passing through

My fingers are like alleyways,
my palm's a square. You cross it, then
you stop. My arm is like a curving road,

my shoulder is a river bed and then
the neck's a bridge. Then you can choose
to go this way, or that. To wait. To wait.

In a dream in a cloud in passion
and wonder. Just listen to the thunder.

--Amos Oz

kinks in my back one, two, three
when will you be with me?
oh, can't you see?
you are what gives my heart its beat.

you choo-choo-choose

"Wicked, wicked eyes!" he gasps,
"You shall not see me nor my shame--
not see my present crime.
Go dark, for all time blind
to what you never should have seen, and blind
to those this heart has cried to see."

And as this dirge went up so did his hands
to strike his founts of sight, not once but
many times.
And all the while his eyeballs gushed
in bloody dew upon his beard . . . no, not dew,
no oozing drops--a spurt
of black ensanguined rain like hail beat
down.

or...

...proclaiming, "Never more will you see the wicked crimes I endured and brought about, but for the rest of time you will look in darkness upon the sights that should never have been seen, never knowing the sight of those I have longed to see."
And as he mourned this way, he raised his hands to smite his eyes no once but many times. And with each blow his bleeding eyeballs stained his cheeks, not oozing slowly with drops of blood, but gushing forth in one dark, bloody shower like hail.

cloudy days make for cloudy ways

it isn't the weather,
though it doesn't help.

it isn't the grayness, the clouds, the rain.
it isn't even the way one rain drop always
makes sure
to land on my neck,
though it doesn't help.

it's sort-of the wind--
changing
anything, nothing, and everything
at once.

but really it's the way
one merry-go-round my veins
can go fast, go slow,
turn into dust.

it's the way all i can wonder
(the only question i need answered)
is:
is life always this mean?

do it in the road

a tree grows
it grows on the corner
of the avenue where we kissed
and the street where you live,
in that city that is a person.

it grows and grows, unnoticed by
the passers-by
who just move to try
and hide from
passing-on
(they don't notice each other, either).

it feels choked by the sidewalk
and so it decides to break through
Not that it cares about being noticed,
it just wants to be happy in its own way.

and so the cement,
ready to crack from the pressure of being above a breathing island,
bursts.

it grows and grows
and the roots grow though.
now when i walk by,
i trip.