Residual

i can still feel music,
moist on my hands, chest, and cheek
and our eyes
wrapping themselves around corners,
cars,
and street lamps,
only tiny points of light now
from where you are.

A Tribute to Lewis Carroll

no longer contented
with frivolous things,
like cracker-jack boxes
and mood-colored rings,
i sit and i listen
as a mockingbird sings
of a boy forming glory
from papers and strings.

the world with its wisdom,
and knowledge,
and hope
knows not of the bliss
with which children elope,
as they dance and they sing
on life's untethered rope
and remind us
of frivolous things
now remote.

Anything

i imagine i
could write about
anything
and you,
reading my anything,
turning it into
your something:

your something
(my anything)
and my something
(my anything)
would argue endlessly ...

one reason we never talk
about something,
anything having become
very comfortable
in its place.

Forgetting

last night, i dreamed of forgetting the world.

i forgot listening to the flute
from the ridge overlooking water canyon,
but notes still echo there.

i forgot dancing in the rain
at the base of the sandia mountains,
but rain and dancing continue.

i forgot watching the flames
as old man gloom burned to the ground,
but burning does not end.

last night, i dreamed of forgetting the world,
and in the process,
forgot myself.

Hate

it is not wrong to hate
and it is not a sign of weakness to be afraid.
there are things in life
that must be hated,
and things that should be feared.

if you hate intolerance,
and hate it with your breath,
your eyes,
your throat,
you will not be less than you were before.

if you fear silence,
and fear it with your skin,
your hair,
your stomach,
you will not be diminished.

hate is there for you to use
as you wish,
and fear may serve you well
in so much as your eyes remain open.

Oreo Cookies

did you ever notice the lack of finality
in an oreo cookie?

the only thing that can save you,
once you start in on them,
is the thought that you might have
to tear open another package
or,
worse,
drive all the way to the store
for another box.

why am i telling you this? for one reason:

should you happen to notice someone
with a dazed expression,
sunken features,
and bags under their eyes,
stumbling down the aisles of the ghetto smiths
or the 24-hour wal-mart,
or around back of the frontier restaurant,
where rocks are two dollars,
and oreos are three,

you might discover an unexpected empathy
because this passion is so far out of my control.

Spring

i remember when spring lasted all year.
finches hiding gold beneath their ruffled feathers
would start fighting for the best perch
at six in the morning in january
and the garter snake
that lived under the rocks in the front garden
would still be waiting for them
in december.

this year, spring lasted just under eight minutes.
i stood and watched
as dry branches turned into chinese snowballs,
then melted into puddles of mud
and in the time it takes to remember what happened,
the mud will have rolled over into a tortoise,
and dragged itself under a thick,
white blanket.

how is it that we accelerate so rapidly
toward our final moments?
what was it about childhood that stretched
every second into the look you gave me
when i told you that i loved you
for the first time?
where is that kind of awareness now?