(THE LOVER leaves the scene and flees the stage.
THE POET, not quite sure what prompted him,
follows regardless, reigning in wars he'd wage
if he were left to his devices. Men,…
How we follow into the dark, in search of what?
How victory can send us back to battle—
We open doors once they've been safely shut
so that we know it was us who shut them last.
THE POET, crossing through the unlit rooms,
may think of his own exit as retreat,
but once he's left the set, the theatre blooming
beyond the closing curtain, he'll hear the sweet
sound of the people, satisfied to wait.
Turning back, he sees the closing gate.)

I thought I'd loved. See, once upon a time
my heart was mine. To blow, like glass is blown,
to fill with my own breath, it's fullness finer
and finer as the molten walls went round.
I knew there was a craft to it, a patience—
and danger too, backdraft of its collapse—
but learned my turning slowly was salvation.
That danger, cooled, is nothing. Nothing lasts
for it's own sake. You can't just set it down—
not even for a second. That's the goal...
Of course it needs to be maintained: once blown,
a bulb has yet to manage to stay whole.
But that's not what I meant to say. No, listen.
There's more to it than craft, or luck, or kissing...

There's more than I have words to put to use,
more than us or them or all of it combined.
Once, I broke my heart—I broke it. Choose
love and you choose to risk yourself. That's fine.
In fact, I'd say it was the only way.
I tried to love and stay the same, but no.
You can't: I broke. And not to is the shame.
People don't always notice, but they know—
You know, don't you, when looking back, you're gone.
You can't remember who you were completely.
And I know that love is "not for everyone",
that having it is not the end—don't quote me—
but if it is, don't fool yourself. Don't choose
to spend your life alone, afraid to lose yourself.

I haven't meant a thing I meant to say.
I'm sorry. It's just, I mean it. Love and all...
I couldn't stand to lose you. Jealousy,
fits of insecurity—the small
of your back as you lay shirtless on the bed.
I can barely brave the thought of coming home
to my own messes only. True, I'm afraid
to be alone. So maybe I'm more prone
to take a shift for someone, to admit...
There was a time I thought that I was wise.
I loved my broken heart, was proud of it,
and played the prophet, dolling out advice:
how love is not an answer, but a calling.
And how to answer it requires falling—

But I was wrong. Not that it is an answer,
but that to love means more than one thing only:
it's in the practice: filling, taking chances.
It's not a room in which you're never lonely;
Instead, it is a longing to be lost
in consequences not our own, or mine,
a sacrifice, which comes without a cost,
that sense of self impossible to find
without a heart for wandering toward loss,
for leveling the fields so we can stand,
equally mine and yours. That choice is the source,
replenishing, unfair. No god, no man
has ever known this much—and yet it's there
in—count them—all these homes. For every square

mile in the world, some creature's lying down
beside its other. And if they aren't a human,
maybe it's easier. No money around,
not ego to inflict, no path illumined
by faith or lost through lust, just shared survival.
And it's the one who claims to stand alone,
who doesn't need a mate or meet a rival,
who plunders happily on without a son
or daughter, and is happy... making friends
who'll somewhat share his life, but not really.
I simply fear it's easier pretending
all company's the same, save all that feeling.
It isn't sex I mean. It isn't that.
It's who contains you most, yet gives you back.

It's whose own sorrow can eclipse your own,
whose race you run, whose charms outlast their wishes—
whose pleading seems for pleading's sake—the one
who runs ahead, but waits to watch your finish.
It's who is least compelled to keep you his,
but for whom you would comfortably become
a farther star, set trembling at a distance.
A smaller spool, a briefer line. Less fun.
It's who can make you question and amend,
whose fullness fills you also, time and again,
who's more than just another thoughtful friend
but an accomplice, mastermind, and then
the very thing you need for him to be—
Surprise, your savior, partner, company.

God of America, raise high your arches.
Let one be one, but let us also pair.
In you, we are divine, but also human.
We borrow from the world; we live comparing
one love against the next, again, until
we've made a nest by accident. A shelter
in you. Amiable slight, you are mine as well.
You live by our hearts as we do. For the cure
of aggression, of failing relevance, of shame—
for the cure is tolerance for how we act
when we're truly living hardest in your name.
Let us praise you again and learn to bless you back
Let us sing, again, your anthems, and your song.
Americans, again (or once and for all).

