365/365

the sky
the color
of whales and elephants
heavy and thick, slow moving-
envelops the intermittent grumbling
of thunder like bullets igniting
in an ashen bag of wool.

wet and bored.
resting lethargy-
in a book
on the phone
in and out of sleep.
drooping cat’s eyes
don’t feel guilty
from lack of productivity.

they invite us to destigmatize
so much of our shame,
but another year is about to expire,
your left holding
a year’s worth of poems
worth little more than
a sack of magic beans.

mix a drink
play a record
let’s gets ready
to celebrate.

364/365

feels so right in the moment
clutching the mic stand like an anchor:
a jump, a headbang, a thrust
total freedom like in your room
at eight, ten, twelve, eighteen, twenty four
and so on and so on. a bottle of wine
at your feet and enough songs in your throat
to warrant applause. the little voice, gone
from your head, under the lights: the one
asking the obvious questions: am i good enough?
will they like me? is this cool or pathetic: us
up here, missing fifty, playing rock stars.

there are moments- eyes closed, spinning,
riding the bassline, drum beat pounding, searing
quitar solo, when you let go and quiet the voice,
there is no play acting, there is no doubt. only
a fierce freedom too hot not to trust. there is no
choice but to let yourself burn and sing. a voice
committed to rock and roll in a small room to a small
crowd will always be a beautiful thing.

363/365

thinking about underdogs all day today.
losers and freaks and the not so
popular crews. when i was college aged,
we played a game, where we turned our
names into verbs and to jabiz was to:
think you were going to win when it was
clear you had no chance of winning. there’s no
better way to illustrate that point that to show pride  
in that sentiment. the humming birds lost the nest
for the third time in as many week this week.
john madden died and our team is hanging on by a thread.
the birds are back at attempt four. we play on monday
and i’m shooting for the moon. i’ll deal with the disappointment
when it comes- for now i’m betting it all on any misfits
that are willing to put it all on the line

362/365

playing lawn games
at the park
the sun playing
hide and seek
with the clouds.
casting shadows
to cool us down.
families eating
and drinking
flying kites,
kids in the sand  love
with buckets and shovels.
she slides over
for a few stealth hugs,
i want to swallow her whole
to prove unconditional love.
why do we find it so
hard to communicate?
she points out an
old shirtless man
dismounting his bike
to listen to heavy metal.
she finds his actions cool-
every one of us perpetually
looking to build from fragile
to strength and back again.

361/365

has there ever been a group of
nearly fifty year old men who
look forward to the decades ahead
rather than reminiscing about the lifetimes
lived? sitting at the local pub with the blokes
sharing the same war stories of shows seen,
trips taken, women known- sprinkling the
conversations with medical woes and the
deterioration of their bodies. slipped discs
and the inevitability of eveything slowly
getting worse before the final call. look at us
at eighty, if we are lucky, looking back at these
days as the ones when we were still spry
and alive, raising teenagers and playing in bands.
drinking on tuesday nights planing future trips
wondering if there will be enough time to be
better dads, husbands, sons, friends- men.
what do you want to do next? one of them asks
nursing a headache and a watered down whisky:
a gentle tropical breeze ambling through the street.
each quietly contemplates an answer, unsure
how to respond publicly. somewhere an obligatory
promise-made shifts in a pocket- waiting to be set free.

360/365

too tired.
too full.
too content.
too late.
too much life
for poetry.
this is
all there is
and it is more
than enough.

358/365

breathe in these
moments as they pass.

we are here. together.
a unit, a little of the same

on this special night. too old
for letters and cookies: but the tree

twinkles, the gifts are wrapped,
food is prepped, reservations are made.

she carries the weight of expectation
as she does every year. a wink

a blink. a glimmer of light. here’s
to hoping we’ll get it right.

357/365

desperate for a spark
digging through the ashes
of weatherworn journals.
naive scribbled confessions
of a manchild navigating
a life at the climax of the century.
he was so often overworked and tired
indignant at the man and sloppy in his affairs.
love recklessly traded and transactional-
always looking for a return on careless investment.

youth upon reflection reveals a lonely leak
dripping into an echoing well- when in the moment
it felt so much more like adventure or freedom.

twenty four years from now, what might he unearth?
what might the market value be for
a life time of scratching at mediocrity.
there was a note, in the journal: to read vachel lindsay,
no doubt inspired by some walt whitman reverie-
found some orientalist bullshit and these two crumbs
“every soul is a circus”
“praise with me this masquerade?”
enough to keep us going another decade still.

