these are the things i tell myself: 2007

am and am not

i am not my thoughts
i am not this thin one letter word
these thoughts are something of me
as snowflakes filling the night sky
are something of the earth

i am my eyes
taking in this light
changing into all that surrounds me
i am my visions of the shadows of the tree
falling across the road

i am the sounds in my chest and gut
am the beat, the pounding
the resonance, the whoosh of breath
i am the pops and gurgles
of chime moving in peristalsis

i am the thrill of acceleration
the fear of falling
when leaning over ledges
i am the warmth
of her hand on the side of my face

i am my teeth
rooted in jaws
being worn away

i am the strength in striated muscles
to hold myself up
propel towards something
or away
to carry things of weights of which
my thoughts doubted i could

i am my passions
soaring hope that is there
that silent joy
shaky fear and dread

i am water
minerals from earth
moving across membranes
combining and dividing
i am lost in evaporation
built in winding double staircases

i am errors and chance
currents and gradients

i am my reactions and impulse
to catch in mid air objects
that slip from fingertip grasp

i am my pains and discomforts

i am my future death and stillness
when some of what is me will end
when my thoughts will end

my thoughts are part of me
i do not live only with them
as cell mates in my head
i live in the world where snowflakes fall at night
filling the sky quietly
as i move through them

recount

in the nondescript three story building
grey and shining glass
i put in my time
the clock showed it passing
one hour of recounting
a process of exposing
my mental and emotional insufficiencies
this is my intro again
this is diving into my own deep end
swimming a crawl badly
sputtering and choking
to get to the side to hang on

who is this stranger
with the name on the door
in this forgettable office
the one i barely look at
but will return to
to cannonball again
hoping this helps
this is what i am doing
i recount

this is a session
i make my intro
tell about the feeling of dread
of clocks squeezing life by the second
and then i'm done
introduced, i walk down the hall
loving the plain blankness of it
the emptiness of the elevator
and it's drop
walk out doors and drive away
red lights light up
the backs of cars
this is the rush hour

thrown away starts

i must have something here
amidst my thrown away starts
left like abandoned toys
the shine lost to shadow

there must be a story or two
worth sharing
rather than images of things
sinking in around me
the future seems over hills to steep to climb

what about what i learn
standing over beds
moving tubes protruding
from abdomens as spiders' legs
hooked to low continuous suction
what about these people
and not their tubes or diagnosis

if i'm sinking
where are these people
i'm standing over

this is my bubble
like a car of steel and glass
it needs velocity to be broken

i close my eyes and see caves
closed in by deepest winter darkness
i'm hurring through hospital halls
cold and busy with lists

my velocity is lagging
an aging dirty engine
slow with soot and road salt

what about what i know
that when i sit still
and wait for those to find me
i can forget where i am
and what game i'm playing

my niece announces,
now let's play where i hide under this
and you find me

i forget to announce
and think about how i'm hiding
waiting for the time
when someone comes along
announcing,
now is the time when friends find you
lift you up from sinking
climb a hill together

i must have something here
amidst all these confessions
that could fit together to tell a story
i could draw the pictures

i am shivering under a blanket
cold cave fluorescent
i'm hiding from the bedside table
littered with anti-pills and lists
outside friends shuffle the hospital hall
calling

the car is near, idling
i'm wondering if i can build speed and out of what
i throw my weight against the bubble walls
try to burst it on the corners of things i've learned
on the people i stand over

what about what i wrote
i pull up these daggers
abandoned and buried
my toys of long ago
the points are rounded rusty
i put them to the walls and lean

announce,
now is when i write and search
and by the last line feel more well

colors of morning

colors of morning
weighing heavy horizon
anchored by naked black trees
branches reaching like bronchi
the hills and the fences can't hide it
it inches as apparition

you could think of this as forward
you could think of this as beginning
this is direction, some say
this is nothing some say

call it colors, light
as if it brings newness
everything all here before

a mention of records

referred to as companion
where i work
i sat with the old man
on monday afternoons
he would sit in chair
or lay at angles no less than 30
i would have book on lap
he, eyes shut
there was the option
of watching the sun set

quietly it passed
only interrupted
by small signs of discomfort
another blanket, a chill
or the toilet, sir?
yes, he'd say

once, with effort
from both
him with his troubled airway
and blue eyes seemingly
looking through time
me with understanding
we discussed which things to learn from
he mentioning the advantage
of many sources
he turned away
and it seemed as if by not looking
i was gone

later, in a quieter room
with windows on both sides
there was less to do
tubes, went both in and out
and there was more time for dreaming
or waiting
i listened to his breath

was it anxiety or helplessness
that made those pauses hard
a stranger by this old man

