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.

Wake Up. This is ours.

This? this is our poem.
The white space on this white flag
oozes with indifference
and reeks of apathy. Not toward writing,
not toward words, but toward anything.
So we share this, and give the finger to surrender.
Wake up, and listen to the tug in your heart that says
You're here for a reason,
and that there is something bigger,
and that there is something better.
And this? this is ours.

So we share this with the man forced to write in red
when his black ink runs dry.
This, this is ours.
We share this with the man in a cast
unable to open a jar of jelly on his lonesome;
forced to squirm his right arm
into his left pocket reaching for the advil
he unwittingly put there.
This is ours.
We share this with student having to choose
between his bicycle in wintry weather
and the unreliable stained public buses to get to class.
And we share this with the woman who doesn't have the choice,
exposed to bone chilling wind at the frigid bus stop
with a child kicking at her ribs.
We share this with the homeless man picking the Thorazine shuffle
over walking with voices, even if it means
taking an extra hour to walk to his underpass house,
furnished with a throw away lazyboy
and a second-hand painting intended to turn
his hole into a home.
This is ours.
And we share this with the girl who misplaces everything,
the father who misses work,
the boy who misses his mother,
and the acne covered teen they call a faggot in the locker room.
We share it with the ones still asleep.
Wake up. Because this? this is ours.

It is ours and it is for us.
It's for the bulimic girl who wished
she was relevant.
It's for the bachelor who sits alone on his couch
wishing he had said something
all those years ago.
This is ours.
It's for the 3rd grader who digs in the dirt
with sticks looking for sticks,
and the 1st grader who marries him
some 15 odd years later.
It's for the child pulled along
when he was curious about the man
dressed in woman's clothing.
This is ours.
It's for the only roommate who does dishes,
for the freshman who only feels loved when she gives herself up,
and for the ones who can't write, won't write,
or don't even think about writing.
This is ours.

Wake up, because we are not
going to let the white page
be a white towel. You see,
this white space,
all this white space,
is meant to be filled,
with people.
With stories, with struggles, with triumphs.
All of it. And those who can write, will write,
and are always thinking about writing
will not let those stories disappear.
They are worthy to be written
to stand up and be accounted for.
So wake up, you're being written about.
Wake up, take to the streets, and give the finger
to the white space that tells them
that they are nothing, and exist only
as white space on a white page.
So wake up, because this?
this is ours.