Vrsar

i was not born a magician,
but i can skip stones,
so in a way
these hands and wrists are more enchanting than you think.

the sea and pebbled shore
crack and click beneath my shoes like smooth marbles. 
i walk the arches of the Croatian coastline
with purely my backpack and a heavy mind, 
the rounded peninsula near Vrsar 
expanding from my vision 
and aiming at the pair of islands on the horizon
like a wand 

i do not know any spells, 
so i collect a pocketful of flat stones
and let them gallop with my regrets
into the darker shades of deep, 
hoping their ripples will carry my apology 
back into rocks 
where you sit to let the shallow tide-pools and sunset 
bath your feet

the layer of clouds float and observe overhead, 
spraying mists of moisture 
and bullets of sunshine,
like machine gun fire, 
into my bare arms and chest 
as i undress
and prepare to launch my own body against the surface,
vanishing into the water
like a white dove

i was not born a magician 
but i can feel forgiveness, 
so in a way 
i do get to reappear after all.

april 19

if i had a say in how the world spun today 
i’d power centripetal force to make the one hundred euros 
come, to the nigerian prostitute leaning outside my residence, 
from anywhere other than the penis of some traveling business man with a blue jacket. 

i never know what to speak other than hello as i pass, 
but she called out to me as i continued down the road 
so i turned and said, you just have to trust that this is all going to get better some day, 
and she simply answered, “i hope so.”

even the most placid edges of my father taught me that water is for diving

if i had a prayer

and i knew god could hear me, 

i'd ask never to be taken far from the sea. 

i learned young to swim;

gripping the neck of my father

as he dove again and again

along the smooth bottom 

of our south florida swimming pool; 

his stretched arms and legs
forcing the water backward, 

and both mine and his body forward 

like underwater human row boats;

coming up for air just in time 

for the exhale from my lungs 

through my upward pointing mouth 

to break the surface of the water

like the spout of a fin whale;

(i swear i still prefer to let held breathe 

burst open inside of me 

before unlocking my fingers from perceived toughness). 

even the most placid edges of my father taught me that water is for diving, 

lengths are for swimming, 

there and back and back again,

and little boys, for tossing as high and as far as splashably possible; 

that skin dries,

that the cliffs are never as high as they seem looking downward,
prior to jumping, 

that the river is always deep enough where trust has gone before,
that oxygen tastes better and better the longer we've been under,

and the cold and the fear are always forgotten when you're back home telling the story. 

the sea shows me her shores 

and i show her my shoes; 

we are kindred souls.  

april afternoon sings all the right songs,

and the mediterranean is just too beautiful to let her dance alone. 

springtime

'everything happens for a reason' sounds better when said from the winning side; after a promotion, or some serendipitous meeting turns into everything wonderful. as if reason had it out for me all along and knew precisely when it’d hurt most to crash and burn, i wonder who coined the phrase, someone sipping champagne or another, not losing, only comforting someone who was; i’ll be honest it’s never my first thought. 

i sat down dock side at sunset, to uncoil a week’s knots from my subconscious; i coffee'd from thermos and cigarette’d my way into a good mood, only to no-ink-in-pen my way into a good laugh. i wonder if god knows at this moment, that the demons inside my head are already winning, and merely wanted to make me pause long enough to let the last rays of sunshine and  breeze from his finger tips, harvest them out and away from the core of my being. 

springtime is god’s way of saying, “alright everybody, you ready? i spent the last few months sculpting green grass, flowers and blue skies into the most beautiful thing on the planet;” as if god is in the 7th grade, and he’s the brightest kid at the science fair; and the judges, mr. rathgeb, and everyone, including his father, knows he’s going to cure something someday; and he pulls the sheet from his display, and you wonder, where does all that good come from? because you know it’s not inside of you, but somehow seeing it in person makes you believe in the hope that it just might, it just might some day.  

i am always curious how tears form so easily when i feel so thirsty inside. 

the sailboats are rocking, front to back, perpendicular to the crests of ripples rolling into the harbor; birds are singing off pitch, the clouds are percolating the first of a few stars, and my scarf is still laying on the ground beside me. 

