he schizophrenic is
pregnant.
Her belly is full
of onions, and zombies,
and wild laughter.
Soon it will move,
and dark ideas will
scuttle on insect legs
through her mind,
scratch like small beasts
in the corners, incessantly;
grow larger;
howl for attention.

She's up there talking now,
to God, and Beethoven,
and the thrift-store
ottoman -
asking who the father is;
after Einstein's health;
why she hunts for angels
in the dumpster.

In the dark, two floors
down, her questions hit
with blunt force trauma.
I, too, have questions
for Him, but hold
my ghetto back.
Upstairs, the answers
stringtogether,
mingle,
make imperfect
sense to her and her
paper daisies. 

entle soul - you have sought it, sifted
and panned for it, dug and rummaged
as though it were a set
of mislaid keys - or eyeglasses; as though
it were a treasured pen
you'd dare not sign your name without.
And so it is - gentle, restless soul -
that you feel empty without it; that you wear
a sparse coat, sewn from the cold of experience;
that you are one forced smile from hardness.

You sit beneath memories.
Often you prune them. Always -
always, you keep the cuttings.

Gentle creature - it was summer.
You found the pearls of who you were
in some bright strangers unexpected smile,
and with happiness, a happiness
lighter than the song of birds,
strung them to the necklace of your youth.
Bliss flared! The measure of a day declared itself
with each stray breath you failed to take:
your skin beneath a first exploring touch;
the eureka of a stolen kiss; the cushioned
warmth of first loves perfect womb.
How you opened! How you poured
another soul into your own! You unfurled
a woman, a still pool
deep with the light of the world, and
you knew solace.

You sit beneath memories.
Often you prune them. Always -
always, the canopy regrows.

Gentle traveller - innocence finds no bearing
from the stars. Who knows where first love cracked
and bled like an egg into the earth?
You seek for the ashes of
a burnt relief in coal cellars; keep vigils
by untended fires; search for love in hearths with
fires devils can't possess.
And so it is - gentle, restless fool - that you cry to
feel real; that you feel heavy in your flesh;
that you are drawn like a magnet to the edge of blades.

You lie beneath memories.
Often you sing them. Always -
always, the eulogy returns.

Gentle pilgrim - you have covered distance enough
to know of pearls and casualties; of hidden
barbs and swifter amputations; of seasons that become
mass graves filled with rotting days.
You have loathed sunrise and the snarling night,
have torn apart the breasts of men to search
for your own heart in the cavity.
And so it is - gentle, tired soul - that you have grown weary
of wandering; that you are tired of the empty search
and of faintest hopes receding;
that you ache for songs that ache for never being heard.

You will dig beneath memories.
You will dig for your secrets.
Always, you will sing them. Always -
always, your own first love is you. 

on't look here
on the days when your voice
is lost as a mumble, or a slur,
or a broken song:
I will be scattered;
intangible; a pepper
of smaller traces.

I am the faint event -
the finger of a lost need that hooks
your eyes to the passage of words:
I am the beyond in the writing;
a mirror reflecting your own god.

The thing you wish to behold
isn't me - it is yourself -
hold yourself
in the cup of your hands
and gaze in wonder.

Gaze in wonder,
for you are the sigh.
You are the season and the sun.
Your love
is the sum of love.
Your crisis
is the world's.
I am not here.
You are the poem.