the last day i spent with him
a record player was there
dusty black albums and the airiness
of the needle in groove
wanting to do something
i played it loud enough for his ear
halfway through the piece the rattling
his cough in his bony chest
compounded the drama in tchaikovsky
loud and quiet, music and 97 year body
i wiped away yellow grey phlegm
it surfaced in his mouth
a moth escaping with wet wings
i put a hand on his back
this touch, i learned
tries to bring comfort.
the record ended before the coughing
i don't remember it stopping,
it did. before his wife returned
with eastern europe accent
to hear of his evening
spend another night with him

i went home
left a wife with a husband
returned to mine
i wanted to mention
listening to records
this thought is for me though
all of this is
thinking about it
i will probably sit again
do this again
listen for someone's breath

to mention the records

referred to as companion
where i work
i sat with the old man
on monday afternoons
he would sit in chair
or lay at angles no less than 30
i would have book on lap
he, eyes shut
there was the option
of watching the sun set

quietly it passed
only interrupted
by small signs of discomfort
another blanket, a chill
or the toilet, sir?
yes, he'd say

once, with effort
from both
him, with his troubled airway
(blue eyes seemingly
looking through time)
me, with understanding
we discussed which things to learn from
he mentioning the advantage
of many sources
he turned away
and it seemed as if by not looking
i was gone

later, in a quieter room
with windows on both sides
there was less to do
tubes, went both in and out
and there was more time for dreaming
or waiting
i listened to his breath

was it anxiety or helplessness
that made those pauses hard
a stranger by this old man

the last day i spent with him
a record player was there
dusty black albums and the airiness
as the needle traced
wanting to do something
i played it loud enough for his ear
halfway through the piece the rattling
his cough in his bony chest
crossed the drama in tchaikovsky
loud and quiet, music and 97 year body
i wiped away yellow grey phlegm
it surfaced in his mouth
a moth escaping with wet wings
put a hand on his back
this touch, i learned
brings comfort at times.
the record ended before the coughing
i don't remember it stopping,
it did before she returned
with eastern europe accent
to hear of his evening
spend another night with him

i went home
left wife with husband
at end of life

i wanted to mention the records
this gesture for me though(i may
have made it)

all of this is(for me)
thinking about it

i will probably sit again
do this again
listen for someone's breath

without hope of capture

i want to be sitting on a fence
in need of mending
where there's space enough
to wonder
the use of the fence

and looking
i want to be looking out
on land without hope of capture
by any poet
of its subtle beauty

and facing a breeze
that lifts hair from the neck
reminds of lack of urgency
for anything
when taking in life this way

i want this to go on
for some time
with sun going behind clouds
over and over
making shadows that travel
across the land like great animals
that used to roam some time ago

and hearing
i want to be hearing
in the way where the sound
comes to me
instead of trying to filter
or lend my ear to something
so much so

i want to be breathing
contented breaths
and step away
when its time

bottled feelings

if i could keep
on a shelf
in beautiful little bottles
the things i've felt
over my lifetime
i might

they'd line up
be neatly contained
each a different tint
from a unique time

they'd all be there
the wedding, during vows
saying i love you in the cold
under the moon
seeing mountains rise up
for the first time
in front of me

i'd keep them all
even the strongly
unpleasant
the ones that cause shudders
and the empty stomach dropping
feeling
i don't know why
but these matter

not sure what function
they'd serve
these remnants of past

but i might find myself
standing back from the shelf
admiring all the little glass bottles
beautifully tinted

remembering
it will pass
whatever it is

good friday

the pipes will drone today
for the death of jesus
it's called good friday
as a child
it was a taste of sorrow
humanity's brutality
thorns and wood
nails and blood
spears and vinegar
waiting for destruction

now
further from it
i know its not just bible verse
there's a good friday
somewhere everyday
in our world

the curtain

there are lots of moments
in my life these days
that happen behind the curtain
or door
behind the right of privacy

these are moments i take with
after i've walked over the invisible
line of the floor
after i've washed my hands
while whispering the abc's

i think about these sentiments
after i've transformed
from my role back into me
appreciating stepping from the shower
and drying off
on my own

sometimes i think about
going through my day
moving in my 27 year old body
and it's relative lack of pain

i think about the little sounds
we all make we hurt
and when there is relief

sensation

sensation
the word's been brought
to mean big things

images of crowds
standing on tip toes
of something to be known
far and wide

sensation
first day of spring
where sun hits skin
and the notion
of energy is now felt
the sun moves through you
leaving excited cells
in it's wake

sensation
feeling her presence
so strongly
breath is like the beat
of minute wings
a million times over
on my lower lip

sensation
crane your necks
to feel this