two men in love kiss nearby; a little girl is holding her father’s hand; a mother is aware of her son peering into the water; and as each of them continues on down the boardwalk, i realize that our happiness, theirs and mine, is swelling inside of us from the same incoming tide, the same seaside, the same sun and one god. 

some days the things happening for a reason feel fantastic,
some nights you learn to measure healing from one cup of coffee to the second; 
but the creativity behind what makes day turn into night just won god first place at the science fair,  
his face is beaming, he receives his blue ribbon, 
and i cannot wait to celebrate with pizza afterwords. 

o you live

if we collected all the cracks 
stepped over on the sidewalks walked
to make it home after days felt misread, 
and lined them into stencils 
shaping silhouettes for letters;
we could borrow colors from our fantasies
to paint the words 
‘o you live’ onto the soles of our shoes. 

we got tired of wearing down the earth 
with all the thoughts of she we locked inside ourselves, 
so instead we’ll decorate these hopes 
onto a direction
and pray she likes our penmanship.   

after all, maybe she is 
following at a distance everybody,
reading our steps,
like a book she keeps in the red knapsack she carries everywhere.
there is a spellbinding story behind you
and she is skilled at unscrambling insecurity.

believe me, 
most days we wish to paint more clearly, 
but i was too raw to spell ‘i love you’ 
and i only own one pair of shoes. 

so all days 
we, o you live across town
without a dime against the seaside,
with the seagulls and the carousels, 
into the bar playing Earl King, 
into the chair backed to a corner 
facing the arches
beneath the painting of a lady with a compass for a face
next to the group studying medicine and the three girls who can’t concentrate; 
me neither;  
only on nonsense and fairytales
every few seconds glancing up at the entrance way
to hope she’ll walk through and to our table, 
saying, 
“how dare you think yourself some french poet 
i only want the boy not fooling anyone.”

eyes

mine
stare holes 
through entire evenings;
it’s a shame 
i couldn’t do the same 
to whatever passed and future heartbreaks
were guarding your consistency

yours
stared whole 
into my sense of being; 
it’s a shame 
they all the same
cut me to puzzle pieces 
and left without a single picture of us 

if park benches had rewind

i'd replay cigarettes and white wine; 

when lightning 

reflected like tree roots

through yours and mine;

and we planted forests of the way i talked of brother

and gardens of your india by the sea in summer; 

if eyes are windows,
i'm still unplanting splinters 
from the years i stood too close 

selene selene (selene near the sea)

the only thing that will dry a rainy afternoon in venice,

is to pause for a cigarette 

and the girl reading something opposite the cafe.

i was nervous to ask your name

because i knew it'd be a hard one to let go. 

i asked, 

why aren't you wearing your crown today; 

you answered: what? so i said, 

never mind. 

who are you?  you asked.

i told you the wind,

and you thought about it for a second. 

do i know any french? 

only how to smile,

but you'll have to wait until you know me well enough to hear it. 

we were, 

seated next to a window 

bordering the exposition of pastries and treats;

all the passerby's pressed their noses and grins against the glass, 
pressed their noses and nationalities into us;

snapping photos of the chocolate row boats and candy bananas;

i said, 

if you need proof that we're celebrities, 

check out the lady with the british flag umbrella. 

selene selene
are you naturally guarded, 

or are you purposefully attempting to make me want you desperately?

either way, i'm not bothered;

only be conscious that i will begin to love you. 

i've always known beautiful gets more colorful with time,

i just never knew a face could wear so many shades. 

you asked what i was writing down; 

and i told you, a good thought i do not want to forget. 

you inquired if you could see; 

so i said: always, 

there are mirrors everywhere.

maybe you are perfect, 

maybe i just imagine so in the story i'm telling. 

whichever is true; i'm fine with the reality. 

you were never flesh and bone 
until you let me walk you home. 

i was cold the entire way; 

but you looked back as we parted, and that felt really good inside. 

-----

(people question if i have a love life, 

and i tell them, only with the ghosts. 

no a real one? they say.

well then yes surely, 

we all feel the rain, don't we)? 

-----

i suppose love is like Venice:

i'm never quite sure if i'm lost or found, 

but it's always near the sea.