Ginjitsh

May the circumstances be what they are and may fear be a thing in a box, buried deeply under rocks and ice and snow and 100 feet of heaviness. It will never escape,

but I look at you and my eyes bleed their hearts out.

you will know,

so I wear lenses of a demeanor suited for such occasions as you dwell

but you are lovely.

and I am engrossed.

When you look over, something radiates from within me and if you could taste it

it would be warm and clean, fresh

like a mint tea that catches deep breaths

and takes the weather out from under your eyes

and softens the ruler in you

and I am compelled to love you who are unloved

but then I walk out of the room

and you go rhythmically back home…

and the law upholds itself.

today

you are lonely

and I see why

and I can see you…

a thousand books fallen from their shelves

in my head

of one life

and you say one there be, seldom read

seldom shaken of it’s dust

and it longs to be studied and answers within for all things under the sun

and if love was a thing to be had

(you said it could be had)

in seven years or less

or more and

waiting is a thing of dread and in the meantime

the meantime

when they march back with seven or more

and when faith is short and tears are heavy

and children grow but quickly

if love is a thing to be found,

more than a man and his bed and

a house with it’s bank

and a room always in need of a burden less

and today

you are a cold hand and a sojourner that makes no friends.

I miss you

smiles and hugs,

and wrinkles that crinkle like precise etched lines,

indications of spirit and poise,

of toil and tears and

I miss you

wet eyes and tired evenings

and all the things that send us walking out into the thunderstorms

and the spring before lunch

and the smell of oak and birch and lilac that only comes a few moments each year

and then we sit and savor the same old memories

and it seems grim and romantic

and each of us knows there is more out there

and some of us try to reach for that string of a red balloon

and I say it should carry us all the way to heaven

and some say there are too many havens left on earth

and I am not certain anymore if I miss what has been

or maybe just long for what is ahead

I miss you

all blushed and spruced

and ready to take the town on again

and it seems laughter and song are always deep down

take a plunger and suction loose all the sand and mud and cake

and it will wash away

for good,

forever.

I hope it’s not too late

you said something of singing and that they would play your music

and others would dance to it

and great trees would stoop down to tell you they are truly alive and just waiting for His day to come,

they would say, as they sway, that the melody is a fine breeze and tickles them down to their leaves

and I have a notion to send all my notions away and mail them towards the south where they can blow into

the desert and sand and become brittle, a wind would catch all of these small thoughts

and they would no longer have each other

they would all be blown a different way

and the one thought that persists would be the first to break

would be the first to blister in the sun

and another would replace it,
“I have not wasted one day.”

Steps.

I look back and each one has a name, a place

a stain; a footprint

if you follow me I’ll  tell you to turn  back

somewhere close to the mountains you’ll come to a place where a groove wore itself in circles

I hope you do not waste time there

if you are waiting for instruction to see what went amiss

you must learn to read the pathways, the rivers and the remnants of battles fought

losses and victories, to know who of us has limped off

and who of us journey onwards away from the Little Big Horns

and you can find all dust in red and white and blue

and a giant felled upon it

but no man will come back to you though he may be thirsty

though he may seek to save your life

though you would deny even the angels when they speak

instead of making an excuse

I will say that I strive for strength

to live with a tongue that catches itself

my mind guards most things.

I believe that most people want to hear of a warrior

some valiant soul that has conquered reality

not some Hollywood display of love

some graffitied rebellion

a hit at theater

or a night left with a glass of wine,

and a pair of legs draped over the sofa.

Something that can walk for miles

and when manna falls from heaven

can think of 1,000 ways to create a new dish.

Today is the day for saying everything.

I feel sorry for most people.

They walk in complete subjection to society and culture

they live for everyone else.