a cup of stars

Hand raptured melody ; like a fragment of a memory ; sleeping on top of my roof at 16, the September I learned what the stars looked like from on top of my house ; lay on the cement, slept with pulled blanket just next to the edge, never rolling off, and we stared and talked about boys and wondered what our futures would hold ; we wondered what sex would feel like ; we discussed the song that was playing in the van when you made out with that senior during free period and the thought of him was driving you wild // Somehow now the tears singe my eyelashes because friendship feels like a cup of stars you cannot hold ; a couple little girls lying on a rooftop in September waiting for the phone to ring ; the chill bell of tomorrow waiting to ring ; your wedding bells waiting to ring ;; and I miss you sharp incision of wit, cleverness and wilderness, I distain the way we grew up and lost our flippers and fins // the boldness of reverie // I disdain time and what it has taken away

The leaves are still emerald but the cold comes whipping through soft air, the high grass, the lily pads, and the branches drifting in the water like lonely soldiers ;; the yellow dots the roadways ; the flowers pluming up in disarray ; the curled conscience of the world

september welcomes you with gentle, warm rain pattering on the roof and a still languid chorus of insect chatter

be gentle with yourself, the world is still a spinning web trying to find you;; the hearts of insects still beat in the night, the fluttering wings of flowers still are yet to open — curling days sit on the edge of the bathtub with you, everything sits in silent splendor at one moment or another — and yours, truly, is always here; is coming endlessly; a silent train on the endless tracks of rubber and steel that forge their way across the roots of this country; or any country; any wild moon will thump through the evening’s mist, but this one today is everlastingly yours

cambridge, maryland

River blossom marsh water, in the squish of it, along the lines of curving pathways — the houses cobble together old pillars and silent wood frames , to arrange themselves an the ornamentation against gravity. On the Chesapeake Bay the water laps against our boat and we sail past small islands, seaside houses — opulence betrays the eye, the oysters hunker themselves at the bottom of the Bay; waiting; depleted; filtering what they can through their small and stony mouths ;; the bay drinks itself through its own tongue, lungs gasp at the jellyfish; we walk along the dock, three quarters wrapping around the brightest lighthouse on the eastern seaboard, it seems; the twilight comes to meet us as we walk towards it; and night comes to sit with us — the echo of something grandiose and wild laughing in the light tapping against the dock, pearling in the boats, the sails touching the twilight colors as well; the drift and bounce of the rock as they sway, a lullaby enough to sing the last fireflies of August to sleep. You run desperately to catch them – a poem in your own feet, laughing, and a gentleness you have now learned to approach these bugs with — they settle into the grass, tired now it seems, from a whole season of dancing — they too want to slumber now, tuck in and turn off their lights; but the horizon still glows on the edge of the dock, and you still have questions to be answered — and I will always try to answer them by showing you the light reflected on the water — answers enough for anyone

historic courthouse, centreville, maryland

Hollowed out firmament of Justice; bricks painted white , stacked by hands whose ash now billows about the roots of these structures : these structures that never deteriorate , the perfect path lined with green grass , the perfect lilies placed around a statue of Queen Anne ; the endless monarchy and oligarchy of something we come to pray to :: the precipice of judgement whose hand sits in gavels long-since hammered away ; hammering away sentences, not paragraphs — just sound bites, not full context — just pieces of pieces of lives lost; and laws held and upheld like a handful of marbles jangling, with all the light that passes through them, and all the air that sits at the edge of the spherical shape;; the way we hold on to history like a sack full of old coins that no longer hold any value — but the sound of the jangle pleases our ear so; the jangle of the jail cells ring too; the clink of old metal and salvaged chunks of wrought iron that once brought the iron fist to some wishless land;; the wish-list landed on this lapping shoreland; this Plymouth Rock-edged cliff; the sound of the jangle observes us observing it; and continues to sing

is it ok

Is it okay, I ask: that I am still wild?

that I still do not know from where the wind is blowing ; or why this turtle is sitting stock-still waiting for the air to glow // is it okay ? can I drift in this in-between moment for a small eternity (that somehow has begun to speed by) ––– is it okay that our world is collapsing and our minds are mixing and our temperatures are off the charts ? are we safe still , on our little dirt paths winding down the broken everything // is it okay that the leaves still rattle in the summer heat ; and the Green catches everything ; the absolute overgrown wilderness of this season ; the everything time — lush and ecstatic // is the season still hunting towards new light ; are we still allowed to create new things ; hold new ideas in our hands // will we ever create again –– that endless beauty we want bask in :: the swell of lights ; the smell of wooden stages caked in dust and sweat ;; will we all ever again hold on to the rafters ; laugh into the sides of wings ; cackle together in green rooms ; or hold words hostage – hungrily singing them again and again in our memory ;; will we ever play again ; will the future greet me gracefully –– a knock on the front door finally releasing us ––broken out into the satin silver world that should be ;; the world of the beloved community ; of the firm hand of love and justice ; finding that universal hope baked into the Earth’s crust ; are we cooking and when will we be done ? am I okay , I ask , is it okay that I am still free ?

