ugh

just a while
just enough
to catch our falling breath

don't look
as i change
just promise
you'll still listen

if i change the tone
of my voice
it is only
to near the surface 

if i come out
looking worse
then hand me honesty
honestly

there are words
still left unsaid
before the clouds burst

and if it pours
you know
you can always, always
stay with me

time well spent

I'm spending my time
rediscovering myself in
all the spaces of you:

the round dent in my pillow,
my place on your lap,
the dip in my bed,
your hands on my back.

Combustion

Are you the hairs that stand
At attention on the back of my neck
When I experience the juxtaposition
Of language I never imagined?

Are you truth compounded
Upon truth birthing beauty
So much like the burning elements
Which bore our first brilliant stars?

Some fires just can’t be put out.

How bad does it hurt

to fall from that high cloud nine?

Comforting Silence

He didn't know he could write, but he can, and so beautifully. He wrote this for me after I told him his silence is comforting, using my shoulder and an index card while I dozed on his lap:

"This is true silence I suppose,

with shallow breaths,

lips sealed, and eyes closed.

I let you rest because I know your emotions are overthrown,

and to see peace in you, that angelic glow,

is the most comforting silence I have ever known."

I hope you all get to experience a moment as special and wonderful as that was.

P.S. you're amazing

STOP IT

there is something about your eyes
that infects my thoughts
as it searches for a spirit
that was purposefully lost

there is something about your smile
that on my walls pound
as it hunts for a heart
that refuses to be found

there is something about your being
that whispers to my pain
saying to my soul
you don’t have to hurt again

The Information Man

"After over 300,000 miles,
12-dozen breakdowns nervous,
one too many midnights
and a bunch of broken laws later...
I have come here from out of the rain
and into this rest area.
Caught 22 miles between you and me,
watching the information man
behind his information booth;
juggling predictable conversation
with folks who look like iceberg lettuce
and who believe that somehow
the flat lines of small talk
will give us life.
I want them to leave:
like a big deal orchestra
removing itself from the stringed section
so I can fiddle with fate and make music.

There is a distance the size of bravery.
It forms like words
in the mouth of a baby reaching out
for the point where all things meet.
On one end of it sits an info guy
(who I imagine holds down
his second job as church bartender
behind locked doors leading to the bell tower
we are not allowed see, sinners).
At the other end of this space
I am standing
like shoe polish on an overstocked shelf
hoping that one day
someone will pick me to make things better.
This is not a showdown or a shootout;
we are not facing off.
But I can feel the
r-r-r-r-rumble between dusk and dawn,
as if the chance to come clean with myself
will be outlawed
unless I relax.
It takes a long time to make love
with someone who hates themselves.
It feels like I've been standing here
for exactly that long when, at last,
the rain outside drops off
and takes everyone in the rest area with it
except for me, and the info guy.

If we were created in God’s image,
then when God was a child
He smushed fire ants with His finger tips
and avoided tough questions.
There are ways around being the go-to person,
even for ourselves,
but today I will get the answer
and you know what I’m talking about,
THE answer.
Emphasis on EE answer...
So I put my best foot forward
and take the kind of deep breath
that gives me away
as someone who deals with
anxiety 
and odd numbers
every other 
other every minute.
In between it,
the info guy’s eyes grab me
and shift
back & forth,
like mopping floors
(with the sweat I sweat
in battles against myself).
He’s got me locked in and is smiling.
If you’ve never been rocked back
by the presence of purpose
this poem is too soon for you...
Return to your mediocrity,
plug it into an amplifier,
and reeeee-think yourself
because some of us
are on fire for the answer.
I am ready for rejection
and rebirthing balance in my stutter steps
when the info guy finally pipes up
like C.R. Avery on a piano box
and says to me:

I can tell you're lookin' for answers...
Listen, if I didn’t have so much of this life all wrong
I would have gotten it right by now.
I talk a whole bunch
but I really only know a few things,
so I'm not saying to follow along verbatim here.
I’ll just tell ya the things I tell myself -
the things I know –
and you can see what sticks…
I know our shoes were stitched from songs about highways.
The best songs are the ones about Georgia
even though I've never been there
because it’s the only place that still believe in Jesus.
I know that no matter what it is you believe in,
you've got to spare yourself the futility of making fun of God
because that guy hasn’t even talked in like…
ever.
I know troubleshooting yourself in the foot
and acting as center of your own universe
is a tricky dichotomy to deal with
but, yes, you ARE the center of the universe.
If you weren't
you wouldn't be here.
So as the middle of space and everything floating in it
it is your job to know
that the emptiness
is just emptiness,
that the stars
are stars,
and that the flying rocks –
fuckin’ hurt,
so please
stop inviting walls into wide open spaces.
I know everything is out there.
It’s why they call it everything.
I know there are times
when you will lay your head to rest
and have a moment of brilliance
that grows into a perfect order of words
but you will fall asleep
instead of painting it down on paper.
When you wake up,
you will have forgotten the idea completely
and miss it like a front tooth
but at least you know how to recognize moments of brilliance,
because even at your worst
you are fucking incredible.
It comes honest.
So return to yourself,
even if you’re already there,
because no matter where you go
or how hard you try
or what you do
the only person you're ever gonna get to be
(and I know it)
is you."