Facing Up

My neck is a bumpy field of stubble

beneath a host of acne scars

I cannot conceal

so I’ll accept that you can see me

and seek to reciprocate

if you agree.

I will not compress my space

or fill it artificially.

I’ll dare to unbutton

keeping a gauge on my intention

and will accept the wounds that may come

from exposure.

Rounding Out

I don’t try to be whole

but I want to be bigger

deeper and lighter

to discover what’s in and beyond me.

I continue to feel like I’m about to begin

from points on a circle that tries to complete

while I turn one end of it outward

and the other one in.

The Family Plot

Grandpa classified every tree

before he bought the land

then sent the timber to the mill.

He taught dad to plow

and they tilled the Michigan dirt

until they went under it.

Now it’s in my name

and the property’s gone wild

shrubs and grass returning.

My kids will have to dig

to find their forefathers

as different forms of consumers

with classifications to become.

A Michigan Drive

Any passion can be fed

or mended

in 61 million acres of Earth.

Kalamazoo alleys and northern creeks

can scream or whisper.

You don’t know until you walk there.

You will find

everything grows and erodes

and all is rebuilt elsewhere

the city brick to gravel

the river bank to the bed.

Choose to sleep or roam.
The borders are open.

Cloaked

The ego’s a fiend that changes clothes

to fit the visions in our mirrors

demanding gloss and powder.

You may see one

in rare naked moments

and find it’s really just a fragile beggar

masterfully persuading us

to feed and protect it.

The Things I See

I can’t help but mention

the dead dog rotting by my fishing hole,

the Laotian woman in her Sunday dress

walking through a puddle

or the man with Down Syndrome

dancing in the street.

Because when I feel music

when I put a boot in sludge

or bring a spotted trout to hand

it all runs through me.

I see  a line that connects everything.

We shake, climb, and construct it

as we choose.

Feed

Scrolling through updates

or streaming from feeds,

choice can become reflex ritual.

Accustomed to devices plotting our routes

we think less about direction

acquiescing to the algorithms

of someone or something else.

Ice on the Ridge

There's April ice on fruit ridge.

Farmers twist in smudged overalls

beside the clear-glazed boughs

and set the memory of past years

against their investments.

Talk will spread across the farms

how it's too early to worry

as men in trucks and gooseneck trailers

roll on washboard gravel

to protect what they can.

Solo Camp

A swim in the night lake

dried by the air

feet two inches in the sand

beneath galactic flare.

Orion's belt

strapped upon a lightning storm

above a sea of bobbing shadows

where the erratic charges form.

It moves towards me

with a gathering roar

pushing chaos to the beach

and me to my tent door.


_______________________________

(written sometime in 2011, I think)

Wave

You’ve seen that guy

dancing in the aisle at a concert

a wave of limbs and gyrations

so tuned to the frequencies

he seems on some higher plane of being.

I want to be that guy.

I’ve been him.

Now I’m sitting on a stool

tapping a foot to the jukebox.

I dare not show more

with so much at stake

and sip mild ale on a Sunday.

But I still know how it feels

when the music’s just right

and the elements connect to vectors

that throb.

There’s a band playing later.

I like to think

that I’ll step onto the floor.