fingerprints

it chokes you
like a python sucking the 
air from your diaphragm
like when you run
out of breath before

you finish a sentence.
like when you
can feel the heavy
weight of hell
on your shoulders when
you wake up
in the
morning,

in the morning,
you are solemn and
scared yet serene
you are focused but
your eyes dart
from place to shining
place and it

chokes you.  

1.

it shouts

the gallantry of green and
brown on hardened
heads and heavily armed
shoulders outlining the
smoky air

on fire with the dropping
of bombs on villages
and the pillaged

hometown hearts of

2.

thousands of Arab children
praying in the streets
like their daddies
taught them to when

they were young,

when there were no
metal men
dancing on their
grandparents’ graves

with the groove of a

3.

million flaming sunbeams

caressing the faces buried
in the sand

yes, buried in the sand are
the little treasures that
only show themselves

when no one is

4.

looking for them.

more valuable than oil
in the white palms of men
in suits in the background

far from the bullets but
indulgent in the
blood of war,

more costly than the
crimson hands

surrounding the throat
of God. 

There was this one time when a woman came up to me on the corner of 10th while I was waiting on the bus. She just walked over all somber and depressive and looked at me with tears in her eyes and said “how ya doin’?” How ya doin’. How are you doing. I’m grand, I love standing alone at the bus stop waiting on change to jump off the damn trolley and punch me in the face. Everything’s dandy.

“Fine, how are you?” I said.

She smiled a little and murmured “great,” and then she was quiet. She was silent in her greatness, I’m sure, because everything is always fine and polite and cordial and there’s never any emotional connection. She asked me how I was doing but it was an understood preface that she didn’t really care. She had her own problems, obviously, and it was also an understood preface that I didn’t care either. That’s how society flourishes, mutual indifference. If we took the time to care about each other we’ll be ripping apart the fabric of everything our parents and grandparents have built up. Life is laissez-faire. Every man for himself. That’s just how it should be. I’m not saying it’s lovely or nice or anything, I’m just saying it is. It simply exists in that way. 

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this stuff except to prove to you how completely full of shit everyone is. Or at least that’s what I used to think. I’m not so sure what I think anymore, to be honest, and I’m not even sure I want to know. All I know is this woman came up to me on the street one time, and she was obviously begging for attention, like she was calling out, “hey, you! Listen to me! I’m scared and broken and hurting just like you, you know, you’re not the only person alive, this city beats with the heavy hearts of millions of people, and every building is laced with the broken souls of everyone who passes by. You’re not so special, kid.”

But I ignored her. We always ignore. That’s who we are, ignorers. It’s like we get paid for it. I don’t even respond to myself anymore, I just walk on. And I’ll keep walking, and so will you, because we’re all just full of ourselves. We’re not full of shit, we’re full of ourselves. But we’re so empty at the same time. Still the city beats, and 10th street has my name written in its hall of fame. 

I would run a thousand miles just to feel your heart beating under my feet. And in every step I would feel you pulsating through my legs, up my spine and into the back of my brain. You are beautiful. You are in the aching of my lungs as I breathe. Deep, I breathe you in. You are oxygen. I think you’re sunlight. I think you’re the little drops of rain falling carelessly on a summer evening, cooling me, like the tears of God. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who could make God cry. And damn, sometimes I think you’re a metaphor, sometimes I think you’re a living cliche or an anecdote told to old friends over coffee. Sometimes I taste you in my coffee. 

Is it wrong for me to paste your picture onto sheets labeled lovely. Lovely, like the patterns that permeate the sky at sunset, like the opening and closing of bedroom doors and shower curtains and oversized hearts. I think you’re the tidal wave washing away my fears and pushing me off the edge of the world into one of our own. 

Tomorrow the bough will bend over its heart
and on the quiet eve of summer comes a purple song,
a staunch sound of angels in crisp harmony with ships
sailing in and out of crowds of masked people
making art with the blood of a million splendid souls
and cutting off the feet of fear as it glides toward no one.

And the sorrow of the sparrows will reach the ears of no one,
while the crystal figurine in a basement takes the shape of a heart
breaking into pieces like the scattering of shattered souls
over oceans as vast as the great spinning earth’s song.
And lovers are falling under their toes to kiss all the people
who they can see gliding toward them from distant ships.

And yes, all can see the flags and the wind on the ships,
and the waters are getting anxious as they rock against no one.
Caressing the air amongst the beach, illuminating people
and breathing in the height of the reality of the human heart,
the great sigh of the chaotic wind sings its siren song,
and in it rings the rhyme scheme of the little lost souls.

Oh yes, they are lost, these fragile secret souls,
as they sail across earth’s oceans faster than the ships
that brought magic in their engines’ perfect song.
Forever makes its grand appearance dressed as no one,
with the rustic fondness of today upon its shallow heart,
bringing vibrant life back to the people.

In heaven, now, we can see them, the people
calling out to their gods to hold tightly to their souls
as they fall out of touch with the beating of each heart
that steadies the rhythm for our waltz of ships.
And every time we speak, we speak the words of no one.
And every time we sing, we sing a fragile song.

Yes, this is the fragile and brilliant song
sung into the face of death by a million laughing people
who understand the overwhelming capacity of no one
and taste on their tongues the solemnity of souls.
And inside every aching ounce of lovely on each ship
there is the coarseness of a heavy laden heart.

This is the song we are singing in our souls.
We are dancing like people on distant ships,
and no one will ever know the shadow of this heart. 

I wrote a poem on a
gum wrapper. And it
coiled up
inside itself and
formed a little
ball, then it rolled on,
like life
rolls on, because poetry
falls off 
my fingers like words
fall from
my mouth, and I’m
singing and singing and
singing the same tune.
Today I wrote
a poem on a gum wrapper,
tomorrow I’ll write one on
the bottom of my shoe.  

I can feel your presence pushing through these red bricks and straight into my heart. You are good. Yes, you are good like rain is good in the dry seasons. I want to stomp my feet and yell and shout and dance around like a wild thing, like there is fire in my shoes. I want to feel you in the tambourines. I want to hear your rhythm in the beats of a thousand drums, hear your voice in the strumming of a hundred guitars. I want to see your name on the keys of every piano playing hallelujah, hear it in the voice of every chorus singing blessed be, we praise you for you are worthy, hallelujah you are worthy worthy worthy

worthy

I am not worthy

I can see you on that cross. I can see your smile as you take my hand and run with me into distant places. You’re beautiful. You hold us on your grasp and you never let us go. Teach us the waltz. Lead us in your splendorous dance in the holiest valleys and the highest peaks, Jesus, we are your bride and we want to touch your hands and side with our trembling fingers and our aching mouths saying thank you, thank you, thank you.

Kill us inside this secret place, and raise us up to live again in the shadow of your arms, stretched from east to west, stretched from the scars of sin to the wholeness of love, life, and purity.