Emotions Can Be Felt

It's geometric;
The kiss of fog
Parting, like the curtain
To an unseen audience.
It's formula
Not Eulcid, but babies
Spat up on their mothers.
The rhythm of wit,
The isosceles sarcasm,
A spear of dew
Rolling down a drop
Of grass
Into the handshake
Of two strangers
Under the neon
I sing this body
Into several spheres,
Planets orbiting the nucleus
And moving into solar
Eclipse, into alignment,
Binary hacking into identity,
Or a scope zeroing
On the heart.

Life After Winter

The roads stretch like cats
Finished napping,
Shaking off the resilient
Outline of winter.

Blossoms explode
Into rising temperatures,
Approximate ancestors
Of smiles and warm feelings.

Stars, like outraged vikings,
Conquor the clouds,
Vestigial leftovers
Clinging to existence.

Waking with the window
Open to the smell
Of rain, I set
The alarm back an hour.

Hymn of Longing

My heartbeat sounds different
In the cool silence of my room
Than it does in the romping room,
The tabernacle of struggle
(For the realness missing sometimes)
Where the old women bang
Their tamborines and dance
Like they were making wine
(Or perhaps drinking it),
And the old men pluck grapes
For them and prophecy
Fires into our bellies (while
We wait on the wine).

The young are left behind
(Because they are silent
And self-conscious),
And often, when the mountains
Begin to tremble,
I feel like I am searching
For a bunker, or crawling
Under barbed-wire baricades,
My gas mask snug against my cheeks,
As banners fill the front of the room,
And the movements, the vibrations
Of the dancers grow so immense
I am afraid the floor will collaspe
And we will fall into some
Special precinct of hell for those
Who sang the songs for the songs themselves.