The Bone Gardens

A

Ppear

Through the

Looking glass.

Arti

facts

Arti

facts.

Loose ends.

Like junkyard car harnesses.

Hopefully hopeful

Dis

A

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Dis

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Ppear

We found nothing here.

It all

Will

Dis

A

Ppear.

The phone used to ring

Off the hook

On the wall

The door bell sung

And children scattered across

Dirty wooden floors.

They stood outside

Proud

To have arrived

In spontaneous glamour

Dirt nails,

And slushy lips.

Dis

A

Ppear

Dis

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Ppear

You won't find bloody

Knuckles here.

The electric highway

Like a slow bow constrictor

On the imagination.

Arti

Facts

Farti

Facts

Smarty

Facts

Hearty

Facts

And

Heart attacks.

We used to dis

a

ppear

over the hill and into the woods and across the field for hours, days....

would fly by and we could hear our parents calling

but there was a highway between our ears that allowed their voices to slip through in silence.

We were ear tugged by worry

And grounded for being wild

Animals.

Find a box

In a box

On a grid

And you might

Dis

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Ppear

Dis

Appear

Over the hill,

Aren't convenient.

They pull you off the highway as you drive by.

They don't lose sight of you.

They remember you in their mess.

They track you like the constellations.

Friends aren't convenient.

They don't seize to exist because of siezemic moves, and changing gears.

You don't become a ghost whispering in memories.

Friends, are like cold sores you can never really get rid of them, they are apart of you. They come and they go. But are always there. Sometimes uncomfortable.

Friends ebb and flow like water, their contents move like the seasons.

Sometimes you can feel a friend feeling you over weeks, months and years.

Friends aren't convenient.

They make you awkwardly find them at the worst times. Show up on your doorstep with whiskey for a few hours on a long trip. For just a sip.

They call you when they feel like it.

Summon you from tbelly laughter..

When your next to them, fully awakened to each others presence.

Friends, say yes, or we'll figure it out, we got you. They stare you down and tell you the truth while you devour yourself.

Friends no not your shadow but have lived in its shade and still shine beside you.

Friends are not convieniant: they bend reciprocity like a guitar string while staring at the same moon.

Timeless antiques. In tarnish.

Spending long hours with black spoons, rags in the candle light.

Becomes louder

Than the performer.

A slow quiet.

Inside

Happens

New shoots grow

And tendrils, thicken

More slow

Less. Quicken

And shadows become

A resting place

And something inside

Has changed.

Times is a slippery fish

Energy,

Relative.

Used to run

To the front of

The line.

And there is a lesson

In the strike of a thunderbolt.

Gone in a flash.

And I've got

A lots of work to do

More like slow rivers

Through the valley.

Or strong foundations

That kids can build

Houses on top.

When we used to know

We we were frantic

Only so much time.

Now we know nothing

And only slow much time.

Last time we met

You said we had rural

Written allowed over us.

Maybe, let the woods be your witness.

------------------------

To be of service

To life and death.

Is to work quietly,

Everyday, for something

Unachievable in the

Grand scheme

Of a ridiculous mystery.

Its men,

Quietly, carrying the old

Bones of neighborhood

Widows.

It is grandmother's

That only retire after

All thier kin

Have let go.

It is the banality

Of knowing your every

Simple Movement is a part of

A system of life

That is reverent.

Its the balance of living

Energy

Shape shifting between

Witness and witnessed

Service is a focused

Mission

In motion.

Quietly amplifying a living ethos:

Life serves death

Reckless abandon

Star bangled curiosity.

I used to be long

Nights drowning in

My tears held by Lucy'$

Diamonds.

I used to be late nights

And early mornings

Wearing privilege

Like a gold star.

I used to be activist, punkwrawker,

Connisier of

Nothing much at all

I used to be on a path

No map, direction less,

Rudders broken,

Leaky ship

Duct tape in hand.

I used to be a dreamer,

Caught in the webs of

Creativity

Longing for service.

I used to be somone:

Flippantly,

Searching for my place.

In the cosmos

I used to be longing

For this moment,

And breathing the future.