little song

and when I am held by the never ending veins of green around me, I know there is nothing to fear; and when I pedal into the twilight dawning around me like scalloped May honeysuckle, I know there is nothing to fear; and when I greet 30 with an open palm and a heart full of gratitude and wilderness, I know there is nothing to fear; and when I walk through the last day of being 20 and I remember the starlit nights ; the giggles ; the sleeping bags ; the orgasm of birth ; the graciousness of all the many miracles of my life ; the way the paths have twirled like small keys, always unlocking ; I know there is nothing to fear ;; to have this day or any day , to have this bike ride, or any small gesture of grace, is the strangest gift I will never know how to process / to have been a part of any universe, with any spinning bubble-cosmos, of black holes, of stars and wandering rocks ; galaxy upon galaxy ; and to have any thought hold the illusion of mattering at all ; to have any human experience contain the deceptive magic of believing into existence any amount of meaning at all :: what a miracle : what a strange, strange miracle // each narrative of a tiny life a huge spinning star of conscious experience that I cannot fathom or place in a line ;; the lines go no where ; it spins in a circle, makes trapezoids and triangles and shapes without name ,, each participle and part of a noun or a parenthesis or comma the strangest and most wild symbolism for a language that defies reason : for a consciousness that billows out of a spinning black space desperately far from any other star // what wild gift is this, this strange experience of being a human, this timeless and eternal gasp at a sunset (the sunset itself an illusion of time) / and me, a little song out of the blackness that has been given far more stories then I deserve, and somehow, miraculously, still has more stories to live

The particular shade

I cannot wear my sunglasses when i gaze into the sun’s rays on the water / or into the chlorophyll dappled light through the trees – because the barrier between my eyes and the world is a film of unsubstantiated sense that I am not willing to part with / the sense of all my senses sensing the world at once is a gift too precious to unload / – a hat will not do my little hair strands must feel the sky / i need the fullness of my skin stretched like an organ of perception around me to feel the firm jolly soul of this rock I am sitting on ; and the air which is filled of so many lustful flies and crushed bone particles of days gone by / wishing themselves through the air / and the light only hits right when I can see it with my own little orbs of eyes : my little daffodils of seeing : and the particular shade of green on this new day of May is a brightness of verdant too vibrant to chastise behind plastic dark filter ; the hue and unmistakable shade of the presence around me I cannot name, or speak to, but can feel through my skin ; through precious sacred cones and rods in my eyes ; that filter my brain through the highest Bliss this little body has ever known / the presence always around me –

the month wraps around me – a cloud of haphazard seeming nothing-ness, a curtain of time zipped through the sweater — i wish i could be of more help, of more use, i wish i did not feel guilt for not being able to physically help ; i try to rest inside of my little body, be at peace with myself, be at fundamental solace – i am grateful for my hands, and what they make; i am grateful for my son, and how he smiles up at me through his eyes and claps wildly at the silliest of incantations; i am grateful for the sun, the rain, the bursts of spring that sing at my sides; i am grateful for the sound of the wind blowing through the branches, for food and clean water, for joy and safety ; i am hoping for everyone, for all things, for all beginnings to begin again;; i am hoping

the endless hyperbole

rattle sun-star – fragments of eternal light pouring down on us now, piles of endless photons smothering the grass in chlorophyll and love ; rain down, the fullness of molecules carried from some other ocean ;; radiate, some resonance of the new season peeking out of a daffodil’s eye ;; saturate me, the rest of the world turning in time, the turn of the wheel wondering back at me, the wonder of the earth twirling it’s dance — bird song and cloud thunder, the rapture of energy trilling up the trunks of trees, the curtain of dandelions pulling themselves over the green stage

your little voice i hear over the hill and through the bushes, putting sentences together and discovering spelling between your teeth, reading the world around you and slowly, seemless-ly, coming in to consciousness and the wild world that sings to him – in every splintered cell, every swollen blossom — a heiroglyph, a letter to us all ; the endless hyperbole of being alive

i wish we deserved bernie ; i wish we all treated each other better, more fairly , i wish we thought of ourselves as a we, viewed politics as a means to take care of one another, rather than a tribal and petty battle royale

this time

every day a slow tendril, curling and unfurling – every acid washed blossom fever a call towards the wild – every wildness we all inhabit, a dream towards the unending future – this spring, the strangest springboad, the utter and endless transformation of the world into a new place altogether – all together // all tenderly cupping our hands towards each other, all reaching, all sitting quietly and asking for nothing more ;; the strangest thoughts have been coming to me, because my brain has to flip this or else I will be swallowed by it — I’ve been allowing myself to think — what a gift this time is, what a true gift (for those of us not suffering and ill) — to settle down, to need nothing, to race towards nothing, to be forced simply to live, with no goals or accomplishments or the ticking of tocks towards us — simply the ending time of spring unfurling like a slow bud — her glory all around us, unabashedly hitting us over the head with nature’s magnificence – everyone forced to stop their rattle train of thoughts, their mill wheel of endless hurrying — to be with ourselves – to sort through our thoughts – to sit with the uncomfortable feeling and to be forced to sit through it – to push past it – to be able to take the time for ourselves, to gaze inwards at ourselves and outwards at the brilliant limbs of trees outside ourselves – to look towards the sky and watch the blossoms bud — what a gift this time is