Someone plays with someone

a lover snores besides a someone.

the daughter of someone is in a bedroom

pulling air through a harmonica.

 

 the sun is out and someone sits with goose bumps.

 someone has turned grey as a rain weathered tin.

someone’s heart is twisty sensitivity and has not yet learned to swallow.  Darfur. Iraq. Afghanistan

war torture. Cuba…WWII, the love of family.

 

 

someone’s grandmother comes to visit and leaves.

someone’s friend calls. someone gives advice, says, “find a lover

you can sit and talk with,

 

 

 laughter holds hands into sticky glances. 

 

 someone’s daughter goes outside to a ride a scooter

someone’s lover snore stops and becomes a whisper.

someone is sad and blessed

someone is lonely and surround by carpet.  someone doesn’t know

what a someone is, only what a bomb is not.

 

all the creative ideas

that someone hasn’t learned

to control are the pieces that someone tastes and savors.

 

 someone can’t shake the snakes, or explain

the need of death by whips and earthquakes. 

 

someone needs a bath with potato soap and someone brushes

the lives that someone tangles and never notices. someone

moans for the someone who someone is mis-teaching.

and someone is searching for a home for someone who is homeless. and someone

is playing dice down -out into a hall to make someone some money.  Someone is dodging

work to go to a war and haircut. someone is looking in a fridge

and someone is watching tv. someone

pretends that someone’s feet are planted on the ground. someone is nobody cause they are dead

cause someone has just blown off someone’s head.  someone is singing

words of evolution. and someone is wondering

when someone will peek into someone’s eyes, and hand

someone a rye and Swiss sandwich.  a someone is scared to go outside alone or

talk with someone over the phone. someone doesn’t want someone

to know someone writes death letters to someone’s self. someone is sick

and poor. someone is rich and disconnected by a fence around their yard. someone is birthed

and someone eats noodles without sauce. someone is

a friend for life and someone has cancer  of the mouth.

someone is an artist and someone is

nurse. and someone utters a little curse. 

 

someone listens and someone blesses  the life-giving tree.

and someone won’t ever be free. someone

lives their life internally.  and someone is trying

to figure out who someone is, and someone won’t

find the answer, while someone will know it doesn’t matter.

someone marches for peace and someone doesn’t want to come home from war

someone needs a hug, and someone’s been over touched. someone is on

drugs, and someone wishes drugs could fix someone’s problems 

End of the Road

 

 

 

 

You’ll know when you get there. 

You’ll be surprised, a fever may come.

You might have to sit and stare off.    

When you leave you will weep.

Walking backwards,

staring and trying to remember

as much as possible.  It won’t help

 

You’ll scratch your insides

to ask why you can’t return.

You’ll try to rationalize

the big the city, the prairie grass.

you’ll say a river is good enough.

that there is more opportunity

where you are, better schools,

better job market. 

you’ll even say you can go

home and visit.

You’ll say people move on 

but despite all yourself talk

you won’t be the same.

 

Visiting won’t give peace. You’ll leave. 

You will say, its time to

take advantage of the new place.  You’ll try, 

you’ll look at the people and their hem lines.

You’ll find old buildings and new lace shops

but it won’t be enough. 

You’ll fake it for years. 

You’ll bitter, and save money,

hope to buy that little cabin.   

But you won’t.  You’ll stay in limbo. 

 

Knowing your dying but thinking

you are doing the right thing.  

Your heart will break.  Again and again.

You’ll make new friends

and find new ways to express the hole.

You’ll read your poems to strangers.

your stretch yourself out and in 

but it won’t matter.

You’ll still miss her.

You’ll still want to return to lake superior. 

Even the warmer climate won’t be enough.

Land locked you’ll damn alone.

Smart enough to hide your wanderlust

your craft will become

the source of replacement. 

 

You’ll miss the library

with the sacks of poetry people.

The rocks, o the rocks,

 you’ll be attracted

to all rocks and touch every

fugging one you can, and say,

send a vibe  back north.

 

 You’ll miss October’s face,

 its eyes, its grin, its sway. 

It teasing you. 

You’ll miss February  and her doe

that is shy and curious. 

Your miss June’s sass

and March’s enlightenment. 

You’ll miss December’s

scotch and savior conversation.

 

You’ll miss August’s acceptance and wit,

strength and hot friendship.

You’ll miss May’s perception,

its soft anger, that grows on the world.

You’ll plan to gather your months

at her shore but it won’t happen.

Goose pump you, will follow someone

 else’s lead, your gentle job’s.

You’ll hate yourself for it,

for doing the right thing,  ever.

true walking machine

Some day man will be a true walking machine.  

Full of beeps and parts that allow them

humans to advance a little.  I think

all this cutting and adding will one day stop.

Then evolution can continue.  

up in Marquette, mi on lake superior the air

is intoxicating. especially when you have moved

from there, and are briefly visiting some friends, and when you

say some, you mean, all.   so you breathe as much as possible

pull it into your lungs, dizzy and home.

your lover does the same,  you can’t talk about it

though,  to talk about it would force you to admit failure