Dames Point Park

Dames Point Park // Jacksonville, FL
The sunset was somehow Egyptian, spreading
vertical rays of Ra’s golden blessings on the union
of the Dames Point bridge and the horizon.

“How far can the eyes see?” he asks of me.
I have to admit ignorance in all of this. 

Dames Point Park // Jacksonville, FL

I know what I can see, but only barely.
I can barely see and furthermore barely
believe what I see as the truth. 

It’s only the illusion of control that life is offering -
"You are who you pretend to be, so be
careful who you pretend to be."

Dames Point Park // Jacksonville, FL


For the Now Child

It’s on the edge of established lives that I catch a touch of lumpy throat,
bouncing someone else’s baby at someone’s else kitchen table
lovingly sourced and made from hand felled oak.

At least, I think it is. It doesn’t matter.

It’s always a tree, right? There’s no better imagery
for the ways the children feed themselves on our roots,
for the ways the fed are disentangled and shoved
off to their own desperate journeys for truth,
for the planks of disembodied souls
catching errant drips of morning milk from cereal bowls.

“Now Keri, write in your book that I love Keri and sign it with my name.”

My name now is Now Keri and I can’t even tell her how correct she is,
hitting the mark so accidentally.

“Now Keri, I am putting this sticker in your notebook.
Now Keri, you will always know that I was here.”

I want to thrust these colored pages into your hands so you can see
your words washed over in strokes of easter blues and greens.
She asks, with tiny brows and jellystains but no words,
with grubby hand of vibrant wax posed kinetically over stacks
of poems bound together searching endlessly for perpetuity.

How do I say no to her? How do I tell her that this the only thing that anything means?

I want to say “now child, you can write in any book I own.”
or “now child, the very act of my hand touching the page turns white to red”
or “now child, please, please don’t let us die.
Please pass me around and love as I have loved,
please carry me and foster me in the eyes of your own children,
let them know that you should say ‘hello’ to every sidewalk
and ‘hell no’ to every heavy task.”

Instead I say “yes, baby. Anything you ask.”


The same, it's the same

Chutes and Ladders // 1904 Artwalk

Blue ribbon swirling, sweating,
Stowed by a broke millennial,
awarded to the hands of creative energy.

“Free-B-R! It’s free PBR!”

Creation warms, beckons,
calls me to his side to thank me silently
with jagged black agate eyes.

“I need you to sing to me.”

The world is humming,
I am humming at the feet of the ancients,
unspooling lengths of yarn.

I am humming
into a Samsung smart phone
at 4 in the morning with the spins coming for me
while you play guitar.

What can’t we do?
Where can’t we spend our energy?

Idle hands and all
so we keep ourselves so busy,
generously generating.

A man is whatever room he is in
but every room we enter becomes eternal and whole;
the center of sacred profanity.

“No one has written about me,” 
he says, to the girl with words to spare,
as he paints yellow birds into his hair.

I file away that sentence for future use. You think no one’s written about you?
Bard of academic disregard, mountain man in flatlands,
I know what you mean but I laugh at you anyway.
My notebooks have something else to say.