It is hard to understand why
some lights go from green to red,
never yellow.

Short is not empty
like unborn is not shelter.
He knew the pains of war,
the joy of new mornings.
Reunions, deployments,
hot tea and anything oatmeal raisin.

Our pumpkin seed,
my smallest hero,
started and stopped without
time to slow, full speed to
never.

He watches me write,
knows he is better.
There are no words we share,
the angels and the left behind.

As I whisper
don’t hold back
to what might be cilantro
the wind plays two leaves
against each other,
like dogfighting dragon flies,
and my enthrallment is
your father.

Very next day
I pass him on a map
in a forgotten book,
the pages turned sleepy
from his tight command.

He asks I relay:
I come back in everything
new, only left
to find more for us
to learn.

Now that the bank has loaned us a home,
the bank has loaned us two cars

and we’ve borrowed careers
with our borrowed degrees

and the loans could get called anytime

and our checks to the dr. for kid no. 1
precede bills for kid no. 2

and our socks, select thoughts,
locks of hair, packs of cards

are not ours, and may never be.

I’m thinking we flee with our names
and our flaws
to try starving,
shivering
free.

Between the cucumber
and pickle
is vinegar,

the grape and raisin
is sun.

Citizen and criminal
just crime, or a frame,

Homemaker
homeless
a door.

Between devout
and fanatic
is the method of death,

old and antique
just an eye.

Lyric and poem
the intent of a song,

conqueror
conquered
a fight.

He spoke unto me:
praise Him not for that which could
just be goddamn luck.

Austin to Brooklyn
the van feels light
as if something has gone,
someone

then back again.

White borscht, golombki
still flush in her face
she ascends,
guitar and pilot
chasing her scarlet wake,
no reentry.

Nothing is where she belongs.

It goes like this:
tank full,
she lights a fire
that burns us all
long and quiet,

the van rolling indiscriminately
forward.

The guys on four
swing clubs made of composite
marketing bullshit
in their cubicles,

say things like
jet skiing in the rain feels like
a thousand needles in your face,

marketing doesn’t work.

Save three months salary to buy a ring
worked. So did

renting is throwing away your money.

Maybe high performance synthetic
moisture wicking
fabric
is all you need to
win,

but then
this much I just know:
that hunting and gathering
would only cost so much
life,

would leave me too much left
to spend.

Guizhou, your rivers dizzy
the mouths of celebrated thieves.
There has never been purity.

Western boys wahoo piss for beer
from corner stores,
swollen from heavy lifting,
centerfolds.

The spirit of the Chishui,
a warm sixer of Pabst;
both dull the ache for pussy,
real friends,
reason.

behind a lady with no right arm
I feel rude, both arms swinging
to-and-fro

so I will ask her if I can load her car
or no I will not,
just smile, eyes above her shoulders

until I get it, that
some lose arms like others lose minds,
and it feels right to look,

to respect that for all our losses
there are still gardens, still enemies,
still things to hold back in our hearts.

- For Kelly, Mother’s Day 2008 -

Boxer’s arms
for ankles,
thick and worn
from the long season.

Taught skin pulls
inches from nowhere,
everywhere

your neck, ears
are pregnant
gorgeous
miracles

I love you,
Violet Beauregarde,
how you laugh
when I whisper my sweet
blueberry.