I am passing his hometown

(a boy born under a flat sky)

going around it by miles

not through it

just as I did when we met.

Between the horizons

I saw a man standing

in the sideways blush of evening light.

Clouds blooming above him

I saw he was standing

like lightning

nailed to a field.

We looked at each other

and our eyes were open bowls ready to pour

and there were many words

and no words

and I went around him like one does a storm.

Now our eyes are like shadows.

Words rumbles away in the distance unsaid and I am driving into twilight.

I see the sky is the same color as the rocks on the canyon wall.

It is heavy with rain

and so is the ground

and so am I.

On the Cimarron

when the wind picks up

and the birds stop singing

and the heat turns soft and fragrant

when the clouds form a veil

and the lightning strikes purple and arched

The Yute rises and walks among the Gods

At the edge of the front

the evening sky is the color

of a southwestern motif: a vase in pastels with a painting of a pueblo

and a kokopelli in relief.

Going through Red Springs

seems the people here

can walk out their doors and look giants in the eye

can try to hit each one in a row with a stone

can know the names of every color of pink

can drive for hours and not meet a neighbor

can stand in a field covered in clay

and never be struck by lightning.

Carved candle light

could not illuminate

the shadowed floor

of the well of my desire:

bottomless.

I am emptiness.

My hunger wants to pass you

and everything else

through the eye of my needle.

On the myth of sustained satisfaction:

Siddhartha says put aside your desire.

Mine is beside me,

a twin grown full form:

all arms clutching and legs leading

eyes rolling madly between all beautiful things.

I am a flytrap unfed, closing in on itself.

A year ago today

my father was a babe born again

an egg cracking in flames

a pink body emerging, unburnt

soft hands grasping at thoughts

skin hardening as the billowing chemicals blow away

as the tubes are drawn out

as the foot touches the floor again, a sacred moment.

From pain and weakness at the end to pain and weakness at a beginning

from a bed of death to a bed unshared.

A sad silence crouching, a watched man watches back unblinking.

A spirit circles around the room

and two cats wait with four cat eyes.

His hands find other things to grasp besides wine glasses and the shrinking arms of his absent mate:

Needles and thread, paper and pen

handlebars, paintbrushes

and the neglected neck of a banjo.

I played songs for him while he lay swollen, the chrysalis between two lives.

His eyes rolling and watery

found me from behind the veil of medicine, from across the universe

and knew me.

I had a reason then to raise my banners and fight for his peace

the day I saw him waving from the deck of a troubled ship.

If the brain is just an organ, can it sour like a liver? Can it break like a heart, snap like a bone?

We know that bad things can happen to good people.  But we know they probably won't happen to us.  We know some people enjoy the pain of others, but we know none of our friends are like that.  We know sometimes people suffer from violent and obsessive thoughts, but we know we just have a little anxiety.  We know he was looking at us, he was.  We know he thinks we did it, but we know we didn't.  Don't we?

How do we know the things we know?  How do we know we're really...ourselves?  The familiarity of that's me protects us from admitting to the terrible capabilities we have, each one of us.  We know we did it to protect ourselves, our family.  We know it was justified, don't we?  We know we didn't enjoy it, not in the least, not really.  We know that we would never, ever do it again. 

On a snowy night in Ithaca, two coated figures stood on the platform watching the taillights of the next to last bus pull away. 

"You've got to listen to the voice inside you."  One pulled something out of his coat pocket as he turned to the other, a younger man, and continued. "If you think Cornell is it, we'd love to have you and we'd do a lot of good.  It's not an easy decision you have, but remember that some of the greatest things happen by accident."  He presented the object in his hand and looked at the sky as if to catch a glimpse of stars beyond the clouds.  "Got a light?" 

The young man looked at the object and back to his companion's face.  "Is this a test, sir?" 

"What? Oh, no.  Just a way to pass the time until your bus.  We grow it in the back garden."

The young man's expression changed quickly from surprise to amusement as he fished a matchbook from his back pocket.  "All right, well I just want you to know I would never do this in the lab or before class or anyth-"

"Neil, it's all right.  May I?"

He lit it, rolling the tip through the bright match flame before bringing it to his lips.  The ember glowed like the receding taillights as the men passed it wordlessly, watching snow flakes settle softly to the earth in long, straight paths.

"They kind of look like stars passing if you squint."  Neil made his eyes into slits as he drew in smoke.  He let out slow, misty breath.  "When I was a kid, on snowy days I would stand in the yard looking straight up, pretending I was flying through space. Wouldn't come in for hours, drove my mom crazy. 'Why don't you play?'  She'd say, 'build a snowman!'  But I was playing." 

Carl gave a soft laugh. "Playing at meeting your distant physical relatives, more distantly related than anything we can know here on earth.  Even most meteorites come from our own system." 

"That's right! People don't even realize their connection to animals, much less the sun or any other suns."  He felt suddenly embarrassed.  Who was he to affirm Sagan? 

"Similar ingredients, different pots."  Carl grinned, examining the blunt in his hand.  "We are the universe smoking itself."

Neil breathed a short laugh and Carl stepped off the platform towards his car, pausing to look up through snow. 

"Hey, you're right.  Call me if your bus doesn't come."