of Tawny; the way her fingers fell across her lap during economics. About five weeks before that day in the park, he sat beside her. He would never forget those fingers and the eyes that met his when she noticed his staring; they hinted at innocence hidden behind an ulterior motive. Those deep eyes were made deeper by then black hair killed him in the park that day.
‘go up and talk to her man, don’t be a pussy’ Sal urged between long drags of a cheap cigar.
Griffin was never good at these things. Everyone always told him to ‘act naturally’, but he could never be himself at times like these. What is ‘natural’ anyway? We’re creatures of habit, but also of circumstantial behavior. What is natural is what pertains to the moment. At this moment he naturally wanted a stiff drink. No such luck, Griffin. He whistled a relevant alice cooper song in his head with his hands in his pockets.
Tawny was like his first kiss in his parent’s basement. Yeah, Tawny was like that, but at the same time she wasn’t. The opposite showed through; even throughout her consistency she imposed on herself, she held a surprising amount of spontaneity. The monster truck tshirts and yearlong construction boots did not scare him anymore, nor did they define her character to him, like it did for others. He pushed the cigarette into the gravel and threw it into the flowerpot his mother had given him. Like his first cigarette at 16, his last had tasted of the pressure of others. Pressure to conform, pressure to perform. Tawny seemed immune of this. He thought it was just the motion of putting his hand to his mouth, but he needed it now. Vitamin N. He laughed at this to make light of the situation, out loud, for there was noone to hear. He did this too much; Trying to balance things. But balance is not performing.

Yet I Don't Know What to Do

After a fuck
with a loved one
it is quiet in the room
and our bodies stretch out
across each other
to dry the sweat.

Outside,
wind hammers the outer walls
rain slams against the windows.
It sounds violent
and tumultuous
and I can't help but think
there are cats
and dogs
that must be out there tonight.

In my comfort, I realize my shortsightedness.
"You fool," I laugh
"there are humans out there too."

It is quiet in the room.
It is so warm that I can stand naked
smoking a cigarette
comfortably.
There are people out there too.