(SCENE: THE COUPLE are in the bathroom,
off stage. The audience cant see them, but
THE POET is cutting THE LOVER's hair.
Perhaps the sound of scissors or their occasional talk,
echoing in the tiled room, carries and is audible
to the first few rows. But the stage is lit and the birds
are building nests, coming in and out of open windows,
bringing material in from the street: the usual twigs,
but also plastic straws, frayed ribbon, a bit of bent wire.
The construction is complex and watching them
shape the gathered stuff is enough to watch.)

Can you believe I ever fought the swell,
that there was once no room beyond the gate
and I would kneel to listen for the knell,
pouring within it, dropping with its weight?
As if the heart, afraid of loss, could know
which risk is worth the pain, or what remorse
does to the mind, unloved... Carrion crow,
black vulture that you are, or were, of course
the meat is sweeter when alive, the center
of the wrought world goes dead, useless unused.
Dont keep the secret. Dont deny itEnter
what you thought was closed. To you. Become amused
by the sorry soldiers who mistook your land
for theirs. And planted towns, changed your plans.
                                    towers

(There is a flash of light and the birds flee
from their work. The front door of the apartment
unlocks and THE COUPLE enters. THE LOVER's
hair is dry.)

For others, visit my "real" blog.

(NOTE ON THE BIRDS: How rough and worn the weight
of flight--the soul, when gathered, forms its own:
twinned claw and wing, each severed arc, each nape--
all grown inside the body, dropped. Alone
with death, life rises: emblazoned air, trembling
star of hot earth. The fall that forms in the gut
blooms in the arms before the mind, remembering
how dangerous and hard the world is when shut,
opens its doors so air can cool what light
arrives. The chest unhinges, strong from panic,
and the glacier that is the heart begins to fit.
The wind grows sturdier, its skin gigantic.
The sky that was the source becomes the field,
and opens, upward, marvelous revealed.)

(THE POET gestures to the audience;
THE LOVER returns--both hasten consequence:

one by forgetting to honor Them, the other
by climbing into bed as if to eat,
though THE LOVER isn't really hungry either.)

THE LOVER:
So--um--what now? Did you do a scene without me?

THE POET:
You didn't hear a word of that, did you?

(Already, there's the promise of an end:
THE COUPLE does. / THE COUPLE doesnt do.
Though already there's a scene with them in bed.)

(NOTE ON CONSEQUENCE: Thy fruit is red;
thy swifting heart is blessed--or blessing still.
Chamber of languor and myth-making, mend
thy milk seasoning it with water--fill me.
Without your touch the sequence cannot move
to bound into the territory of Love.)

(THE COUPLE kisses, taking their sweet time,
while in the audience some light applause
erupts then fades as thunder might--no rhyme
or reason, just some faithful few--because
rejoicing seemed the thing to do--but no:
they heard among their many some disgust
and longed to silence it, or at least elbow
those standing back into their seatsDont trust
the man offended by your love. Hes mad
that his is not the only way: he bargains
with his lover for a kiss; he wants it bad
so bad hed force her face into the margins
Regardless, there they go, their souls on fire.
THE POET tries to count them, but grows tired.)

THE POET:
I guess the love-that-conquers-alls a dream.

THE LOVER:
No. Thats as close to forfeit as Ive ever seen!

(The crowd that hears him answers with proud cheers.
Those leaving take their leave with stiffened smiles,
and the rest clap, their gaze intent--some sneer
at those ascending up the angled aisles,
but most sit graciously in waiting, paused
as if for a kiss. THE COUPLE looks on, bored.
But then, through darkness and its ebbed applause,
some men and women enter from the doors
to the lobby and claim the empty seats.
They quietly look up onto the stage
as if arriving late, each breach discreet,
their hearts already eager to engage.
THE POET, baffled, squints and shades his eyes;
The bright lights make him tear. Its no surprise

that he climbs down into the darkness, off the set.)

THE POET:
What is this place? Who are you, with your calm
and your programs? I dont believe weve met--
and yet you thunder like a loyal storm
beyond the lights, existing separately
so we cant see and thank you. Houselights? Please?!

