I would like most to remember

his hands - palm pressed to calm cheekbone

a cool touch, collected

and capable of anything.

I have seen these hands

prayer-stitched and penitent

folded neatly into one another.

They have been both church and steeple - prayer and pulpit.

They have known the weight of praise, and the long, dim light of nights spent

poised in still reflection.

I have seen these hands at peace,

a symphony of purpose - harmonic

and charged with their own music -

a metronome precision of movement,

no note wasted.

I have seen them, also - uncertain

constant as clockwork

twitching and shifting agitation,

vortex of steady, endless ticking...

Fondling smoking casualties

casually, lit with fixed attention;

flicking ash into air

into cup

into upturned palms -

lighting one off the knuckle of the other,

smothering the unsteadiness of time

in the constancy of ritual.

And also,

his tentative grip - slow and timid

shufflestitch of fingers,

seeking shelter between my own.

Still, I would like most to remember this -

calm palm pressed to cheekbone.

His cool touch, collected

and capable of anything.

What dwells on either end of the extreme

becomes

one whole

when born

under the same roof -

in the same way

one sheds tears of joy

or resents a work of art

for being too admirable

or loves

all of the worst parts of themselves

too intensely

for change

this is the conundrum

blood ties - which are both

gift bow and binding -

unexpected sweepstakes

and taxed burden

which follows

is that really winning?

The discovery

that loving and loathing

sound very similar

when one speaks them quickly -

without thought

to consequential enunciation -

and, isn't it strange, that

one home

might shelter so many

strangers

still call them relative -

Elegant, this

remiss tug of war

just the tautness of heart strings.

#throwback

You

are not

the man

I'm

choosing

I

hope

You

are not

choosing

him

either

When I was younger, I was naive. I didn't know our sins were cumulative. It doesn't happen overnight, see - the fall to despair. The fall of a body into disrepair is a slow fight to the death, literally. A house that crumbles, eventually, under years of foundational stress. It starts with a dripping faucet, or flexed glass which cracks and remains unfixed. Ends in a flowing carpet of ivy, starred over with the flowers of clover, and becomes once more reflection of the night sky. There is beauty in decay, sometimes. The gorgeous wreckage of our lives' lack of common sense, forethought, or funds.

When I was young, all I wanted was to know the feeling of nourishment. The joy of joining one's source - of letting my atoms go, to be transported or reabsorbed and formed again into another life - maybe as an apple, this time. Maybe something better than a man's left rib. Maybe after seeing what happened to Lilith of Mud or all the little Cinderellas on their knees in the dust - maybe I was hoping harder than I should've for mouthful of poison and a soft bite - the snake's first strike.

Really, can you blame me? He was always wandering the garden. Naming birds in the air or stars in the sky, never noticing those shining here, in my eyes - all that wondering miracle - when I was younger, I was more easily swayed. Wasted all of my beautiful becoming so quickly. Confused coup de foudre for {cold} fusion. Back then, no one told me that it would all unfold in perfect order - one fractal path following another, into the drastic infinite. All becoming the mass of experience which carries us along, slowly increasing in size as it tumbles in orbit, gaining momentum until it's own force simply tears it apart. The friction of it's own body charged, weighed, then dissipated. But none of the language surrounding it matters. We'll all give ourselves back to the cosmos, eventually. Water and ground will absorb us. All the sheltering stones we've stacked, crumbling. All debts gathering interest, eternally - all our bones dents gaining density, reinforcing themselves into calcium fortresses - still, breaking down. Falling, laden with the burden of age on old limbs, letting go.

When I was younger, I was not afraid of this. I was not afraid of anything, then - I had no understanding of consequence. How one bite of fruit might move shift straight to my hips, or dole the cursable gift of knowledge both good and ill - I was just naked and craving, seeking fulfillment from anything but him - still hungry and yearning for new perspectives...

See my point of view? I had no ill will - just nothing to lose - and a sweet tooth.

An unsolicited snapshot

from the dark side of the planet asks

for my blessing. Asks for my happiness

Asks me to admire the beauty

of a new star - his girlfriend. Tells me

he chased her across an ocean

And, isn't that love? He asks

And I distance myself from all meaning, literally - as is my way. Because it is funny

to imagine the globe in a gym

Just like me, sweating through endless orbit

optimistically doomed - still, hoping

that terraforming might attract the moon

And when he says I knew better, this time

I imagine dear Atlas

on bent knee, iron muscles taut, straining to shoulder my molten core

The balance of cosmos requires light -

depends solely on rules of reciprocal gravity,

so I say You deserve to be happy

and let it go, simply. Gratitude's airy salve

will smoothe this gouged ground, eventually

renewing thick mantle and crust

in time.

Oh, you

City of Concrete

of bumstink

of bad traffic

and no parking

barking with laughter

the whole way home

from the bar,

City of Linking Arms

and hollering after midnight.

You

of constant wind

and cold summers -

late-harvest Autumn which wraps us

all in sweaters and slanted light -

falls on the golden glow

of a comfortable front stoop

ringing fate's doorbell

only to bail at the first chance.

Someone called

you

The City of Love

once,

but never again -

still, all the hopefuls

come back

to

You -

Goldrush of the West

your jasmine perpetually in bloom,

though its soft scent seems lost on

the hard-soled parade of your sidewalks -

all VC fanfare and ticker tape -

City of Step-on-your-Mother's-Back,

City of Slip Through the Cracks

City of Soup Kitchen

and Instantaneous Drone Delivery

City of Bright Bridge and

privilege and real money

conjured from thin air

you

no longer

wear flowers in your hair.

You

no longer

seem to care

for such trivial things

as this.

The hills were on fire then

and they are burning again

all bluster and smoke

updrafting breeze which crumples

giants to knees, tumbles

mountains to foothills

And maybe it was all just timing -

a tidal wind broken on rocky cliffside

at just the right moment to carry a spark

from safety to circumstance,

chance blaze of one little cinder

fated to bring all this old growth to ash

But maybe it's better to ask

what might come of all this?

What fervent splendor might birth itself

from all these broken bows, resprout

from this newly fertilized path

on the route towards civilization?