the rhythm of our lines, for brendan

No gesture could be big enough for you.
No poem.
No rhyme.
No time spent in your room together,
me falling all over my words
while you watch the smoke curls
                floating above the ceiling.
 
Nothing I can say
While I listen in awe
Wondering if I’ll ever get there
to be with you
and where
to join you tomorrow
to trudge across the sand
and over the brilliant flowers
                        spiraling their colors onto our impressionable minds with a power I don’t understand.
 
I find that the more time
I sit and wonder how this will end
or what to say
something’s in the way:
amazement, saving it for later
not knowing what to put together to paint the picture clearly
weary eyed, watching the rays blaze together,
sitting in my car,
wishing I could list the ways I look up to you;
noting traffic patterns and the way light glints
dashing back home to see you.
The metaphor comes to me now with such great ease:
Tire rubber transforming to a raven on the highway
The car a silver salmon, sliding up behind me.
The things I could never say
                               never do
                              never be
All now a reflection of you and me
And of our writing,
The three sitting in the room
For hours and wondering what comes next.
Is it time to break this line down?
 
You are a poet alone
Yet I long to hear our names as an us, or an in between
to grow to your shadow
a Peter Pan glimmering across the wall
tights and a golden dress
glowing hair and eyelashes alike
And will they say you were me, once?
      an older image of myself
                  in a man’s body
     with a hand to hold in a moment of weakness
                                                               confusion,
      were you fooled by the illusion
or did you make it real with your photographs and scribbled notes falling onto the floor
      a chronology of all the things I want to be
to reconcile the growth without being afraid
 
If there is one thing, I know I can, B
I can B.
I can be as hopeful as you.
Never giving up in a world where
girls have gloating walks
and I am just a Lost Boy.
Us lost together perhaps
on this path
of infinite desire
and sin
and love
for the one who makes us feel whole inside,
like God is letting us look in on a little miracle
of creation
Every time he smiles.
 
If I cry each time I read the song
             to a boy from a boy about my own love that cannot be seeded
                                                                                                 or grow
             without your wiser wisdom annexed to the end
      crawling from your mouth in staccato bullet notes,
my tears will not be but half as much
as the pain of losing you dripping from my soul,
          shining ink, a rainbow trout, all the colors of your words reflected in my eyes,
Awestruck still.
 
Life is a palette,
      you take all the
                      golds and
                             greens and
                                           purples
                                                       and mix them into words and emotions.
I stand amazed in the way you take flashes of life
and turn them into poetry
one swift motion;
them spilling onto the page
like overturned liquor—
smelling like candy with a burn
like you
sweet Brendan with an evil streak
      The light at the    end of the     tunnel.
The picture of        glory    that keeps me
walking
      down the cluttered path of poetry,
          between      the      androgenous     trees
crowding us down onto our stomachs.
civil servants burning our draft cards
flaming
the two of us
 
Every pace takes me further into the shining canyon of depth
where beautiful things fall to be reborn
under the Parthenon
where the Greek goddesses go for shade
from the fear of Friday’s wrath.
      my grandmother tree tells me it is covered by your strength
 
If souls could combine
Yours and mine
   our tadpoles would be laced with purple imagery,
       oblivious to conformity
       and normality
   black beady eyes dotted with hearts
       seeking through the water towards the shore
                   to grow
                      and grow
                      and grow.
     our condensation would be smoky
          stones of pure emotion clouded with hidden meaning
 
If souls could combine
   ours would find the time in between classes and bong hits
   to soar into the sky, a supernova of rhyme
   falling back down
   in the form of a novel
   or poem to beat them all
          a great epic from the heartstrings of heaven and high water.
          a tornado of fashion and passion
          artifacts and deer tracks
          or a stream of consciousness running through an impressionistic paradise.
 
You,
my teacher
preach me the ways
of line
after
line
after
line of verse
worthy of your Tuesday night approval.
Show me what it takes to wake up in the morning and not be ashamed.
 
I need nothing more than your hand
and a can of Budweiser
to tackle an evening of pain.
You’re there with the bucket,
Or the bowl
Or the goldfish and jester hat.
 
The sadness is that not matter how much we try,
the both of us with our words
can’t say “I love you” enough
or the right way
But
I have found you
And me in you
And the beauty of truth
Proof.
Evidential proof.
So, that has to be enough.
 
Yet I never know whether to thank fate
   or instead fall to my knees and beg for his mercy
his kindness of you             yet hatred in your quick departure
    a plane on the runway
    wheels rolling up
    even as the rhythm of your lines overwhelms the droning engine
 
Take my hand.
And my pen
Use it to open the walls in our minds
To the styles and kinds of things the other knows.
And if tomorrow holds no promise of you
Each time I scribble on a page,
I will remember your words of love, of rage
My sage in a confused year of turmoil
I know when blood boiled,
you calmed it
And when my name was soiled,
you washed it.
But I can’t put my finger on the word
To tell you that I know
Without you,
Without our shared muse
The show couldn’t go on
In the third act.
As a matter of fact,
It wouldn’t have gone on at all.
 
I call you a friend, because there is no other word.
And I tell you I love you,
For it means Je t’adore in French.
But the heart wrenching part
Is that we were at the start
When it had to end.
I wish I had more time to understand.
So take my hand,
Even as the rhythm of your lines overwhelms the droning engine.

a senior sianora or ode to a sisterhood

Monday afternoon the green glow rises from the tips of birdless wings
soaring over the giant rifting river
gulls flapping, fishing the incessant ripples
reaching their breaks in the water
for hope.
If a red tide rises up, will you roll around in it,
paint yourself and the town red with cherry vodka?
Shotglass sequins sprinkled onto table tops
soaked up by hair and houndouts
replaced by upside-down empty glasses,
the pink cheeks and nipples flashing against
a sea of everyday brine
like a game of musical chairs
where sunshine means sitting on the floor
as goblets are filled to the brin with the best of the kingdom's gold.
Viking hats--alcoholic helments--rise over the kingdom as the light of luck smashes to the floor,
covered with the shame of a brown paper bag.
Why so much gladness and glee when the warriors are to venture out to battle the toughest demon of all?
Why rejoice and sing victory praises when those left behind are certain to lose.
Tears could not quench the spirit of this sisterhood
Ditto the the war cry's call
And happy fucking birthday to all!