Creation of Adam

At night, in bed, I close my eyes, and breathe:

one, two, inhale and hold, three, four, exhale.

I open eyes to darkness when I fail.

I want to calm my mind; I want to sleep.

My eyes adjust and I can see my hand.

My hand, a wonder in itself:  closed

or open:  magnificence in repose.

I ask who made this hand that I command?

My thoughts shift, I’m made aware of the air  

growing still around me; contracting my breath,

I shrink as the darkness shadows my stare

and all the universe rests on my chest.

In my canoe I trail my hand in the river.

I have seen the surface and felt the depth.

I touch fingers to palm and I shiver

With fear, close my eyes, and begin my breath.

What else can you do the moment you see

You are finite before infinity?

Here’s the truth, angel (My dog died.)

Part I

Here’s the truth, angel

Every damn loss the same

It hurts. There’s pain.

Here’s the truth, angel.

They gone, I’m here.

And that’s a fact.

Even if there's heaven, angel,

And they may in it,

I ain’t.

I here, hurtin’ --

Wishin’ it weren’t so.

I’m here alooo--ne again.

Pushin’ that damn rock

Up that damn hill. Stupid rock

Stupid hill.

Here’s the truth angel,

Every damn loss is the same

Part II

Angel, my heart is squeezed tight

Cinched in with it’s own little corset

Spurtin’ tears out my eyes.

Angel, my breath is short.

Shallow little breaths

Like I don’t want to breathe any of this here air.

‘Cause I don’t

I just as soon stop right here.

Stop breathin’.     Disappear.

Angel, I do got that choice

Being flat out myself. We all do.

… Do or die.

Part III

Here’s the truth, angel

I ain’t got the energy to die.

I dead enough already.

Do I need this, angel--

To love and be loved?

Angel, answer that true.

All the beds

I have been thinking about all the beds I have slept in.    

June 18-Oct 3: 41 away + 50 “home” = 91

Rising from the depths

of the pillow,

ensconced in a cocoon of white—

where am I?

Where is this bed?

Is it banked on a wall of brick?

Is there light filling the air

from the windows of my loft?

Do I hear fire truck sirens?

Or, nestled quietly,

is light seeping through my shutters;

is a fan whispering quietly overhead;

are happy doggies barking somewhere outside?

Do I hear an ambulance whaling?

Am I home or away?

Is it hotel room dark?

If so, is it in Rochester,

Rome or Bellagio?

Perhaps Nashville or Asheville.

Is it a cabin? Or a house?

Is it a twin or a queen?

Am I awake or asleep?

Is it a dream? Should I rouse?

Or when I open my eyes,

will I see the little window

showing me a bit of roof

and Norway spruce?

I have been so many places

these last 3 months.

I might as well have been

a musician on tour.

How long have I been asleep?

Evidently, not long enough.

This cozy bed is home.

I am staying right here.

All In

I find I love her.

My biographer.  Who wouldn’t?

So many important questions to ponder;

so many answers only I can give.

My thoughts are a gold mine.;

my travels, her outline.

She wants to know my soul,

my sins,  my giving in.

When I worry, she sees the slippery slope

when I succeed, she sees all mankind’s hope.

She records each word I breathe;

for this endeavor, I am challenged just to please.

I no longer want the book

I cede my secrets and my trust

to this wordsmith minister.

I want to spill every little thing to this, my listener.

All is naught, I cast it all aside.

To express my story, I lose myself--

too in love with the myth

my biographer and I create.

November 12^th, 2012

Unexpected gifts from Charleston to Chicago and Chicago to Charleston

Two fights up, two flights down

And I can’t hear.  I have airplane ear.

I have cotton in my ear,

It won’t clear.  I yawn,

but no pop do I hear.

What a nuisance; “I’m so sorry,”

the muffled sympathy roars.

I worry I’ll hear no more

Still dumbfounded

My head is stuffy and sore.

Hark, it seems I’ve lost my voice also.

“What? Come again,” they say,

Inside my head I bray--

But they tell me I speak so softly

It’s as if I’m far away.

And they are right. I feel apart.

There is a moat between us now

With loss of sound I can avow

It is no small thing to have a head full of fog

For a dimness of speech is also endowed.

Morning on the porch

This morning, the porch is strangely wet

Dampness having been everywhere

Yet, there was no storm last night.

The dog takes no notice

He sniffs attentive to the earth

Singularly focused as I am often not.

Encircled by this mystery of moisture

And surrounded by a lovely quiescence

I survey my world.

It is a new place here to take in

No fields of corn filled with snow

No Java Joe’s. It even smells different.

A friendless beginner, a babe

I am a tree rooted on a shoal in the ocean

Hoping sand will gather and make a beach.

The beach growing with each tide

Until it is a solid floating island in the sea of time

And I can plant my soul.

Returning from another Chicago Thanksgiving

Peering out my Canadair window at dusk,

we smoothly arc and bank the atmosphere.

I am almost home. I am almost here.

In velvet descent I see the gentle curve of creeks

curling the marshes under the pinkish air.

Ever nearer now, the stars of street lamps peek out there.

As the plane touches down it’s as if the wheels

receive an injection of terra firma. A jolting, squeal,
and then, out come the cell phones--