And missing the present like

A ship full of prayers

Passing by the beach

Next to a fire

With people

I don't know much

Doing stuff

And things

I'd forget about

Pretty soon.

I used to think I knew

Who I was.

And now i certainly know

I ain't

Much at all

But one drop

In the bucket of change.

Breaking bread with

Misery end love.

Waking up each day responsible for my dirty prayer knees

I got choo, you got me, getting you, got.

The unwinding.

Of my body.

Bones and dreams.

Singing.

How much more life.

Can we squeeze out.

One little drop from the sun.

Kissing toes.

As we walk.

Heaven only knows how much,

I want to fall into

this loving on you.

Sink my teeth in with

feathered fingers.

Laughing all the way home.

To rest these weathered hearts

on the earth to sleep.

--MaitA˚--

Criss crossed

Paths.

Winding together.

Maybe you were bored.

My intrigue a cage for intimacy.

We used to be

A shoulder.

An ear.

An awkward possibility.

Friendships,

And love ships.

Sometimes,

They beach.

Or start remembering home

In thier bones.

Set sail with sunsets,

Unannounced.

Leaving me with my feet

Dug deep in the sand.

A slow wave, goodbye.

But im pretty sure you were looking ahead.

Not behind.

Ghost waves,

Are lonely, owls.

We carry them.

Belonging, moored

To the slow distance.

Time is a slippery fish

And we are fishermen,

Without nets

But plenty of bate.

I can remember a thousand

Intimate moments.

Wondering who will leave

Letters of love

At my grave.

Who are my dirt soiled knees,

My salty cheeks, my grieving sun beams, my timeless regrets?

I hold close those that scamper off the beaten track to my door

With nothing more than time spent

In each others company.

------_-----------+

There is a grit

A father picks up

In prairie dirt.

An kind of

Quiet and strong

Shoulder to shoulder

Care

If i only see

A stone man

Then I am

Not seeing history

Imbedded in the skin

Rough and tumbled

Maps of the working class

Struggle, paving way

For each child

To break free

And in this breaking

We might lose each other.

Some of us find our way

Home.

Time is to fatherhood

Like evolution is to change.

And we don't wear

Rose colored glasses

Anymore.

We find a meeting place.

Where my freedom

And his fight

Become prayers

Holding up family.

And it was never

Really pretty

But we always

Made it back home.

There is the wounds

Of living

And the softening of

Hearts.

There is the acceptance

Of imperfection

And difference.

And long distance.

There is a farm boy

In every man

An ancestor

Full of struggle

A perseverance

To evade violence

And become full of

Heart.

There is the grit of

Living.

The grind of life.

The shrines of

The old ones

Plastered on our walls.

We walk through

This museum together

Patch working family.

We become the best

Parts of our fathers

And let go

Of the hard ship.

Find kinship

In our battered knuckles

Our weathered souls.

Make peace within

Each other.

---_-------_------;--_-----_---

The kind of racism

That gets lost in capitalism; years spent chasing

Festivals and bucket lists

The kind of racism that travels

On the earth taking more

Then one

Could ever give back.

The kind of racism that works

Simply to consume,

Sleep,

And pray.

The kind of racism that mouths

I am not

I care

And spends its time sun bathing

Martinis

The kind of racism that wears a badge; does it for the people who fear them.

The kind of racism that is so brittle it rests its laurels

On mindset memes and tunnel funnels

The kind of racism that ends in an echo ghetto.

The kind of racism that listens to hip hop but gives no fucks about deep culture.

The kind of racism that says I am not racist but...I don't see color... we are all one...be here now....

I've always been an old man.

The crickets

Whispering wake up before the birds.

The sleep shrink says pick a time to get up

And my body replies, 4am.I've never listened to my sleep body.

Fought it like a stubborn warrior.

And like a stubborn warrior

Fell on my knees.

Maybe I am part bird.

And I am here to sing.

Sometimes,

I fight the early mornings

And lately,

I am just awake

The morning quietly

Stretching out dreaming

Up my life

While my family sleeps.

There is the cool wind

Echoing crickets and bird song

Symphonies layering prayers.

