Do you remember just how gingerly
We walked the tropics in such great
Circles, and spent too much on towels,
Tequila, and talking to strangers about
Moments that belong in a velvet pouch,
In a drawer somewhere? I looked into the
Horizon and become at once aware I was
An amoeba on a dust mite of an island,
Flanked and pincered by an ocean, and a
World away that just as well could not.

Your fingertips and nails dug in,
And left the remnants of themselves
In shoulders, biceps, back and
Neck in different euphoric degrees
Of bloody destruction; I left the
Hot tub on all night, and in the morning
Almost had to fight the front desk guy
When he insinuated that the problem was
Not some cheaply made polycarbonate
Chinese pump that ran like shit, but me.

In these developed memories, I find that
I was further from before then than I am from
Now to paradise again. The skin still rips and
Shreds, but differently, and this time, and these
Multiple others, there are layers to flesh,
And there are hash marks for reference.
I could circumnavigate these latitudes, and yes
I know eventually they need to intersect, but
How can I determine how quickly to walk, and
How far to step? Our course forever’s had
Some overgrowths, but nothing too involved
To clear the roads.

Yesterday it seemed, to anyone else, our elbows
Touched in passing for the only time in what has
Felt like never ending months. “An illusion—”.
We stretched until we broke, not realizing the impossibility of overlapping antipodes.

If we distill indoctrination
Out of spirit and of faith,
Swilling only what is truth,
Sipping Love, Eschewing Hate?

We may all imbibe the warmth,
Go with the grain, and feel the taste,
As it flows through the liquid whole
Of not just us, but all of space.

For dogma will not save a soul.
A synod knows where man resides.
If God has means to consecrate,
The blessing we know not besides?

It does not come from sacred books,
Nor will we summon grace from creeds.
The mystery of the divine
Reveals itself in words and deeds.

You have this
blue octopus that
you’ve always taken everywhere
it’s like the knit ones that,
while one in a million,
it’s one of those things that infants who
don’t get to right away go home
yet get.
Your cousin was one of them so your aunt got you one and it’s supposed to be this anchor
for those late home kids,
to stay calm.

But, no matter the age,
You know when you know something is wrong.
When we need the eight arms to wrap up strong,
even small
to show you all you’ve ever known to love has never left you all along.

Before, I felt the ultimate in everything, the
Peak of every mediocre, unremarkable crag
My fingers blistered on, more often under,
And the blunders I’ve survived three decades on.
I find it unsurprising, though an absolute wonder
Sometimes this blood runs at all; organic, beating
Hive, though I’ve done every under thing standing
To strike that fact, and foster futures unalive.

And then, in tinkering and failing high,
Found solace in a family, got dry, and
Put proverbial baskets around the
Appropriately chosen eggs. How
Well-deserved, it’s easter and my
Pastel yellow letters seem to, recently, be
Smudging all together. I’d call them tears,
But that would require some sharpened blade,
Or some fragment of emotion, which we all know
Is a fickle son-of-a-bitch.

I’m counting, now, the colors from the left to right,
Like reading, on the rainbow that’s exploding from
The high school football field across the street.
I’d like to say, initially, it pistons, up and down,
Perpetually a game she saw, and that we see.
But the wind hits briskly this day on the Ridge,
And I’m unsure the proper way to utilize
Such a miserably fractured fulcrum.

Sure, I’ll paint, but you can’t make me like it.
And I can’t make you anything, even with the
Ounces of pain compressed for centuries it
Feels and shines like it’s the coal whose
Neighbor is a diamond. What have I done
Or you that one would think an entity unique
In that it could take life the same, or the same way,
Or time, or day, and this is militantly not alright.
And maybe looking back I’ll be OK. But that is
Not for walks like mine, or times like this.

I squeezed your hand for five days straight,
Then after three stood up and loudly cried.
Then caught my breath, and we both went inside.

The Chronicle of Man may lack detail
To indicate how every human hand
Contributes to a tiny grain of sand
Which lands upon the arc of justice’ scale.

Each youngster who takes turns upon the slide,
Or comforts fallen playmates on the ground;
The man of means who reaches calmly down
To lift his neighbor and dust off his pride –

These nameless, unremembered acts have pitch
Which hum with constant tone and clarity.
They thrive on faith, and hope, and charity –
Their singing makes the poorest, warmly rich.

Of course, some precious few wield blocks and stones
So dense they rock the balance and cry out
For justice past the shadow of the doubt.
Their strength exhumes the deepest buried bones.

Yet most of us will never know our part.
The microscopic bit we cast upon
The plate that bears the bulk of fairness won.
We know only to walk our path with heart.

The moral thus reverberates with time.
Humanity has progeny unborn.
This unrelenting cavalcade walks on
And drops its bit of truth while freedom chimes.