This: In Tune

West Indian Sandalwood
on the back of my neck.
Roman Chamomile
on the soft underside of my wrists.
Be still.

In harmony: an agreement
of pitch and intonation.
My soul-engine
humming in step, in sympathy
with the poetry of this quiet house.

Unknown names breach
this frailest silence:
our ruptured trust lasts 32 seconds,
but there is always another pen
available in this suburban Walden.

The moon is but an evening light.
I embrace this monotony, pulling myself
into this rich sameness: this
soft silence, such long stretches
of Frankincense.

Letter to my brother in prison

Dear Eddie,

You were twelve-years-old 

when I left you to grieve alone.

You were in the seventh grade

when I left you to raise yourself.

You were just a kid when I left.

Mom was 45 when she died.

I left to start my life at 19.

What the hell did I know?

I knew our family was broken,

bongs and Bob Marley silkscreens adorning 

the kitchen table.

I knew our house was unsafe for any child.

I knew you would be just fine.

I knew that I had to get the hell out of there,

and believe that you would be just fine.

I was wrong.

You were just a kid when I left

stuck between a state of pathos 

and a synthetic happiness.

Are we reduced to just one line at the time of our death?

TJN of Denver, a daycare provider, died Monday.

What is your line?

ENJ of Denver, a drug addict and frequent inmate, died.

What will be my line?

AEN of Aurora, apotheosized sibling and lionized long-distant relative, died on Friday.

We are all trying to gain some insight or perspective

that will serve us when we put our pens down for the last time.

The presumption of opening my journal

The presumption of opening my journal
to write a poem:

I notice the rock,
an autumn character
who hurries between difficult languages.

Imagine the pattern
connecting two clouds
centimeters apart.
This season speaks with worry
knowing that Winter water is heavy and near.

I found this silent rock
and opened my journal to write
in the moonlight: my process protects me.
This presumption and experience say

little about my practice, but
much to my passion.