I dispense love wisdom 

while perched under a wool blanket

only slippered-feet and hatted-head 

sticking out

staring at the corner

to pluck strands from

the hazy web of the past

and give them a home

on this plate

the gentle giants moving
to the tune of 
he blew his mind out in the car
another dresser in the big box truck
turn away from all the things
of a life 
thistles in your leggings
as you read the news again 

not until you step back into the larger world

do you see the tendernesses nestled

an older brother slowing himself down

as he still chases his little brother

running at full speed

with arm crutches 

and knees leaned in together

some bravura of the man in front of

the Masonic lodge

cigar in mouth

and setting off one firecracker at a time

a daughter holds her father up by the waist of his pants
as he pushes the walker along
the sturdiness of knowing
good things are coming your way
if you beat the drums loud enough
dance high and proud enough
and still
a sort of sweet surrender of exchanging 
red good luck envelopes
in the doorway
after the food has been consumed
knowing it’s still each other’s hands
our fates rest in

a nod as sweet as the piano trill
a tiredness as heavy as all the blankets

you’ve ever known

laid lovingly upon you

the optimism of a crane
the smathering sound of car tires on wet pavement
those revolting crotchet sculptures that ensconce an entire thing
like a bike rack or parking meter
 who has it in their mind to create

 such a grotesque thing?

Birds all a brew in the bush
With the excited chatter tumbling over
I don’t remember the last time 
I was at a table all bubbling over
Some sort of story where we kind of 
Weave in and out with some velocity
It’s a pace change 
With time for a pillow fluffing
And a quiet sip of tee
Between topic changes

that special discomfort of standing in the shower

and starting to recall the two-ish years you spent in an

international pyramid schemey self-improvement empire

but even more acute

is rehashing the scores of people

you pressed, cajoled, and roped into 'learning more'

sitting most uncomfortably in fold up chairs lined in a row

or answering your mid-evening calls 

from a cubicle in a basement in mid-town

from close friends and family

to the sudanese bus driver at the elementary school you work at

and the prick-ish guy you kissed one time

rueful regret blossoms 

like steam on the window

and a lasting skepticism of self-sealing systems

even for a hopeless joiner like me

to be in the notches of a hand 
to be one floor below and listening in
make space for a dawn dance
that decides to take all day
knowing you’re arriving 
by the feeling of blood moving slow
you never made it to the natural water source in Oaxaca
but that doesn’t mean you won’t ever get there

the father with the wickedness still wiling 

in a self-exile to the florida keys

who pops up periodically uninvited

but most unwelcome in the dream land

with boundaries lost in the wash

leaving a smudge on the day

of complicity in something that was 

never ours in the first place

kept company by the perpetual
not knowing
if a place is home
if it could be
if it should be
curves move a different way
in the light of regret

in the 80's my parents' landlord
set fire to their building 
to help entice them to break their 20 year lease
(along with some hush money)
and besides my dad had a new cult
based out of the river valley
that caught his fancy
so that’s how we ended up in the drafty house
with bats in the eaves

and the big hill to mow

and more rooms than we could really know

what to do with

and then soon

another old house to roam

splitting time

when my dad left my mom

for the mother of my brother's classmate

with a big porch

and a gravel pit up the hill

then later an even bigger old house

to fit all the kids

with a hefty down payment lent

from my great uncle

and was never paid back

a bigger porch

where we sat and watched cars drive by

trying to guess their color before they popped into sight

a room for each of us

the rooms connected all in a circle

and we chased each other

like chasing our tails until the house filled up with stuff

and all three places each felt so strongly like home

growing up in the rooms 

and in the yards

the corners all adding up

to the place where my childhood happened

and now each is gone 

like a cookie jar so far out of reach

we could drive by

knock on the door 

if we're bold

and give the old "we used to live here"

song and dance

and hope to take a peek around

but looking back

did they feel like home to the grownups 

i wonder?

did they feel they'd chosen?

they'd arrived somewhere they wanted to be?

is it owning a place that makes you finally

set your bag down?

or was the perpetual angst

of the frozen pipes

the laundry room floor that was just dirt

enough to keep their eyes pinned

backward or forward

to some other

better place?

a new condo sprang up 
while I tried to clear a dried speck of tomato sauce from my glasses
I try to say good morning to a passing elder on the street
at once loud enough (if they like to be greeted by strangers)
and quiet enough (if they don’t)
we’re off to a good start today
trying, at least
spring’s in the air
a few months too early
but we’re here
we’re here
we're somewhere in here

we traded seams
ran from the reef
to walk around with 
so much need 
in the red red night

revival

berries and the early days of the prophet 

on the stereo waves
a kind of domestic bliss
of time travel 
to the bedroom boom box
the cactus in bloom
after a 13 year hibernation 
a reminder that life force 
is ever present somewhere in there
and no guilt 
when the spark is buried too deep
to reach
but a simple gratitude for moments
of knowing just what would bring joy
and then there it is
a revival so sweet

Perfect lovers train

If he’s around the corner
Then I stopped to tie my shoe
At the right moment
If she’s in the line ahead of me
My groceries aren’t too heavy 
to carry home in one bag
If we hate each other at times
It could be the synastry
If we bore each other
We’ll walk in opposite directions 
Until there’s something to talk about again
If I don’t falter when I swipe my metro card
I’ll catch a glimpse in a passing train
Of all the lovers I could have been

Inside a well
I heard god makes mistakes
A clumsy direct translation
At best
Walking is goodness
Curtains are saintly
We make the holy
With our water

The big brass bed
The basement down the stair
The lowlands
The blues wrapped around my head

 I dream that you have a new insta account
@lennycuts4u
I log back in to watch you 
snip away at various textiles 
wearing a black and white striped tee
snow piling up in your windows

cultivating grace

not in the wrist

which i think i might already have

but settled in my belly

that I have enough - 

that my offer of tea

comes from wanting to

share in pleasure

grace in my jaw

which remains unclenched

when you unplug my phone 

to plug in yours

and the tone emerges, not from straining

but like the vapors from a eucalyptus bath

could you plug my phone back in?

that it unfold, if not with ease,

then at least with with the good-feeling effort 

of scaling an unmarked rock scramble 

where the path finds away to make itself known

scouring the sidewalk for a lost 
lego sleepy dart injector smaller than a pinkie nail

with disaster looming large on the horizon 
your wheels are spinning 
trying to secure a deal that would make any bad feeling disappear 
like the coin in the magic trick your uncle taught you
if we can’t find the sleepy dart can we go to target and get me a new toy right now?
kneeling on the concrete trying to see 
what this bogeyman of disappointment might look like
and if we can look him in the eye
maybe he’d gallop away,
or, like I’ve long feared,
only grow larger
more pestilent

with the rays of my attention shining on him

the knot of you wanting any shred of sadness cleared out

and in your eyes I'm the one for the job

my breath searching down for tree roots

to be the living thing that says

it's so disappointing that we can't find the sleepy dart

like the books and blogs and podcasts say to

when i say it like a flag pole - 

stagnant, heartless

you get enraged

when i tell you of the special toys i lost

(needing to make them up, since they're lost to memory)

your muscles soften

the bogeyman takes a seat on the bench with us

and in the dusk light

i spot the bright yellow sleepy dart on the mat on the porch