Oliver dresses like a woman
Has hair that is between stages
Oliver is between stages
Somewhere between what I know to be man and woman

Oliver is lovely and unfamiliar

Priscilla rubs Oliver’s body without hesitation
I want to just love Oliver without hesitation
I want to look at Oliver with no confusion
Or fear for how unsafe this world is for a person like Oliver.

Being a poet. 3/30 (30 poems in 30 days)

Being a Poet.

Being a poet means some days you feel as chosen as you hoped you would be
When you wrote something worth sharing in the silent of your broken heart
Some days the crowd cheers and tweets and calls you words you use to describe other things
They call you

Call you by your full name
And ask questions like you have the answers
And by chance you might
Might stand and sound like a poet and damn if a little theatre doesn’t become your heaven
Then you walk to catch the bus in the cold
Ride it back to a city that doesn’t give a fuck that you exist.

What you say next (April 17, 2011)

Be careful what you say next
Because I am listening
Hear you beautiful by choice
But will recall and repeat
Will recite back to accurately everything you said
Day 1: “Can this be our Sunday thing for as long as you want to spend Sundays with me?”
Day 5: “You can trust me with your stories”
Day 10: “You should have called me if you couldn’t sleep, you can always call me”
Day 15: “I’m sorry, it doesn’t look like I’m going to make it”
Day 17: “I’ll be here until Tuesday, we can hang out whenever you want”
Day 18:
Day 19:
Day 20:
Day 21:
Day 22:
Day 23:
Day 24:
Day 25: There was too much and not enough silence.

Hatch (April 14, 2011)

Under the rubble
Behind the shield of a smile
Beneath the weight of struggle
After it all
There is sunshine
There is flight and
A rebirth so sweet
Clouds dance with envy
Close your eyes if you are not ready

Crack me open
Feel this breeze
Watch me miracle
Do you hear me?
I am alive

We are alive under this burnt flesh
Like disappointment promised we wouldn’t
There is something to this breathing thing
Something wonderful in the exhale
Something magical
Something miraculous about surviving

My father. Now.

My father
His voice on the other end of the phone
Always rushing
He plows through a moment, to get to the silence
The second before goodbye
He never wants to hang up but always rushes to it

I call him now
For no reason
Just to call
Because I can, now
Because I finally want to

He mostly answers
He is mostly home
He shares now
Tells me he will answer any question I have, now
Tells me I can always call
Can always come home now

That house on Taylor Street
The one my grandfather built
That house has not been home in 25 years
This magic city of smog and fake boobs
Of $9 fresh pressed organic juice and $300 gym memberships
This not fitting in even in the “in” crowd
Everyone is alone especially in a crowd
This jaded magnificent city
This is the closest thing to home

Indiana is the place I think of running to, should I ever decide to
Because my father gave me permission to make it mine again
That land was left with me in mind
Paid in full
A place should I need it, it is always there
Like my father now
I some times think to call at 2 am
5am his time and he would answer
With not much to say
He would listen
To the silly things I want to say
Want to talk about my love and my lover
How they are the best of everything together
But he would not fully understand
There are still years and life lessons between us
Still love and who we call God between us
Still what is appropriate and so
I settle for 6 pm phone calls about bingo and the Vietnam War
About how the pistons are playing and my mother
A topic neither of us can avoid
She is the thing that bonds up
He still loves her, you know
I think he loves her better than any man before
Or after.

Morning free write (after the text, after the dream)

You came to me in a dream
Even there I don’t know how to forgive you
Saw your light but you shy away from it
Your wife came too
Pregnant and beautiful
She hugged me like she knows how hard it is to love you
When I woke up
I still had nothing I wanted to say to you
I had two fists still clinched at the thought of you
So maybe one day is true
Maybe one day when I trust what you say
Maybe then
I will wake up with words I stand by ready to reply to you.