I cannot speak
of atrocities
or war or peace,
but I can speak
of the children swimming
next to me,
playing mermaids
and wizards,
flicking their fake wands
in the air
to solve every
or despair.

and I want them
to stay there forever,
to never watch the news
with their parents,
and live in fear.

but it’s their parents
that most interest me:
smiling weakly
as World War Three
looms over all of us,
though these children
“Keep Calm,
And Carry On”
like the Israelis,
those poor Israelis,
but let’s not go there.



Amid the fruitful night
I am wishing
For those sorrowful things
To vanish

I cling to the light
Like a moth fluttering––
My heart suddenly

I want to take
All these old towels
And burn them––
                             To watch the shock
                             Of the hallowed smoke rise
                             And find the night

To them, I am small
To them, I am nothing

To them, I speak of high things
To them, I show nothing

And I watch as they
Speak of themselves
So downright holy
So downright knowing
                                                               they are not.

And I watch as their
Mouths smirk,
Their shoulders assert
That they are something.

They are something
In this world.
Call it what you will,
But I kinda like it.

                                                Because inside
                                                A fire’s rising,
                                                A passion intensifying,
                                                To be right
                                                In my eyes.

I just want to say:
“Go to sleep, little child,
For tonight,
You are holy.

                                                         You are everything.”




The ground's still wet,
coating the fallen beer bottles
in a damp crystallization.
That yard, dirty yard,
torn up yard,
where dogs roam free,
spying on the neighbors
and cars all day,
is lined in cigarette butts,
most of them smoked
all the way,
and miscellaneous fruits
from that devilish sangria,
and other trash, waste,
horrors of this generation,
make the memory of last night
idle in the air,
hovering over our aching heads
and somehow still-beating hearts.

                                         I'd help clean up,
                                         but it's all so beautiful
                                                              and lost.

When the rain came,
it drew us all back
into that congested house
like pigs before slaughter.
Our bonfire, washed out,
but the warmth of the evening
continued on
in our laughter
and glorification
of what very well
might have been,
could have been,
should have been
our last night on earth.


The First Time

I swam in a thunderstorm today––
There was no one in the pool,
                                                save me.
The rain hitting the water
causes the pool to get colder,
                                               I noticed
                                               for the first time.

          And, for the first time as well,
          as the lightning broke, and the thunder swelled,

                                            I felt no fear.

          I felt nothing
          for the first time,
          in a long time,
          I felt real.

                            And I knew––
                            that everything around me could change,
                            could become new,

and I could still be happy,
beneath the trees,

                            and I could still smile,
                            as all the while,
                            the rain hits my shoulders––

and the water––

                            And as I entered the air,
                            my whole body
                            felt warmer
                                              for the first time.