ADD

I decided today that I needed to get rid of anything that reminded me of anything else. Everywhere I look I see only something that represents or tries to tell a story or tells me that it plus me could equal something I want, you know? nothing that just is. I want it all to just be and stop putting up fronts. I need these colors gone and the fancy wrapper and the way it's lying to me. It's all lying because it needs to be loved.
The garbage bag is growing full and all of these symbols of food and paper and ideas are pressing at the sides with their sharp edges, trying to tear the sack. The plastic stretches and changes color as it's pushed. Poked. Prodded.
From the inside.

Just take it outside, put it in the can, and start over without all of this shit cluttering your desk.

See

A young man
enters the train.
He looks
like he's been through
a war. His body
is the battlefield.
Something has taken him
apart, gut and bone.
The sadness in his eyes
goes on for years.

He looks to me for money,
I shake my head
and say sorry.
I've seen my father give
the drunkest men five dollars.
My mother, this morning,
opened her wallet for two beggars,
two dollars, I could see
her mind searching
as she looked into
the worn folds
of her wallet.

The man continues
down the car.
The kids don't look up.
When he reaches the end,
another homeless man
in the middle yells, Hey!
He's been talking to himself
the whole time, and rocking,
but the young man
with the profound sadness
comes back.

Seated, the man scoots over
a ripped duffel and places
his old, green garbage bag
of a comforter, or clothes,
on top. He reaches
into his pocket, his large jeans
coated front and back
with a brown sheen, with the spots
from sleeping in a corner,
from never pissing without
his sneakers on.

He pulls out a small bunch
of change, his gnarled hands
sorting, and gives
the sad man
some coins. They nod
at each other, and depart.

Day 14, Poem 14: Spring Fever (???)

Spring's thaw is late
Rather, it's been taunting
Here one day, gone the next -
Like her
Bathing me in the warmth
of love and compliments
and then
frozen in its absence
wondering...
When she will come again?

A flower grows...
A flower in her hair
Wind at her back
mountain peaks around her
and the sky is blue
Her hair is honey,
eyes are gray azure
Winter
She is crowned with gold
no toga
but a Goddess all the same

Flowing river
through my fingers
mind maps
recognize and
re-traverse her terrain
deep
swooping valleys
glorious peaks...
geysers, rushing
and breezy whispers
guttural growls
howls and claws

Digging
plying
manipulating flesh
and nature
defying gravity
gasping for air
swallowing songs
incoherent
and still understanding
obeying the rhythm
unrelenting
but always yielding
incorrigible

Maybe Spring will come when she does
and they'll both stay a while...