Cup

A cup of Ire. A cup of Mirth. Half a cup of each for most. Cupping the crown of a baby’s head or the round of a lover’s breast. Cupping all you still possess in your arms after a fire. Cupping the last of your warmth in your hands and blowing on them in hope of more.

You can borrow a cup or a cup of sugar. There is precedent. There is a rumor the Holy Grail is a wooden cup. Valhalla welcomes all with an endless cup. No need to borrow again, as all heroes share with abandon and glee. When someone is drunk, we still say they are lost in their cups. Sometimes I feel lost in my cups without drinking a drop though. Thoughts are nectar that can be both toxic and intoxicating. If time really is a river, then I suspect we should measure it in cups.

Some pups fit in a cup. Teakettle ChuaChuas, Toy Poodles. All kittens fit in a cup. Rats fit five to a cup, but rarely come bearing a cup. Biergarten servers come bearing many cups, with the goal of making everyone lost in their cups enough to sing. Even if you don’t speak the language. Stille Nacht. Alles Schlaft. Except on the Night of Broken Glass. So fragile the peace that humanity tried to pour into that cup of time. Kristallnacht. Brittle even. A shattered cup that cannot be repaired. But glass can be recycled. It has to be crushed, purified and cleaned of contaminates first. It becomes cullet that must be remelted and cast. Completely new shapes of cups can result. The cup acquires a new nature and life by being ground into dust and reformed, but using this dust requires less energy/ heat than forging a glass cup from scratch would. This makes recycling glass cups economical. What about human cups? Does it take less energy to grind out souls to the essence and recast? Sometimes it takes less energy to grind my beliefs to dust and recast. How many cups of time do I have left after all? The limit is unspecified. Glass cups can be recycled endlessly, and they are brittle. Are we any less resilient than glass?

What is at the bottom of our cup of time and soul? Are there tea leaves we can read to forecast the future of time without us now?

If you take away the C you’re left with up, but you can only fill a cup up not pour it up. Not even in space without gravity will a cup pour up, but it can still be filled up. In space, your cup will not runneth over. Molecules stick together in a bubble that just expands beyond your cup...all you can do is shatter the bubble into smaller bubbles and push them out of the cup. These bubbles endlessly exist until someone vacuums them up, or consumes them...cups them again. I start most days with a cup of coffee or tea. Sometimes I have a “good cuppa” with a friend. Is love consuming a cup together? Or pouring a cup for? Or refilling an empty cup? Or smashing a cup together to celebrate your vows? Is love one or all of the cups we can measure in the river of time?

I have a cupful of questions.

Tough Enough?

did I toughen up?
scars so thick
a second skin
burned and burned
to begin again
I remember when
existing hurt
every day I lost my shirt
I had no history
so everything was
a dangerous mystery
but now...
did I toughen up?
metaled in
head armored
to bleeding heart
so foolishness
can't even start
I remember when
counting doubt
was so devout
I had no pride
so nothing was
on my side
but now...
did I toughen up?
or just, age out?
Stand here,
Hold this,
Let's fire another round...

Oberon singed curled his whiskers a lot as a kitten too.

Truth Taxed

Truth always demands a tax.

The sooner I admit it the smaller the fee.

The later I agree to see it, the greater the toll.

The tax of truth is at compounding interest,

Factorial for each day of denial,

Such that 5 days denial factors to 120 lives,

But just two more days, at 7, factors to 5040.

I mastered the math long ago,

But not the meter of its implication yet.

Why do I keep borrowing from this monster?

At some point, the borrower must become

Exponentially gross

For giving the lender credit again?

Despite knowing,

I must find the wisdom

To ask

How am I a fool today?
But I am too taxed.

If wishes were fish, and truth was neon bright...

Dear Dandelion, a poem to my inner child

Dandelion, don't be lazy.
Why are your eyes so hazy?
Powder Puff,
your hair should be crazy.
Don't let 'em tell you otherwise.
Fighting your nature only causes cries.
Every word is just a way to say something still comes next,
so keep your look alive.
Endings are written all the time,
without actually reaching The End.

