response to a poem about war

  The writer wrote and got it
    written larger.
It was pretty good, you know,
      talking about shrapnel and using
words no one really uses
        in those situations.
It was sad and made me
        think about life
It was beautiful and made me
          see farther

I think he got it wrong though,
         like the part when,
and i heard it before like the whole
      "seeing your friends perish"
no, not it.
       not it
              you don't think like that,
because you look at someone else and say
    "wow, he got fucked up" and then
" I'm really glad it wasn't me"
       It's going to be me and no one is really
 going to give a shit.
     Sure, the feeling passes and you might
           have some tears and pour liquor on the ground
                    but the feeling comes back
that you aren't a good person
          and never will be
                and you get to keep that
              and you get to hold that gift next
                     to your face in the mirror
                or when you walk by a window with your
                                kids

one time pad

 plowshare inkwell
pommel anvil
skillet hammer
heartbeat bellows
reveal assume
golos" petard
angriff poltroon
sailcloth physic
spoken hidden
written stumbled
teardrop sapphire
freckles fingers
sunset perfume
lighter candle
kisses highway
goodnight goodbye

Renting old rooms

  He wrote such lovely

stories,

 the landlady

         was rattling off

the broken words

         scattering the dried leaves

of explanation

  here, a broken chair 

          in the corner, 

a guitar pick on the

       window sill

  newspaper in the sink

        the scabs of potato peels

       archaically holding court

          in the tiny kitchen.

             

There is an alcove in the wall

      an arabesque point 

to a pragmatic rectangle

          at its apex

where phones used to hide their 

       dials and wires, a slender 

  shelf where the phonebook

        used to rest, 

  "let your fingers do the walking" 

                 here was a 

quiet life, 

     delicate and rustling away

                contented in the 

         dark, 

              hovering over old news

we can clean out everything, and 

       you can use the wifi

contemplating the old junk and 

       i suddenly want her to leave

        me to it

                i am left impecunious

by her rapacious rent and sundries

              am left in awe of the

quiet life that has left

         this container

the wind on the lace

           the devil must have 

hated him,

     for God loved him so
                                  - Duarte Gaivota

      

a tree

Jupiter Optimus Maximus
       within you dwells
we leaped across safe shade
     islands
in sunlight lava
    playing summer games
       you were home base
  the secret hideout
    until we discovered
       swimming pools
  the awkward courtship
       of skating rinks
 and Van Halen
    even so, beneath your
          arms, i
read books looking upward
     through your wondrous roof
now my own acorns have
  been growing
 as i lift them up
      for you to hold.

Pieta

Mother hold me between
light and darkness
 against your thundering
    heart,
my ear above the deep well
 of your breast,
Will you sigh with
  me and will you cry
     for me
spread the sky for me
      to cover me
over.
    Take away the sins
         of the world,
Erase the cancer of
     experience.
Roll the hard stones and
      broken glass
 of it all in tumbling
       swells, until
 it becomes sand again
       I will disappear (thank you)
will be unraveled by your tears (blessing)
    my ashes
under the stars
   dissolved by your love.