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Smooth Hands/or/ Sierra's Hands ~For Sierra~

(Song)

Like the top of a jelly-fish,
floured, air dough
worn thin
still young, though
still young, though

(smoothed by his rough)
Curled in
because no ones allowed to hold her like that

-except him-

still young, though
still young, though
how could a girl be done with the world
she hasn't even begun to see
how could she turn her face
from the sun
to stare at rain and wish
to run
from,
from me.

I can't giver her what she needs
til she gets down on her knees
and cries
all over the floor
so young, though
so young, though

When will she understand
that he's already home
will she see the beauty
in death and life
still young?

How could a girl be done with the world
she hasn't even begun to see
how could she turn her face
from the sun
to stare at rain
and wish to run
from,
from me.

Still young
like the top of floured dough
still young though,
still young though.

Future Night

Future Pulse

Holding a finger to the thick vain in my neck
it pushes itself out and around my tip
but    "I already have a hold on you."
"Calm down" I whisper from my trampoline
and I come off slow
we un-stick like ribbons
only to come together
more.
Holding
(fanning out) hand like the head of an unconscious bird
"Oh, melancholy"
 touching deep breath when,some night,
just like this-
-muggy rain and sweaty legs-
I won't have to feel my own, boring pulse.

Soda Ocean

Bubble inside the pit
below his shoulder.
Bobbing with the glass and red
raincloud is laughing
with his awkward, naked diving
over
and again.
Swimming below warm ceiling
can't breathe, calm.
Floating under water-weight
lying on stone floor
waves roll
under
and over

moving
moving him slow
until they push his weight over the edge
and he settles
in the sand
sleeping for a second
(he's never been able)
to widen his eyes
and swim up
to soda gone.

Poet's Refuge

What is the ocean


's power?

An ansethetic
topped with
seaweed?

An accepting rythym
pleasing
to every nerve,
even
within
the sky.

A poet's refuge,
a human's
"safe place"
a home
where there
never has been
or a
can
to kick
when you need
to really think.

Does the ocean
know it is?

Did the ocean
ask for this?

Like A Pineapple Soda Company

Pumpin' out
poems
like a
pineapple soda company
in dirty Belize
big-boned woman
pass it on-
wiry figures
laugh,
pass it on-
to trucks which bring
the pondwater
to local stores
only to be brought
back
for a late night
dip
in still summer heat.

Writing Class

~Writing Class~

An oximoron  in
the very name,
writing class is a sham.

You can only "teach" writing to a certain,
halting extent
               before
the writer puts their hands up
and demands
peace.
Quiet.
A space in which
to hide
until
the muse man
comes
and looks
over their shoulder.

A valuable time
makes lines of rhyme or random.
Both can be fatal.

Writing is not
a learned skill
(only guided)
only discovered,
then recognized
over
and
over

until this inner being
falls out of the chest
to stand for itslef.