Dandelion, don't be dull.
Isn't your heart still full?
Long Stalk,
you could bend to the bull not to break.
Don't let 'em tell you otherwise.
Thinking you have to give up for the good is a greater sink,
than trading over your battleship. 

Dandelion, don't reign in,
Got your breath of hope?
Sunshine,
let float!
You can tell them otherwise.
Whatever you water
goes and grows.

Taraxacum is a genus of flowering plants in the family Asteraceae, which consists of species commonly known as dandelions. 

Artifacts

Sunlight on broken glass inside your empty house
Is as jagged as the uncertainty
Nagging at my belly.
Are you gone?
You must be.
There are only dust motes and ghosts of your intentions
Here near your teacups drying in the kitchen.
I study the upside-down enameled mug,
The one with the rainbow kitten on it,
That Adrian bought in Prague,
And the empty silicon manatee tea-infuser,
We gave her for Christmas,
Both gutted like me.
Every artifact spells out you were just here.
You planned to reappear.
Andrew’s notes above the desk outline two more years.
That picture of my uncle cock-eyed is on the magnet editing board,
Amongst the parrot from Costa Rica, a Joshua tree,
And those two of Adrian reading in a red dress by the waterfall.
Why those, all old, I wonder.
A battered wet-suit is draped over the chair on the patio
That smells faint,
Mostly of, the sea.
A book from that bookstore in San Diego
That you loved
Rests on each bedside table.
A regency romance for Adrian,
A comedic fantasy novel for Andrew,
But both bookmarked
Only a few pages in.
I can’t quite remember,
Are these books from the list I recommended to you,
Or among the ones you recommended to me?
Are voracious readers really allowed to die,
So ephemerally?
The stained-glass penguin window Laura crafted for you
Is still in a crate, as are your framed family photos,
In the one room that you still haven’t unpacked.
There are sheets on the new mattress you both complained about hauling
Into the upstairs guestroom,
Waiting for some of us to visit.
Maybe us next, or maybe Angela,
Or Kathryn and Levi with a toddler in tow.
Adrian was already worried about the Thanksgiving menu
Meeting everyone’s needs.
Andrew’s voice still echoes in my head,
Our last phone call,
“You and Laura should come. It’s only a three-day dive trip.”
I wished, but we had a wedding to attend.
“Ah well, we’ll do it again in November or April. We can have a Google hangout next week to figure it out.”
But we won’t.
You are perpetually out?
That isn’t what these artifacts say.
These trails of you evidence so many things
We have left to do
And the hopes still in count.
How do I reconcile
These artifacts
With the evidence
Of your absence?

Artifacts 

Someone I always thought would be here

Like the smell of rain on the grass,
or diesel in a crosswalk,
They were inevitably,
Part of the family compound.

Like a scorpion in the shower,
or changing flat tires,
They were always,
Part of something I'd maintain
awareness of how to handle.

Like the best book I ever read,
or the taste of malt on my tongue,
They were usually,
What I turned to,
When nothing else seemed familiar.

Like the start of an ancient hymn,
or the fold of my favorite jacket,
They were known,
As the backbone,
That would sustain my faith.

Someone I always thought would be there,
Most likely to help me survive,
Even stranded on a desert island,
With no place to buy beer,
and abysmally small Key Deer.

Someone I always thought would be there,
To ensure my desire to love,
Never went hungry for long,
And hope had a home to belong.

We are independent,
But part of the same song,
Even as I am alone,
Still singing along,
There are still,
Somehow,
the ghosts of my will,
still here.

Now i Know (21)

Love's a gamble,
i take my chances,
i place my bets,
only insurance is
the house
deals regrets
win or lose
take the bruise
next time choose
which casino.

Every love-death knell
blows like iron bellows
belting over all my mettles
who's BLACK JACK
he's the fellow
got me
always hittin' hope,
even two on the rope,
countin' on the ace
of hearts
in every hand.

21

The lights draw me in.