(THE POET calls into the ether, eyes
adjusting to the dark, pulse slowing down.
And then, responding to his desperate cry,
The houselights rise. Nobody makes a sound.
Some in the audience seem quite amused,
but others shift uncomfortably, not used
to being seen, arms tight against their chests.)

THE POET:
Well thank you, strangers; I wish you all the best.

(And from the gesture, THE POET flees again,
this time into the lobby, to the street.
THE LOVER panics too: alone, he bends
to climb down from the stage. The birds repeat
their glorious song; they call for him to wait
with a red rush, pleading from high in the air.
THE POET bursts back in, his stance sedate.
No longer out of breath, he gently goes to him.)

THE POET:
Youll never guess. The lines around the block.
Theyre begging for these guys to let them in.
I said the house was full, but they wont stop.
I said Id ask. They said its worth a shot.

(THE LOVER, baffled, looks past him and nods.

The floodgates open; people fill the aisles,
fitting where they can. And quietly.
Looking out over the sea of smiles,
THE LOVER laughs, unsure how proud to be.)

THE LOVER:
Theyre here for us? They want to see the show?

THE POET:
Well not for us--it could be anyone:
the hunger drives us each to learn, then know
what love is like (when it is love)--and none
deny it, though they may not be as free
to witness it, or free to share it here--
or to know even how to share it. We
are gifted in our love, yes--but were queer
in that were welcomed into lovely view.
And with its blessing, loved--as I love you.

THE LOVER:
I didnt catch a word of that. But thanks.

THE POET:
Im just saying. Theyre here but not for us.
We each arrive for any chance at love,
even someone elses. Its enough.

The Huntsville Times:

"I picked up the book only to pass along to a friend who's interested in these issues. I was not going to read it. I thought I had nothing more to learn on the subject. I was wrong..."

"... it is not a book about sex, but about defining yourself in a hostile world."

At four months, we walked an hour through March
Across the jetty as the wind drew across us.
Each stone unlike the next, each step shorter
Or longerso that the walk seemed like a journey,
Though the point of our futures was fixed.

Looking down between the rocks, we had to stop
Looking ahead, saw the calm spaces hidden there
Where the birds would reach for fish and crabs
Before leaving their shells to dry in the light
On the next rough, uneven surface. Jetty of death,
The reaper says, setting his case to air in the sun.

But there was none: life was brimming and wet,
And the wind filled my eyes with water
As I looked sweetly back to see where you were,
How far or near your careful steps had carried you.

We didnt hurry to get there. Each day was easy
Under our feet; each step more and more sure
Until four years had passed beneath our feet
And there we stood on solid ground again
More than a little shaken from all that care.

The land opened and I felt free, our bodies able
To step side by side after so much walking
Through which only one of us could follow.
And the light was good and the wind had thinned
As we climbed the first dune, looking down.

This is the long road down into winter, this
The gleaming spring already behind you. We sat
And heard the water all around us and talked there
For a moment as the gulls came to learn our game.
On a beach, alone, nobody for miles,
We sat and talked and perhaps looked lonely

To a bird high up in the air, having passed us by.
We knew what it was for, this moment,
Saw the condoms swollen in the sand, the plastic debris
Fading and brittle in the wind and winter sun.

But the light was good and the wind had burned us
And whatever rituals we were meant to arrive through
Seemed foreign and sad and hardly ours. We are not
The men you want us to be. We like our peace
But savor it differently. We arrive and sit and talk a while.
And loved our lovely bodies, distinctly, before crossing back.

*Written as a dare to rewrite the event of the previous poem more accessibly.

As always, if you're interested in what I'm working on, check out my Real Blog. I post there first.

Easier, yes, to live for only love,
to write of it, responding to its myths
as someone would, a myth himself (the trouble
of the psalmist charming Saul, or Orpheus
content to string a lyric line for this)
but what of how it fails us when we fail
to last as long as love? We have no Christ
to wait for, no remorse to fill the sails
of daily life. Just trust. . . and so the sea
around us churns, concerned well drown: what now?
What, now that art must steer us, will it be?
And such a flimsy thing to steerthe prow
much heavier than sheer amazement is
and lessened by true intentions, mild at rest.