You don’t remember our life together,
the passionate nor the mundane.
There are book with missing chapters.
But what about Christmas?

You must remember Christmas.
Wasn't it worth remembering?
Didn't the sun kiss you
for at least that one day?

On the other side of the world
I know things are much worse than here.
But the other side of the world
is a part of me, and a part of you.

I don't know anymore
if I can really help anyone.
so I cry out like a mariachi:
"¿Qué tal la Navidad?"

I've never read this poem—
I only wrote it.
It is my orphan,
out begging for revisions.

I've never kissed this poem,
or even embraced it.
Nightmarish visions
have filled my absince.

Even a mountain cannot rech the stars,
and an ocean cannot reach the heart.
I cannot reach you—
my phone is off the hook.

I've never forgotten this poem
even though I've wished to
on every birthday candle
and on every star.

Love or Truth?
Love or Truth?
Love or Truth?
Which should be valued 
more highly?

It is better by far
to be limited in knowledge
but to love the known
and the unkown.
In this way, one can love God—
even without believing in God—
even if there is no God.

What a tragedy,
if I knew all Truth,
but was unable to love it.

I saw baby rabbits—
half a dozen or so,
just like the one
you showed me
in your back yard—
next to the deer, the groundhog, and the birds.
That day I said to you,
"I've never seen a rabbit so small"

Now I keep seeing them.
It's like you flipped a switch
in my brain, labeled,
"Notice baby rabbits."

How much more
is there to notice in life,
if I can only find,
and flip the right switch.

It’s hard to write it down,
someone might read it—
might misunderstand 
or, understand too well—
and either way
call you a monster—
or an idiot,
which you're afraid you might be.
You might be.

It's hard to write it down.

Write it down.

I got into the
hospital elevator—
pushed the button to

see someone other than you.
A dull, bizarre sting of grief.

My room is messy.
It always has been.
I mean always. 
God must have made it that way.

It's no big deal.
There are beer cans, 
but at least they are empty.
There is no half eaten food lying around.

I can always find the things I need.
I would never leave something in a pile on the floor
to get ruined
destroyed
or pissed on by a cat.

It's not as bad as my ex's room.

I found
a secret room
inside your house where I
could stay without troubling you
too much.

Venus
and Jupiter
walk me home from the bar
after I sang all I can sing.
Sober.

Eagle
so high
above the trees and peaks:
what happens if his muscles cramp?
Fun'ral.

I will
say something
important, or else die
in the pursuit of this calling.
Bloom! Burn!

He plays the French horn—
what a wonderful sound.
He feels forlorn
searching for flowers on the ground.
What has been born here?
What has been found?

He feels forlorn
searching for meaning in a look.
Defeated and bored—
he takes up a book.
He plays the French horn,
'cause all those lessons that he took.

What has been born here?
And what has died?
What was reported?
Who has lied?
He feels forlorn.
He may have even cried.

He plays the French horn—
such a desperate sound.
He feels forlorn
casting shadows on the ground.
He may have been born here—
but has he been found?

I touched reality,
as we sang a denial of our own existence.

I heard truth—
when the band became silent.

If I'd had a book of Rumi to read
I might have finally understood it.

We drove back home.
We drove home for the first time.

Once again, sound
turned me inside out.

I want to read you, to apply
myself to taking you in:
cover to cover, word by word,
even letter after letter.
To pronounce each sound,
each stress, each silence
with virtuoso precision—
until no part is left unknown—
and no part is left unloved.

First thing in the morning, I went outside to tend to the dogs
forgetting that as of last night, there no longer were dogs.

I spent months saying, "I'm not goin to take care of these dogs if you don't."
I spent months taking care of the dogs because you wouldnt,

resenting every moment of it,
but unwilling to leave beings to suffer.

Last night I was relieved as the car drove away with the dogs.
Why am I sad today at the sight of the empty kinnel?

The dogs were just one more situation I couldn't save.
The fact that saving them was never my job in the first place,
was no consolation.

You called out to me, even in your silence.
You called out to yourself inside of me, without trying.

I answered your call in a voice I didn't recognize.
I cried tears of relief from eyes much older than mine.

Each tear contained me entirely.
Each tear contained you.

Each molecule in each tear contained galaxies.
I never knew so much was inside me.

Today I realized that I have a second son—
the twin of my other son.

While the son I've known lives in the world outside me
the twin lives within me.

I've protected, nurtured, and provided for the external son.
But the son inside I have starved and ignored.

Oh, neglected son inside,
from now on you will want for nothing.

Algae under my feet—
I'm glad I learned to love you.

Running water over my feet
clear and inexhaustable.

White Oak above me—
the steeple of my chapel

White Oak above the spring,
Are you dead or only sleeping?

If you sleep,
do you also dream?

Perhaps even the dead dream.
Perhaps life is the dream of the dead.

Imagine my departed grandparents—
dreaming me on.

Gaze at the stars.
Who dreams you?

In the raffle for everything I ever wanted,
I was holding ticket 86724.
The announcer called:

8 
but they all begin in 8—

6
all or most—

7
that narrows it down a bit—

2
now this is something—

5
No!

It feels like a near miss.
But for all I know,
my ticket's mate blew away in the wind,
landed in a stream,
and deteriorated,
becoming forever illegible. 

For all I know,
it might as well be in Andromeda,
or in Hell,
or have never existed at all.

First—
my body was made of flesh.
The Devil said,
"Let me in."
I refused.
The Devil cursed me with sores and sickness.

Next,
I made a body of stone.
The Devil knocked.
"Let me in."
I refused.
The Devil crumbled my body in an earthquake.

Finally—
I made a body out of reality.
The Devil came in,
but could do no harm.

There is a war:
a war against decay.
If the warriors on the front line fall,
we will all fall.
One way or another, 
sooner or later,
we will all fall.

I pull my lunch box from the work fridge.
It is packed with food that can be eaten cold.
No time to waste on the microwave.

Is it right to enjoy hummus, crackers, and a slice of pizza
when the world is falling apart?
There is nothing more I could be doing

is there?

I'm no warrior.
There are many who fancy themselves warriors
when they are not.
The result is disaster.

I'm a teacher, a nurturer.
It's the job I know,
It's what I can do well.
I hope that means I'm helping in the war.

One way or another,
sooner or later,
we will all fall.

So I suppose it's in the hands of God,
if there is a God.
I'm not convinced there is a God,
but I've placed my bet on it anyway.