As It Was

Living must be

A constant cleaning of the crimes in the outermost corners of outbuildings on the back forty of whatever land we’re fortunate to shepherd

A diligent organizing of each and every backshelf, closet, drawer, and centerpiece of these blessed bodies of truth we call Home Sweet Home

An earnest sweeping of matter that ultimately, doesn’t matter, but made its way to the front stoop and attempted to exert squatter’s rights

An eventual Welcome sign placed humbly, breathlessly, on each door we’re otherwise prone to leave sealed up tight, that we would embrace again

Creation must be

W-E-L-C-O-M-E

Let us not act our age one night in New York City. When the smoky underground Club’s strobe light distress-signals us, let us just say yes. As, for God’s sake, it is the one place that accepts us as we are and we refuse to notice that they spell it wrong.

The rainbow-haired, don’t care dance is ours and theirs and we were born this way, to steal away -the lot of us, the we. There’s no one who’ll make us go back to the where we once called home. The white-noise sizzle of this place will see to that.

Photographic Memory Expedition

One would ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Driving down gridded streets that sometimes wound East, then South.
Thinking of shutters painted contrasting colors, or perhaps altogether removed.

One imagines children’s summertime voices.
Carefree and popsicle glee, front sidewalks their territory.
As it should be.

One seems perfect there.
Small and yellow, with miles and miles of welcome.
Surely big enough for whatever weather.

Red 

I would give back the stars
The observer’s eyes
The galaxy’s bounty
My ev’ry step returned to me
And the Earth be flat 

Than continue seeking welcome
Convinced there be an open door
Its false promise
The brazen hearth
While black wolves surround

Play There

Make a place for play there 
Surround it with see-through walls
With Welcome signs
For the range of races
And good games to share there 

Take time together there
Enveloped in everlasting stories
With marching little men
For the giggling of girls
And making moments long there