Dark Matter

Aidan reads bedtime stories under a nightlight from distant galaxies
an imagination sublime
he, too young to be forced into the confines of language
deciphers the stars from God script;
despite his limitations, into expressions of his heart.

His father lives within the confines of the ordinary
holds Aidan’s hand on the walk to school
all the while trying to fully capture what it is to be a man
to explain it to the son of a man
who was never his father’s son.

Aidan never thinks about his invisible grandfather
his father bends light to his form constantly afraid
of his ability to follow his father’s deformed path

—unseeable—

His father walks carefully
leaving what he finds of the universe spread out before Aidan’s wide eyes
marveling at his ability to piece together the shadows of the world
how he curves the fabric of space in his miniscule palm
and presents the world with an image
a moment where the secrets lying behind the universe of his eyes
take form
in incredible elegant strokes
to a picture of his father, a man
the most reliable hand he has.

Annular Rings

The natural light angles through an open window

little five finger smudges

streak downwards, vanishing growth marks

they are taller than they seem.

We are older than we look

our reflections, pasts outgrowing futures.

Speaking in Subtitles

Inspired by M.E.

She says we reconnect worlds in dreamwalking / another instance of smooth-talking the pants off of creation / at war with a saner self / someone saying: Stop! Backwards talking / in circles // I'm too dipsy dizzy to make sense of rollercoasters / too off the track to flip for what's fashionable / a moment's notice / a moment's gone // this is a time for insisting on the inferences: // the assumptions of a living past / a ghostlike present / and the tendrils of our future floating above your head // reminding myself of roads often traveled and traveled back / there is no time for recasting old parts / new script, new director, new scene / same plotline, new twist // you translate my subtitles // to understand and not underestimate / your dialogue / you read my mental diary / and left me a hidden note // I leave u an open invitation / and you’re stamping return to sender / unopened / another wasted 41 cents / another walk of shame to the mailbox: // head down, heart open / I should be head up, heart hidden… / re-checking the/path of my footfalls / I thought I was sitting asleep / I'm running awake.

Map of Dreams

My dream had a voice, a body, a third eye
a seamless idea of how the world was suppose to work, but didn’t.
See, my dream was a visionary
Took day trips to the mountains for Karmic meditations
un-distorted her harmonic balances during morning shower
Her destiny:
A patchwork path laid out at her feet. I mismatched my footsteps
to her rain-filled footprints.

Always in need of a home, I sleep naked in her entranceway. She leaves candles
burning to guide me to morning
and I follow half waking to the cover of night.
A wish. My dream. Fulfilled.

Longing (A Never-Was Poem)

In my dream am standing right here / you were by the window / gazing at something more interesting than me / I was reading you with distant eyes / like my favorite book with folded pages / I have highlighted you / as important / and you have me down as nondescript / a black and white photograph fluttering to the floor / I've faded into many backgrounds / a moving shadow watching light from a distance / You are light from a distance / and I am all to ready to be your darkside.

Kids Are an Inspiration...

Baby, Go Soft

He blows bubbles
thin fingers gripping the wand and huffs hard

the bubbles reflect the overhead lighting, refracting
and I see visions discriminating themselves from the soapy sheen
how many times we’ve blown bubble before
and we’ll blow bubble after
or I’ll put my lips together, paused to blow

he’ll learn through imitation
though my fingers gripping the wand are bigger
and the lips hold in harsher sounds
that’s the natural roughness of surviving life, sometimes it pays to just be more gentle.

Memorial Day

I.

I will always remember blazing across the state
following a course set by Sherman
I scorched Atlanta
and shaved a full hour off my estimated time.

I’ve never needed a compass to find home,
but in the middle of the movement
You never realize how fast you’re going.

II.

The fireworks burst in slow motion
insistent on attention; she adverts her eyes
unblinking, I stare straight ahead.

III.

I walk the vacant streets after dark alone
summer in Savannah; humid air, absolutely unmoving
a deep breath escapes pursed lips
it’s the first time in months for easy thoughtless breaths.

The Trouble with Remaining Professional

Because he views speaking as a profession
he tells me, “memorize your piece, paper
shaking between your fingers is distracting…”
he doesn’t know that I seek the distraction
like an ADHD kid ‘stiming’ on moving lights

His profession is my secret garden

The audience’s divided attention makes me less
transparent, the paper my grip on what’s permanent
because motions are as faded as memories and words flee yellowing pages
as the years spin across my chest and I’m caught
standing still again, staring pass the window and the spotlit open mic
at another sun devoured by the oak trees.

Marathon

She found faith through submission
the destruction of her spine and days
turn the wired spokes down memory lane a bargain:
be careful for what you wish.

She says the evidence of her life,
calluses cracked and bleeding rivulets across her palms;
I could have traced the lines
into an autobiography of self-portraits.

I visited seeing concrete frown.
The sky knew nakedness without eyes.
She doesn’t understand. My shoes were tearing sentences,
like being reminded of a waving checkered flag;

even monuments can be made obsolete.

Gamma Rays and Abandonment Issues

Dear Dr. Banner,

You’re father never hugged you

enough. You have a right to be upset. Anger Management

gives you someone professional

to talk to. Open Up, Share.