Veins that know the Nails.

Glory shines, but it also bleeds.
It's where lives cross, where the renewing river
meets the salted sea.
It's where afflicted waters and the ocean's sheer volume
resists the springs qualities.
But the river cuts through the hardest stone,
leaving gaping canyons and expansive ravines in it's wake,
unstoppable, determined, pouring fresh living water
into the bitter sea.
The crimson stream never stops.
The life source never dries
from the veins that know the nails.

A Receding Hairline is a Little Thing

I want a receding hairline.
Screw having a perfect smile, broad shoulders, or shaggy hair.
I don't want a Ferrari, a trust fund, an Honors Degree,
a Cosby family, or a Marsha daughter and a Pleasantville wife.
I don't want a designer house with a stadium seated surround sound HD theater
and a perfectly manicured lawn — crosshatch cut — that's green year-round.
I don't want a condo at Ocean Isle, a magazine cover,
a Twilight romance, or a library full of worn books.
I don't care for having my name in lights,
understanding quantum physics or C.S. Lewis,
or knowing every single line, of every single one, of Shakespeare's plays.
Especially Hamlet, where I know the stage directions as well.

What I do want is wrinkles and thick glasses, a used Chevy Malibu,
a split level ranch, a Motel 6 vacation, to sing in the wrong key in the shower,
to tell my kids “Yes, I am sure there are nine planets,”
and to be able to rap — word for word — every. Single. Tupac song.
What I do want is a receding hairline and a confidence in You,
where I worry about less and enjoy the little things.

That's exactly how this grace thing works.

"I don't understand your grace,"
her fingers trembled
as he slipped the ring
back on her timidly outstretched hand,
the salty mascara kissing
the corners of her mouth.
"Which means I don't know shit
about God's grace."

For the Day Laborers of Marin County

Patient and resolute they wait

weathering the morning

for work that isn’t coming

Lining the sidewalk

in hooded sweatshirts and jean jackets

covering up skin made tough

from hard work and the cutting glances

of families on their way to pick up a tree

Their cars full of conditioned air

cheery holiday tunes

and the latest navigation system

to ensure an afternoon free

from a conversation with anyone

not had over the clean convenience

of a stylish hands free device

They will bring that tree home

cover it with lights

shower it with ornaments

surround it with gifts

Liberating it from its plainness and simplicity

from its boring life in the woods

without electric trains

or cappuccino machines

And that tree will glow

like the faces of women

sipping candy cane martinis

Like the 6 o’clock street lamps

doing their best to light the scene

for the men

in hooded sweatshirts and jean jackets

Today’s can’t hack-its

take a bow and exit stage right

Their empty pockets and overflowing thoughts

follow them home

My notebook is missing.

I'm without my notebook for the week (via having to turn it in for class), and you may (or may not) know this about me but I'm very particular with where and how I write. So, until I get that back, here's another poem I enjoy. (The Mos Def part, not the Ani Difranco part (that's a joke)).



Go Wolfpack,
Jason

No Sensory and the Conditions Of.

The problem is, that I can't be close to you.
Our bubbles are too big; we just don't
have a hugging relationship.
      And I don't know what you smell like.
If it's floral or a sweet fruit,
a sophisticated posh, or a spice
that matches your sass.
I don't know how soft your skin is or the smell
underneath whatever you're wearing.
Or if, when I wrap my long arms
around your small frame,
my finger tips can reach my own side.
I only know what you sound like.
There's the smile in your “Hey”,
and the concern that works it's way
so easily into your tone,
probably over something ridiculous.
Not to forget
the audible lack of confidence
as you learn to harmonize,
and the sillyness when you try and sing
like Fiona Apple,
or the excitement that drips from every word
when you talk about Calvin.