Ode to #PRIDE

Sonnet to our enGendered empathy,
My blonde scar of woods where no wise men go,
Starred by Brokeback Mountain mole, scary,
Tender to moguls skied by fleshy snow,

The soul of my body will only know.
Some naval-gazing is necessary,
If then acceptance must weather and grow,
Thus I plant the first seeds of empathy.
Myself a song of hidden skin, wary,
Of righteous face of public governance,
Through points unnecessarily hairy,
Braving new bruises to marching cadence.

My histrionics to sew empathy,
Strong thread our compassionate symphony.

PUBLIC SERVICE WARNING: This has been a modern attempt at a Spenserian Sonnet (14 lines long, 10 syllables per line, in ABAB BCBC CDCD EE rhyming scheme). If this had been an actual time warp, you would have felt even more nauseated...so really it wasn't so bad. Try more sonnets, #BeMightyWrite, before criticizing.

All double-entendre and symbolisms fully intended! 

Our Alpha and Omega Love Song

The stars are just dust,
light reflected,
from some distant past,
that didn't last.
The used-to-be.
I want more
for you and me.

Alpha and Omega.
Let's break-in
to break up
the beginning
of no end.

Light a match,
set a glow,
warm in hand,
draw our lines,
in the sand,
keep this stand.

Alpha and Omega.
Hope won't
blow us away
because we're
built-in sway.

The stars are just dust,
dead shiny daggers,
of what once.
I want more us,
wild swaggers.

Fuck legendary.
Long live the Queen,
right in this scene.
Forget fate's permission.
We're all forgiveness,
alpha, omega, alpha-bravo!

If this life is
endless labor,
we are the
perpetual birth,
Before Common Error,
anno domini,
us ad hominem,
alive.

Because the stars are just
someone else's
Alpha and Omega
love song.

Fate Loves a Riddle

Survival favors the fittest,
and yet,
Nature abhors a vacuum.

There is only one thing,
I know of,
that will tell of the same thing,
over and over,
over again.
Only a timepiece,
repeats information
without wit.
Only this device,
invented by humanity,
will tell us the measure
of our own construct
continuously.

The world doesn't love anything or one equally,
and yet,
Love is blind,
like Faith and Justice.

There is no Answer,
and yet,
the Question is not Everything either.

Maybe Fate isn't fickle,
maybe,
It just loves a riddle?

Survival favors the fittest,
and yet,
maybe,
survival isn't the boon...

Maybe the desperate and disabled
have the most room
to see the real treasure,
a moment to breathe,
a lifetime to grasp.
While the fit,
fight to last.

Wouldn't that be
the worst fate?
A good joke.

I hear
Fate loves a riddle.

For Mary Oliver, who so loved nature she embraced the riddles like the bloody eye of the moon.

The Magical Fruit

*NOTE: sung roughly in the tune of the children's chant, "Beans, beans, the musical fruit"

Words, Words, the magical fruit

The more you imbibe, the more you can describe

The more you spill, the better you feel

So we have words in every spiel!

Words, Words, the magical loot

The more acquired, the more ideas squired

The more we squeal, the better we feel

So let's have words with every deal!

Words, words the miracle fruit
The more you repeat, the more you beat
The more you bear, the better you wear
So leave good words with every share!

Words, Words, the musical fruit

The more we churn, the more we learn

The more we learn, the better we earn

So let's burn more air on words together

before we ash our final urns!

#BeMightyWrite with magical implements of any sort!

Whom Am I in Your Head?

Who Am I in Your Head?  

A voice of reason? A seed of doubt? A season passing on route?  All reflections are a fun-house mirror of sorts. Grains of truth and sands of surprises wrapped up in the warped adobe abode we build of our lives. Our own reflection the most distorted of all. Seeing ourselves for ourselves only through others' memories of our images. Squinting gilded or glided eyes,

thus interpreted and rationalized, often obscured in the heady haze of emotions and the beady blaze of the varied beliefs that protect our individual primordial mists. But nonetheless, our real reflection remains always unknowable. Seen only through others’ eyes, back translations, we see our assorted distortions multiplied and miniaturized, compounded in spider eyes. This one that trait, that characteristic, those behaviors, in the past, this time, tomorrow and again, each difference stacked and piled. Green, ripe, putrid all at once like a boat of bananas. Out of season but returning flash frozen, on sale, in stores nearby, at random. Who Am I in Your Head? Always complex, but only an illusion of complete. Ever evolving, never resolving to one clear sliver of light. Unknown in the spider-eyed myriad mirrors of our reflections upon reflections on reflections rationalized. Ultimately unknowable in any life time, but hopefully, not forgotten. 

