morning bus stop

so much senseless beauty
this profusion of forms
some made, some grown
some built of sand and powdered bone
these empty chairs
this ceiling fan
the horns and guitars of this rock and roll band
singing 'after the rain' while clouds ascend
on a rising wind
and the world shakes itself awake
again from under this blanket
of autumn dew that washes each
leaf, each blade of grass
each window on the cars that pass
these lovers at the bus stop of morning
eyes drawn in with crayons, hands
tethered together waiting
for all that's known and certain
to grow unfamiliar again

(dj says) nobody dies in this song

dj says nobody dies in this song
can't exclude the chance that the dj is wrong
but look around--there's no-one here--
just me and you.
just me and you.

dark is just a light turned down too low
and silence is a butterfly waiting by the window
for you to open up
and let him settle like a finger
on your lips.

right here is where i love you
right now is when

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

we've been sifting through the blues so long
my fingertips forget your name.
no cup of coffee
no mug of tea
will ever warm these hands. i need to
press them up against your chest
feel your heart beat hot and slow

every statue in this town
is a memory of someone dead and gone
every street, a way back
to a home that you burned down

watch your breath dissolve
as you walk and exhale
looking for a place to rest a while

your hands are cold
blue around the crescents of your nails
you've lost your touch
and when you warm up
it's going to hurt like hell.

so lets go slow. but
lets start now.
tomorrow's going to happen
anyhow.

The Arms of Birds (Les Bras Des Oiseaux)

to build the frame of this flying machine
you start with bones of flutes and clarinets

let them sing inside you. let the wind
play you long and sweet and free.

lost (without the stars)

This one's a song--here's the link, if you want to hear me sing it! Lost (Without the Stars)

we are lost she said

when we finally stopped

beneath blue blue gas station lights

we had driven all day

and then--to prove a point--

all night

there's no such thing as lost

i disagreed. you just

haven't learned to love where you are. 

well

she didn't know so much about that

so i screwed in the gas cap

and walked 'round the car

on the dusty rear window

i drew us a road map

this whole patchwork nation

in a single straight line

just waved my hand

from east to west

let night sky and road grime

fill in the rest.

you are here.

you are here, i said.

you are here.

there's gas in the tank

and love in our hearts

venus in the west

and a highway that starts

where our tires meet the road

just get in and we'll go

anywhere.

get in; we'll go

anywhere.

you will be home (truck driver song)

i'll paint my cab
the green of your eyes
i'll bend this straight steel day
to the curve of your smile
i'll roll the mile markers
back down to one;
wherever this world takes me
you will be home

every roadside fence
is overgrown with grapevines
clinging tight to winter
leaning towards sunshine
all the farmers' fields
are optimistic dreams
of grey becoming brown
becoming green

every fuelling station
is coffee, diesel, grease
every city just
clutch and release, clutch and release
once you've seen it all
it all looks just the same
all my eyes desire
is you again

sometimes a house reveals itself
not lost behind the trees
just big enough for two
maybe you? maybe me?
and sometimes this mountain road
drops soft down to valleys
like a hand drops down to thighs
like i drop down to you

empty like a pair of shoes

empty
like a pair of shoes
hanging from an overhead wire

dry heaves of language
like i've puked up everything
i ever had to say
but can't admit i'm finished now.

i'm finished.
there. i said it.

i have nothing to write. maybe i'm
old. or stable. or happy more or less.
words no longer come to me
unwelcome guests swarming my sleep
hijacking my car
as i drive home from work.
they lurk instead
in dark corners i have
learned not to tread
they drift aimless snow
they know exactly what they know
nothing more. they do not roar
like oceans, whisper like streams
they have gone out in search of dreams
while i stay home and nap
before the television set.

if this is a poem
then let it be known
as my last one. let these
pinched and grudgeful words
go free
so many long-caged birds
reaching for the sky while i
watch silently.

let this pose
of resigned indifference suffice.
let ice form a clear crystal skin
diamond hard and thin
over the misshapen curve
of my eye.