“why a cowboy?” i asked her.
she pretended she didn’t understand the question,
giving me her
excuse-me-what-language-are-you-speaking?
look, designed and performed to make me feel
the world’s stupidest person.
this time, it didn’t work,
not with her beat-up straw cowboy hat
and the old, scruffy boots sitting next to her bare feet.
she squinted up at me–

i could see the scrunching of her eyes and nose
behind sunglasses;
for a moment
i wanted her to toss me aside,
use my dismissal to underscore how much
cooler she was than i ever would be —

tilting her head slightly.
ash blond curls scattered out from under the hat
in any direction they could manage.
she yanked her mouth to the same downward side,
tenderly biting the inside of her bottom lip.
i sensed in that moment
i mattered too little to her
for this glance to be anything more
than the moment’s pause before
i ceased to exist again.
i did not merit even stupid-person status,
just another guy trying too hard.

“o, that’s right. i forgot. you’re from Texas.
it’s your national costume, and you’re being patriotic.”

i think at that point she really did want to laugh,
but sometimes mere desire is not enough.

Aug 2003/Dec 2009

i was twelve on that July day,
the human race's most amazing
technological achievement.
i watched in grainy black-&-white
that was appropriately beautiful
for an actual miracle.

then Armstrong botched
his big line! how appropriately human.

of the two big events of 1969,
the one built on dreams
of the infinitely possible
has been set aside for lack of funding.
we give endlessly,
money and blood,
to the other,
the pursuit of wars
like the one that killed
thousands that same year in Vietnam.

we are a people of immense skills
and tiny hearts.
we do not belong on the path
to the stars.

July 20, 2009

there is a simplicity
to the first line of a poem,
the opening notes of a song,
the first time you see each other.
life complicates
all that follows
the way a Kansas tornado
complicates morning chores.
but if you can find your way through
the noise and the displacement
of all you took for granted,
you may still have
a terrible mess to clean up
but you will also have
a true understanding
of what can be lost,
what can be gained,
and how fragile
the simplest,
most lovely
things
are.

a little bird
picked me up
and carried me away
to a land i had dreamed of
for so long
i could not see,
clear though it was,
the danger
into which we flew,
she and i.

a little bird
exchanged with me
soft songs of love
and guesses of forever
but those are always
the stupidest dreams
unless one of you
is awake enough
to be aware of the danger,
clear as it is,
and turns aside
while tomorrow
is something better
than a regret.

all the sparkly bits
look down on me
as i hold tight
to the last handhold on earth.
the pull is irresistible;
not so the fear:
the unknown,
the bright open question
of what happens next
when i let go,
or my strength fades just
a little bit more,
or that mean fucker
inside my head
decides to play one last trick.
that question,
or, more accurately,
that answer,
which is there before me
as large as the sky
and completely invisible
in the overwhelming brilliance
of every mote of light
that has shone on my life
while my eyes were closed.

i wake every morning,
lie there, dull & pondering
why is it so hard?
i open my blurry eyes,
disappointed to again see
the gap separating me
from ...
    how
can i speak the name
of the immensity
that is what i am not
and what i would be?
    from
me to me? dreamt of
like the lover with wealth
and a need for my body,
a distance of the imagination:
infinite, therefore possible,
day by day
breath by breath
as i realize that
just as surely
as i am not me,
i have always been
will always be
    me.

if i had no imagination,
o the stories i would never tell!
the dreams i would not pursue,
the hopes that would leave me in peace.
with no imagination,
i'd never worry if my talent
might ever be recognized or admired;
my talent, however great or meager, no longer
would be a concern, or disappointment.
my sleep would be steady,
my days, pleasant and mundane.
life would be tolerable
and i would know no better.
i would not care
for that which i would never know
i had never had and would never lose.
if i had no imagination
i would not even bother
to consider how empty i would be
if i had no imagination.

windows make great
metaphors,
but they are even
better
at keeping the outside
out
and letting me stay in
while my eyes
and mind
wander just far enough
away
to be able to return
home
in time for
supper.

as i came back out of the kitchen
this time with a fork in my hand
i said,
“ 'salad spoon' is not a common utensil.”
truly a bon mot,
and truly wasted on Rick
thoughtfully sorting freshly dried laundry:
huh?
sensing that my audience was neither
appropriate nor appreciative,
i held up the fork, almost pleading,
and he glanced over his shoulder:
“this time i'll try a salad fork,”
emphasis on the word so he'd grasp,
so simply put,
the dry humor used to transform
my error in utensil selection into witticism;
the result yielding less bon to my mot than before,
but still, i thought,
worth more than the blank look and grunt
and back to folding toasty warm y-fronts.
but even if he lacks the wit
to comprehend, much less enjoy,
the subtle humor of my gustatory faux pas,
injestion of my salad did indeed prove more amenable
to the application of fork rather than spoon.
the pizza i ate with my fingers.

i know better.
i always know better.
you name it, i know better,
and yet....
i do learn from my mistakes, just not very quickly.
perhaps there are nuances
i have not recongized
in some of my mistakes,
so i am giving myself
the opportunity
to grasp the subtle details.
or maybe i'm just stoopid.
whatever the reason,
i continue to give
repeat performances
of my greatest, and
lamest, mistakes;
and always my response,
once the dust has settled
and i'm sitting red-faced
in my corner, stupified
to know i have done it again:
i know better.

i always know better.

so. what.