October

Snake Creek with a Rainbow. Image, my own.

Beautiful Boy

In my line of work,
I get to see things
And hear things
That many people do not,
Will not, see and hear
Personal narrative: a genre
Used to tell one’s story
To put your truth into
The World, tell your
Life to the Universe
Of all living things
To say, to see,
To be seen
To listen
These are very tender
Moments—actions, braveries
Moves—today a young man
Quietly said to his classmates
Boys want to be Beautiful
Too, boys want to be
Given flowers and trust
And the opportunity,
To be Vulnerable
Boys want to
Be seen and soft
And before you scoff
Please know that to put
Eyes on this young man
He was “normal”
Which doesn’t exit
But he wasn’t some standout
He wasn’t crying to be
Noticed in a needy, cloying
Way he was sincere
Brown eyes shining
And serious, he said again,
Boys want to break down
Boys want to be treasured
And saved, and tendered
Boys are complex and
Layered, multi-faceted
And so easily shattered
So easily loved
Beautiful boy

Lacrosse. Image, my own.

Melt:
for the hottest October on record

things melt like banana
popsicles on hot sidewalks

hearts at the cuddle of
a tender puppy’s nuzzle

sun as it sherberts into sunset,
dreamy scoops of carnelian, fuchsia, crimson

water being sublimated into
sediment, becoming sludgy mud

metal silver when heated to one thou-
sand seven hundred and sixty-three degrees

falsity as you live in truth in the world
as it is, not as you wish it to be

light refracted and gloriously dispersed
through water into the entire color spectrum

butter bubbling, sizzling in the fry
pan in anticipation of the next repast

bodies into one another, warm
with the savior-vivre of desire

Aspen in October. Image, my own.

Sitting in Cars with Moms

Listening to music with abandon, shake it
Hearing a favorite podcast in a vacuum, rapt
Slumping over the steering wheel, emergency
Crying, tears pouring down cheeks, salty
Praying as if there is no tomorrow, apocalypse
Laughing raucously with a friend on the line
Changing the ka-billgionth diaper on the seat
Resting the eyes at the thought of dinner, cook
Wanting for a touch a hug a support, embrace
Kicking back the seat for a true nap, snooze
Reading a book while a child is at music lessons
Waiting for babies in the carpool line, patient
Scanning a prescription before returning to sickness
Sipping a drink in silence while ruminating,
Pondering the existential crises of humankind
Yodeling to an Oktoberfest hit, hot 100
Brushing back the hair, mustering a smile, love

Rabbit Brush. Image, my own.

Hope Feathered in Me Today

Rose like an owl in the dark
of night. Off on an important
measure. A simple key into what is
Take no more than you give.

On this day we celebrate
The now— the moment— what is
As it is what we have to celebrate
Looking into the moon-face of our children

Listening to their dreams. Holding
a lover after a frozen lamp-lit tramp
Into the pitch-dark night
Drawing lines across a page,

A stone, a landscape to remember
Each leaf outlined, sepia veins,
Each intricate brace of existence a
Falling into one another– hope

Barn and Timpanogos. Image, my own.

Library

Cleo Rodgers Memorial Library, Columbus, Indiana; architect I.M. Pei, 1969. Photo ModArchitecture.

Concerto

i. Vivace
The Body and Brain create a near-constant concerto,
Orchestral ensemble that one piece of the body
May be tasked with– the soloist, for a moment–
The violin of your legs stands in the spotlight
Lifting the bow back, striking the perfect legato
When you lift each leg to strike the pedal: rising, falling,
Rising, falling, in perfect détaché, the synchrony,
Breathtaking, a veritable martelé, up and down,
Crescendoing, up and down, faster and faster,
Staccatos building as you climb that little kicker,
Beast of a hill, every note separate and distinct and
Purposeful and achingly beautiful, melody in movement

ii. Largo
The reality is that the soloist,
The part of the brain or body that is on display, is
Accompanied by an orchestra of other reactions,
Symphony, an entire production of body-brain actors
Breath increasing as you crest the top of the climb
Then wide, expansive sucks of air through your lungs as you
Descend, behind the soloist your legged
String instrument, a complex array of bodily musical
Tools, exchanges of sensory information via energy, chemicals,
Afferent and efferent neural fibers, we know this
But to experience it is so much more vivid, vibrant,
Actual art an afferent neuron gathering signals from

iii. Adagio
The skin like the finely tuned drumhead of the timpani
You’re pedaling along at a rapid pace and your
Neurons are sending each breeze that crests your
Quadricep, each flexion of your fingers as you
Reposition your palm to the vibration of your handlebars
You begin to really circle, pushing, leaning into the
Pedals with more and more force, lifting your
Foot up to keep time and pace with the peloton
This is where the sensory experience really
Begins to take off, you’re in the pace line driving
Your muscles pumping with blood, efferent signals,
Through the femoral profunda, spiccato of oxygen

iv. Finale
Feeding the whole quadricepal system: vastus medialis,
Vastus lateralis, vastus intermedius, and rectus femoris
Don’t forget the glutes, rich, ringing riot of
brain-body orchestration, molto crescendo
Coming in hot… finish line, and stop!

Ramón u Cajal, Neuron, Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales

Polyphonic Technicolor Synesthesia

this is how it feels to be in an autumn
wood at sunset, the entire mountain
set ablaze, a conflagration of color in
that warm waning light, each leaf in
stark relief to something visually near–
brittle topaz bark, white aspen trunk, every

sense housed in neon-rich sculptural portals
a magpie cackles from a scrub oak turning
amber its wings that look so black in flight
reflect a deep maxixe beryl,
oceanic opalescent contrast Paul Klee’s
Polyphic Setting for White

poets, mostly, long for synesthesia
so that they can produce that contrast
that catch of the craw between all worlds–
senses coming undone in an autumn
wood or at the very least they’d like to produce
it on the page, certainly the experience

might be so disconcerting as to be
horrible but if you could see autumn
lanced by a sunset or a taste a technicolor
leaf as it fell in a stream of wild wind,
maybe if you’re there long enough
in the woods, the colors begin to have

a particular flavor, like the brown dry leaves
of wyethia amplexicaulis, mule-ears become
tiramisu in the mushroom undergrowth
they take on a shape in your psyche
like a rhombus with the sun setting above
the far angle, always forty-five degrees

Michigan City Public Libaray, Michigan City, Illinois. Architect Helmut Jahn, 1977.

Thin

i do not know what
it is about now, every-
thing just feels papery
a little thin around the
edges, a little dry and
flat

Billings Public Library, Billings, Montana. Will Bruder Architects, 2013.

To Write a Poem

to write a poem
is a lot of staring out
of eyes through windows

Desert Air Motel, Sanderson, Texas. Built in 1960, restored, 2022.

Send Your Kids Weird Texts

Send your kids weird texts
Tell them that you’ll
Give them lunch money
If, when you are really
Old, almost gone, they
Will let you run your
Papery, age-spotted hand
Through the thicket
Of their hair
Make them pause
Question the sanity
Of your replies
Make them promise
So that your five bucks
Is paid forward in your
Elder years, it’ll be worth it
To give them a future
Imagination of how
Much you will
Always love them

Synesthesia as an Image, Public Domain.

Abandon All Solutions

One of my good friends
Heard this in a dream
Or in a wakened state
Where she was contacted
By the Universe,
So the advice wasn’t really
Given directly to me,
But it has come to mean
Everything

Lawrence Public Library, Lawrence, Kansas. Gould Evans Architects, design John Wilkins, 2014.