The Low Down, Dirty, Shameful Truth

I'm not always zen.
I believe in the magic
of cheap rhymes,
thick novels,
lonely times,
and not worrying
about when,
as much as
why.

I love like sin.
I believe in my wife,
one of the biggest,
baddest,
baby-saving,
every-day-slaving,
bad-ass heroes
in life.

I'm a total goof.
I believe in singing
operas,
in full Texan drawl,
to too many pets
and stone deaf
to the wall,
to keep laughter
warm
and misery aloof.

I know I'm a fool.
The doctorate
is only more proof.
I'm stubborn
and dumb,
plumb crazy
numb
to basic
necessities
like common sense
and public cool.

You can plainly see,
millions more patient
than me,
more focused and kind,
and ready to find
fault fixed
in our world.

But...
the low down,
dirty,
shameful,
truth
is...
I'm already
on
your side.

Spaceship
Earth
already set sail
a gritty
long time
ago,
and we're on it
together.

So,
I'm not always zen,
and I don't care about when,
but here's my hand;
and I hope you'll take it.

I think we can make it,
if we
love like sin,
keeping laughter warm,
too stubborn
and too dumb
to find fault
to fix
in each other.

Stuff grows on the dirty down-side!

The Poet Knows It

A poem on a napkin
is more like a tissue.
A poem on a blog,
ephemeral as fog.
A spoken rhyme
mere litter
among airwaves
in time.
All,
words to the sea,
a token memory
of a world
that existed
with me.

A moment of sunlight creates poetry of light.

Muses Never Die

Last August, the day after the Harvey flood hit my house in fact, I also lost a very dear friend and fellow warrior-of-the-written-word, Mr. Trey Garcia. Trey and I started trading poetry (and challenging each other to keep writing) in 6th grade. We avoided some arrests together in high school and wrote letters swapping poetry while I went to college and he served in the Navy. We challenged each other into writing a novel in a month for the last seven years or so too. He was my muse, and I miss him.

But I still hear him. I still have his poetry, and I still have the poems he challenged me to write. In celebration of this light that lives, I share one of his poems (one of my favorite) and one of mine (written in response to his challenge on the same theme).

The Paris Line by Trey Garcia

Trust no one but the pavement and the wind,
And never quite clear of the grey statues
As we lay in the river by the bend
A nightingale on a fig tree eats cashews
Taken from the pilgrim land just this Spring.

Can he not see that which will not be?

You and me and love. This is just a fling
Nothing more than a squirrel in a tree
Hiding acorns in a burrow made by
Ancient squirrels in hope for generations
Present and future. Now we start to fly
Above nature, above waves from stations
Playing our favorite songs as we dance
And kiss and feel and know
There is no chance.

What is the purpose of a pickup line exactly? by Lacey Schmidt

Some Egyptian-rule, obsidian cruel, 

icy social milieu 

where your eyes meet mine 

and suddenly complete some small space 

in time?

Something must be said...

to simultaneously let you know 

I think I just might love 

dipping my hands into your russet curls 

to pull your lips expectantly near mine 

while still enmeshed 

in the thoughts you’d share 

for thoughtful wear.

Something must be said...

to convince you our met stare

is more than a chance glance 

in a crowded room 

of social graces,
but I can only gulp 

and fret 

until you’re on the verge of turning 

toward some other day.

Anything should be said...

but will “your shoes are nice” really suffice?

Trey toasting our long-time limericks, with Laura, the night before my wedding.

Hard to Edit

A grammatically twitty poem about being a writer from Texas.

Treacle comes in black,

Molasses in gold,

in my grandmother's larder,
somewhat like England,
but harder
and probably already
as twice-borrowed-over
as the language I leak.