The kiss of a slow sunrise,

The gifts of morning

Tickling me out of slumber.

Maybe,

I was built to be the village protector.

Every sound a curiosity

Holding the safety

Of my brood.

maybe 've always been an old man,

Dusty Irish caps

And broken poetry

Lamenting in

The stillness.

The slow wake.

Rising light.

Cracking of thunder godsesses

And furied lightening.

The slow blossom

Of unfurling spirits

As if we are ferns

Uncoiling.

Sometimes I grieve

Prairied storms:

Laying in the grass

Half naked

In the cold rain.

Waiting for my spirit

To awaken.

Dogmoon

Maybe its just a metaphysical

Card game.

And their so drunk

Thiers whispers become

More like

Spring bird, frog song.

Sometimes every movement

Becomes apart

Of a long pearl

Necklace.

Every foible,

Becomes a teaching.

Every love,

The warm spring sun,

Teasing.

Lately, I've been waondering.

Earthen spirals: flesh, trees, petals, ore.

Dirt.

Without, sleep.

We become ghosts,

Moving in and

Out of

Everything.

The godsesses,

Beckon every movement,

A prayer

Drifting.

Occupation in my mind.

I see your actions, grace full and rough.

But emotions like the desert.

Had always been hard to read

Like algebra,

Left me confused.

And stopped trying.

Stopped imagining you

As a baby, with needs.

And stopped considering

That which is locked up inside,

A diary;

It was probably written:

I am fucking angry.

And no dam could hold this back.

I am back bone

Back hand

My heart breaks

And I make do

In kind.

Mostly.

Some days I find myself having

To remember

He feels, I try to put my feet in his shoes.

But we aren't the same size.

We are grown men,

But still children.

Terrified, vulnerable,

Avoiding the camels back.

No one wants to become,

Intergenerational pain.

No one invites the unspoken

Chain of events for dinner.

They just show up.

Between the silence and laughter.

I cannot remember the shape of your rib bones.

I imagine you with other people.

I watch from a distance

Admiring your

Bravo'd heart speak.

Distance: we both look to the same moon, share stars, and the seasons.

Maybe, It doesn't have to make sense.

Maybe, We are just moments stumbling through the cosmos.

Backwards moondogs Trying to forget new age speak talk

Maybe, We are logical nonesense Stretched between the racks of suffering and joy. Disintegrating.

Maybe, it makes as much sense as a dumpster fire; On the full moon - all the witches gathering medicines from the city.

Maybe we are cosmic broken Telephone.

and the search for meaning Was found dead In a apartment above the grocery store we paid no mind too while buying cigarettes for sending prayers

Maybe, there is just shooting into the darkened night, naked, and relentless.

Hoping for the quiet to respond with a shooting star, a dejavu, an earthquake of hope - a sense of abandon.

We sought to be wild- and lost We sought to be quiet- and lost We sought to be spiritual- and lost We sought to find meaning- and lost We sought to be okay- and lost We sought to be perfect- and lost We sought to be love- and lost We sought to find peace- and lost.

Maybe there is just the echoe of seeking Stealing each moment of magic, Consuming every breath Of fresh air with the scurrying of tiny little deaths- every moment an opportunity to slow down, become quiet, and stop trying to fuck with the magic.

I don't know hold to hold two.

Lose me in you.

I don't know how to be when you don't want me to be.

And somehow need me at the same time.

How does one remain close against the cutting edge?

Tommorrow, maybe, blows will soften.

Wounds will scar and still be wounds, sleeping.

And some say let sleeping dragons lay.

And i know sleeping dragons wake

And blow

Smoke

To flame.

There is a distance like tip toes.

And quiet like paper crinkling in a stoic house.

We walk eggshells around our bodies hoping for some solace from winter nipping at the bones.

I am only human tripping on life with gangley elbows and rusty knees.

Sometimes i pray.

Love to pain

Will slip away.

Somewhere in the middle is a warm and lively place to lay.

Our bones are a tangle of mishaps. Ghosts in burlap sacks.

Memories far to intack.

And hopes that are more like the slow breaking down of dead fall that weave there way back into the earthen floor.

Timeless unbound. Continuity.