look how human we are.

 

you, with your sultry voice

and me on the edge of every word you sing

I can picture us in smoky cafes all around the world

but do I have the courage to open up

and be more than fluorescent light?

(I’m so damn scared to speak)

 

you see, you make me have this feeling

where I want everything and nothing all at once

I want your unconditional love following me around

in your minor songs & guitar forever

but because I don’t believe I’m fit for that sort of thing

anymore.

 

I want your cigarette stained dry lips, your deep floored whisper

voiced deep in my ears

your breath on my neck

in between the melody lines.

 

I think I’m jealous of you because you believe

you need music more than salvation

and oh, music is the greatest earthly beauty,

weaving in & out of our souls like honey on your tongue.

 

I’m wishing I had your ability to trust the hands of music with your soul.

 

I’m wishing that you could show me your type of salvation first ahnd,

through your hands on that guitar

so that I could sing back to you

my type of salvation

hoping I have an angel’s voice

so we can go to heaven together

and spend the rest of our earthly days

breathing on each others’ necks

and singing in each other’s ears.

I miss those Iowa heartbreak sunsets

vast expanse of land

cornfields you braid with your hands

in your imagination

 

bike rides that outlast the smooth hills

chasing fireflies lingering above creekbeds

and dirtroad ditches

 

spending summerthought on golfcourse turf

twirling barefooted on the half inch grass

and dodging aggressive sprinkler spray

in immense starlight

as sure as my heart is moving,

 

I am stubborn, it is true.

 

but all I want is to give up my intentions & expectations

and fall soft into warm arms of simple love.

 

But can love be simple?

 

like the voice of a stranger, heard for the first time

when you don’t expect the timbre

because it doesn’t match their body.

 

Some people have voices that carry.

Some hide in corners & scarcely speak.

 

Sometimes I see couples and imagine how they make love

and remember

when I was one of two

instead of one of one.

I want to be a melody

that is easy to harmonize.

but how I love non-chord tones

unresolved suspensions

and leading tones

that lead nowhere.

 

I want to be a fire

easy to fan and fuel

but I can’t just burn from newspaper and starter fluid.

 

I’ve got to get some wood.

 

I want to be the last dollar in your wallet.

you’ll carry it longer than my photograph—

I know.

 

6.22.2011

I thought it strange, because I thought

I’d know how to handle the situation

be sovereign in my self-confidence

and smooth over easy

fry her impression of me in a pan

of hot envy for the things she wishes she knew.

I thought for sure

that I saw a black cat on the sidewalk

but it was the shadow of a tree

crouching like paws

down through the grass.

I thought no one would remember me

because I was bitter when I decided

this place had nothing to give me.

I thought I’d wake up in a different state

and turn over in my sheets

facing windowframes following treelines

down a mountain.

but instead

I mumble my feet in semi circles

pace my words in laps around the room

avert my glance to speck-tiled floors

I used to know too well

when that distinctive smell

meant many different faces

different hands to hold

and much different hearts to account for.

instead, they love that I am here

and it is wonderful.

with open arms I fumble

at my grand misestimation.

I wake up in my own bed in my own house

that I slept in for eight years

but still can’t remember

because I wished for closer lungs against my back

in places other than what used to be home.

I wished for a different breath on my neck

a younger blood to mix with mine

some thread bound tighter

through the stitch of my being

but now I’m howling for the moon

because I can’t find it in this starlight starbright Iowa sky

and I’m wailing up desperate prayers

that things would be different but I’d learn to cope

not just pretend they were the same with expired hopes

I can’t seem to reign in the wild manes of this heart

longing for deep green meadows of promised summer frolick.

The singing soul of mine wants another to resound with.

Oh, ecstasy of company, you feed me your addiction to my bleeding adventure veins

& I seek hands to hold and countenance bold-

he who can conquer my fears could only be

firefighter astronaut veterinarian

chef musician poet

ambassador bullfighter pilot

sailor stockbroker painter

I know he can’t be Jesus

but he probably knows him.

Simple things matter. The smell of the earth, its color and curves, texture to touch and thickness of air,

the length of time the tea is steeped, the distance you can see through the coffee (which shouldn’t be measurable)

the timbre of his voice and how much it changes when he sings

or the smoothness of his fingers on guitar, then on skin.

Is there a difference?

Why do I begin

this steady searching

from intimate to ultimatum

of “what ifs” before there is “what”?

Take care to be slow.

“Run mad as often as you choose, but do not faint”.

 

heal, heal, heal already.

it keeps raining and I keep forgetting my umbrella.

I ride my bike too fast and I fall off.

I skin my knees,

I bleed and don’t notice.

I bleed

warm wet down my legs

and I hardly notice

any

more.

 

slow down, slow down, please.

you’re worth more than you’re giving yourself credit for,

he says.

 

the weak or the strong,

who is it that endures pain the most,

the oppressed or the intentional?

 

if you’re proud you’re strong,

if you’re ashamed you’re oppressed.

 

I am strong

AND

I am oppressed

 

I am strong because I have been oppressed.

 

I have been weak because I’ve been too proud to handle.

 

but where, oh where

is redemption?

 

Southern stars & syncopation

he says, don’t worry baby, you’re the only one

who has to be human here.

so I take off my dress

but I don’t feel human

 

and I understand now,

what Harriet Tubman meant when she sang about the Southern stars

and how the river Jordan feels nearer than ever

when that fresh moon breeze drifts

over cool calm skin

 

the big dipper fetches me a tin cup o’ moonshine

and orion shows me how strong he is

to keep on standing on top of Chattanooga

Cassiopeia keeps braiding herself in my tangled hair

and the Tennessee River smiles their reflections back

in a mountain-curved grin

 

this is where syncopation comes from,

the beat, stop, holllld out

and in

 

I’m living the way the music of America began