I used to could

and I'm fixing to,

in a bit,

go proper on you,

but in the mean time,

I'm hard to edit like that.

Dinner is lunch,

because supper is light,

back at the ranch.

We used to could

speak German, Spanish, Greek,

two hundred years back,

when we were immigrants

gone pioneer,

but now we speak

Texgerm, Spanglish, Greex,

and we're hard to edit like that.

My mamma raised an urban cowgirl,

thinks Caribbean cowboys are suave,

and esteems all Luckenbach Buddhas.

I never could 

see the oxymoron others' saw in all that,

so I'm fixing to

sing along to Lighten' Hopkins

while reading Shakespeare,

and I'll probably borrow a spot,

inspired and dripping contradiction.

I've heard it said before,

I'm hard to edit like that.

The whole state

went from a hundred years

staunchly blue democrat,

to almost thirty-long

adamant red republican.

We never could

do anything half-ass,

and we're always fixing to

pull ourselves up

by our own bootstraps,

in every verb tense

under the Texas sun.

We're difficult to know

and hard to edit like that.

I used to could worry

about sounding like a hick,

but now I've got too much education

to fall for that self-conscious trick,

so I'm fixing to just accept

I ain't never gonna be a grammar delight,

and bless those sweet little hearts

forced to help the world read

all us Texas scribblers

even though

we're hard to edit like that.

Like me, snow-bright sand, makes some photos of Texas hard to edit.

With Your Stereo On - for Trey Garcia

I hope you went out with your stereo on,
all speakers blaring,
maybe Just Like Heaven,
or How Soon is Now?

Dancing in the Dark,
to a Driving Song,
Like Jerry, Was a Race Car Driver
that gave you one real last moment
of Radar Love.

I hope you went out Lost in Emotion,
singing the Soundtrack 2 My Life,
maybe halfway through crooning
the Morrissey chorus, "Oh, Sing your life,
The things that you love."

Getting some Blue Peterschnitzel,
Under Your Skin,
or putting on your Winking Shoes,
with a bootleg copy of De Schmog
somehow streaming to your dash.

I hope you went out to some Bedrock Anthem,
as you were one of mine,
in Guyliner,
mutually crushing on Flannery O' Connor with me,
because A Good Man is Hard to Find,
but you were One,
and since Everything that Rises Must Converge,
I know We'll Meet Again.

Til then,
I Sold My Bed, But Not My Stereo,
And just like Tricky,
We Don't Die,
I'll  just go out,
with my stereo on.

Trey Garcia, and I. Photographed by Carrie. Unorganized Asshole Punks for life.

Anthropo-Quality?

an·thro·po·cen·tric

ˌanTHrəpəˈsentrik/

adjective

1. regarding humankind as the central or most important element of existence, especially as opposed to God or animals.

I believed humans were kindest,

able to put others lives before our own.

Until I saw a Mocking Bird attack

a Rattle Snake 

to save a Blue Jay's baby.

I believed humans were most playful,

socially animating objects to share laughs.

Until I saw a Lamb and a Blue Healer 

play Soccer

with a volleyball.

I believed humans were most eloquent,

creating new language to represent ideas.

Until I saw a Gorilla

signing "water-bird"

to explain a Swan.

I believed humans were most creative,

fashioning art and tools that solve problems.

Until I saw an Elephant

use rocks to build a step-stool

for an undersized calf.

I believed humans were wisest,

mindful of goals and masters of plans.

Until I saw Gibbons 

sort cards in patterns

to obtain a prize

and Magpies adapt 

caching

for contingency hints.

I believed humans were most complex,

synthesizing sciences to birth robotics.

Until I saw ancient Aspens

cloning colonies

via Rhizomatic roots and nodes.

Now

I suspect

my Grandparents were correct,

in that all creatures,

great and small,

live of central importance,

if not singular intelligence.

Now 

I believe

all molecules matter.

All beings created to function,

qualities always evolving

into more beautiful forms

the universe requires. 

Maybe reptiles write poetry too and we'll learn how to hear it one day.