Ancestral Dream

The ancestral dreams are a
Welcome vision—nights that
Need the violence.
The sword’s angle falls
Harshly through flesh—
Mine cut people in half
Because they could.
I would too—had the
Women asked.

Leather beards and I,
Behind angry eyes, lead
The way to tents of
Lust—the way it used
To be and should’ve been,
There in those wet lost places.

In the fortress, girls scream
And women don’t—in another
Place assumed—I boil with urge
And desirous rage.
Make the weak do as they’re told
For the good of my clan I can.

A messy and perfect conclusion
Meets the dawn of my new day
Here among their children.

Space Yellow

I began in the space yellow
Tide morning hue null in
Mind.
Of bells gone loud and
Last valence shaken moist
No more the wicked
Son I’ll be.
Kick the soup
In the stock iron
Man.

Little Corona

The sun shone brightly on
The California shore—
Alone with my siblings,
Family and others.
She came from the water—
An enchantress birthed by
The deep and nurtured with
Sand.
Little Corona flows with
Scattered eccentric memories
Shattered—I want you still.
I struggle between images forbade
For us both under the warm
Stream of dirty sand beach showers
Placed for eternity.
Tan and tar stained feet never
Clean—I watched the moment
Unfold—acted out and planned
For a millennia—my departure and
End, imminent.
But you, you imagined the dream
Could last forever—gathering my
Name and attention to this very
Undesirable moment for the
Pain of wicked work.
You’re the comfort
Demon in a black one-piece,
Dragging me back
To this place gone twenty years
Today and also yesterday.
I’m stuck with you—stirred
Thin throughout my psyche
You’re there, in love with me
Alone.
I wait.
I wait for word from the crowd—
A passing whisper of your
name gone dilute.
You healed me for a lifetime
and made the bleak seem small.
A day will come again for you—old
One at Little Corona,
A day when pleasure finds words
And runs you wild.

Redeeming Habit

I like drinking black coffee,
some mornings
more than others, but
I drink coffee
every morning
of every week.

Habit keeps me going anyway;
momentum.

Addiction: reelected once a day;
incumbent.

This morning,
the warmth in my hand,
the steam in my eyes,
make the daily addiction
worth it.
All those mornings of habit
are redeemed
when it makes a morning,
any morning,
feel like college
or that coffee you had on the deck of the ship
staring at jungle coastline
feeling refreshed
and ready.

I think of my other addictions like this too:
one wife,
two kinds smoking,
and all kinds of drink.

The thing to watch out for,
is a significant delay in redemption.
This is when the
Redemption of Habit,
has been a long time coming.

I should keep a journal,
of those perfect mornings
when I feel so well
constructed.
Then I could determine the standard
deviation of my addictions.
Rehab would always occur before
four standard deviations had been reached.
Maybe five.

Another thing I should do is remember.
I must remember,
when the anticipated and
unforeseen moment arrives,
at that moment,
that signal moment of a good addiction,
I must do nothing but soak
And bathe
And breathe
Until I feel so exceptional, that
I have no need to do anything else.

last night at 2:30 in the morning
the sun rose in the west
i had dishes to wash
but went outside to marvel
w/ the other two workers
gazing at the new day
the anomaly at close
we had to point it out
to the drunks leaving the bar next door
but they didn't care
one blonde girl didn't see the big deal
since most of the sky was still black anyway
except the yellow sphere around the orb
& the brightening land beneath
it's fucking time, i said
to her, it's how we live
at this time & that time
be here and be there
the other workers & i became
prophets of the sun
preaching to the unshaken
followers of routine
Can you not see what it
means for the sun to rise
at 2:30?

i moved my finger across
the red veins of a map
& ended up in Michigan
& followed a quick footed
shaved head man skirting over sand
through a compound of buildings
leading me to a service
(i thought, if i had to catch him, tackle him
i could. he could not escape me. his tracks
in the sand.)
he opened the door & in the meeting hall
the locals had painted their sheeps' faces,
made them wear dresses,
sit in pews beside them like children
the woman next to me hissed & scolded
her sheep for its shifting, sizeable inattention
Dad preached & told of a speech
Nancy Regan gave that caused an
economic depression in Hawaii
the congregation asked about
my youngest daughter,
"if when she was here, could she speak?"
they spoke of her in the past tense
b/c she was not with us
but was adrift, lost somewhere
when the glow from the west melted time & direction.
yes. she could speak.

Work Spends Me

I haven’t written much lately, and
my recent ideas feel undernourished,
and skeletal, to the touch.

A common poverty

Work spends me,
spends
and spends
until I’m spent.
Good ideas flow
in and back out
not captured.
They will have to come again
when I’m rested
relaxed, and
refreshed.

Maybe after the next
objective, deadline or strategy
is realized
i’ll be better able
to save my time
and energy.
Then I’ll be rested
relaxed, and
refreshed.

A common hope