For you,
And I know you hate poems,
Oh yes I do
But today I'm writing poems
Sorry
Maybe when it's done
You'll find you might have liked this one?
Love I love the hole in my
heart that brought me here.
Love I love the
cold.
Love I love the aching that becomes every night,
I love your
island.
Love, love must be
blind
Must be
deaf,
Must have an
I.Q. of four
An arm growing where its
brain should be
I know I love your island.
I love the
ferry bow where the winds pass ferocious
The
Dreamland that rises in opaque foggy nights,
The furrows in the
owl's field.
I love the
islands imprinted in the stream of perfectly navigable waters
And the
rain.
Love, I love the
fierce wind protecting
The Captain plying the
shoreline approaching
A stone’s throw
On a beach where magic surfed ashore
And will again
Heisenberg-style
On feet numbed senseless with cold,
Fled and hiding in your island forest thick with
trilliums.
I love the emptiness no one cares,
Born running the way
Springsteen sung,
When you were the untouched paper under the pen,
When Bruce A.K.A. "Dad" and She A.K.A. "Mom"
Slept on board A.K.A. "bed" over Kid A.K.A. "You"
Hay rolling beneath the vast blue unknowing storms to be.
Before I loved the forest where your
trilliums grow,
Where
Gabriel walked wingless down here below.
Damned and godless.
But I'm obeying,
See, I'm swimming,
Even though old men in town were saying there's no way of winning
They pray in
Buddhist Chinese dropping dominos under,
Those boring blue skies that gave way to frightening
Lightning and
thunder,
Past remembered is ever being,
Christ, who do they think they're kidding?
No clock can stop an owl's flight.
Can you believe that when the
checkbook balances,
The muse will rise and in
Laura Love's voice
Will sing that I lost my way in the perfectly navigable waters,
Beside your island?
And the
driftwood from which they built the house.
I love those weathered gray boards,
I love the
shelter that kept you whole,
I love that people lived and died there,
And the
ghosts we were and will become
And life simply is and no one knows,
Or sees my
footprint filling with rain
In the mud between the
hummocks beside the tree branch
That seems like the trunk of an
elephant the children once rode,
In dreams no one will believe,
We two ghosts were standing there.
Because in my mind my love is a blind
neurosurgeon,
A deaf
composer,
An
astronaut with a glass eye and
claustrophobia,
An armless handshake specialist,
A fish drowning in a glass bowl at the carnival,
A
serial killer wannabe pulling the wings off butterflies,
Under a glass magnifying,
A
solar flare no one believes in.
I love your
tragic desolation.
And it is vicious, merciless, and unkind.
How else could that have happened?