356/365

a creeping headache
near noon. drink water.
take a nap. wednesday.
show up for a beer or two.
a pizza. bottle of wine
it’s five pm. let’s play
some songs. jump around.
get in the groove. belt out
the lyrics, something to prove.
three hours later, write the set list
for next week. an old fashion or three.
look we did it. crash in bed

355/365

a wisp of a nest,
meticulously secured
to a finger thin branch
of the resurrected bougainvillea,
blows precariously in the
afternoon wind. as the two
tiny yellow birds, back from
a year of where ever they’ve been,
work tirelessly in tandem gathering
materials from the neighbourhood
to build a safe haven for what i’ll
assume will be the most indiscernible
egg with a translucent shell.

last year the nest blew away before
they were ready. my wife wants to help
by erecting a shield or offering twine,
but you can’t mess with evolution.
my daughter, a few weeks, ago
asked about meaning in life-

i wonder where the birds go at night
in the wake of the full moon light.
how much could we love
their invisible new life?

354/365

look at all these bodies:
tanned and taught
white and burned, flabby
and loose. young and old
fresh and faded- carrying
us in and out of the sea.
stuffed with food and drink
only to shit it out to start again.
flexing, sucking in, and pushing out.

having washed the salt from his hair
a quiet one sings a familiar song at home,
whispering over inaudible chords:
flyin' mother nature's silver seed
to a new home in the sun.

satisfaction was never
meant to be so byzantine.
folding ourselves inside out  
hoping that maybe the inside
feels more comfortable
on the outside. and these
rest ready husks rejuvenate
closer to the heart
and other vital organs.

353/365

a stale chocolate eclair
just before midnight
washed down by cold sparkling
water straight from the bottle.

a tiny white head zit
on your lower eyelid
causing swelling and irritation.

sizzling mushroom fajitas
for dinner
two margaritas
large and on the rocks
a beer at the art house movie
with friends. a gentle
walk to the taxi.

a ruptured taste bud
on the tongue making
it challenging to pry
that piece of tortilla chip
from the hole in your molar.

a cool breeze
in the tropical heat.

another sunday night:
this one on the
forty seventh december
of your life.

352/365

we are driving a few miles
out of our way to see the bridge
that was in natural born killers.
somewhere in new mexico
on the way to taos with laura
and her friends from mills
playing korn and discussing
second wave feminism while
i drink beers in the back,
blowing smoke out the window-
something takes a part of me
something lost and never seen-
on our way to a rainbow gathering.

her septum: pierced.
my hair: monthold bleach job.
hair on their legs and pits.
is that bobby mcgee on the radio?
you know feelin' good
was good enough for me.

we’ll spend
a few days
sharing a tent
in the foothills
holding hands in large circles,
campfires like ewok villages,
naked folk on horseback,
drums and guitars,
flowers and patchouli.  

can’t remember—
how
where
when
why
i was asked
to tag along,

laying there
under the stars
absolutely certain
that dropping my classes
at the college of marin
was the single best decision
of my life up to that point.

can't they chill
and let me be free?
freedom's just another word
for nothin' left to lose:

all songs blur into one
on a constant loop
echoing through time.

audible
even now.
in the quiet.

351/365

one halloween
living in new york
in my late twenties
i grew my hair out
with a ramshackle beard,
found leather pants and aviators
stuffed a pillow in my shirt
and stumbled around the city
as the fat jim morrison.
mr. mojo risin:
sick of dour faces
staring from the tv tower.

we were both so
wanton in our boredom
old and tired
at twenty eight.

twenty years later
staring down forty eight
no need for the pillow,
hair mostly white.

it’s hard to believe he died
at twenty eight and here
i still am: looking for
purpose. what was
that promise that you made?

350/365

standing in an alleyway
broken yellow bicycles and spewing
air conditioning units.
a warm brown beer in a plastic cup
leftover from last night,
talking climate change
and the end of the world.
we’re genetically programmed
to eat the weak he says
right after he points out a few
planets on an app on his phone.

we eat.
we drink
we laugh.

discuss the encroaching darkness
as if it has not already devoured us.  

out of a cab. alone on a sidewalk.
that sad song that keeps me tethered
to the loneliness at my core.

i feel a warm pulse of love
a gentle whisper of hopefulness.
the moon in chunks behind some mist.
we are here and breathing
and dreaming toward peace.

there is nothing we won’t overcome.
there is nothing we won’t outlast.

beyond the alleyway
the sidewalk leads home.

349/365

left another pound of flesh
at the temple door.
don’t confuse this poet
with a martyr. it’s not
a sacrifice- when you beg to do it.

the fever pitch has us spinning.
the nights are long and still
draining old fashions,  
writing holiday cards,
ballads from the
nineteen seventies,
a soothing salve.

we’re certain love and devotion
are meant to be exhausting.
the question is whether we’ll survive.

348/365

the poems
nearly fifty thousands
words worth
trail behind me
like snail slime:
an iridescent
protective mucus
secreted for protection
to avoid desiccation.  

i hope they look
good in the book.

347/365

the formulas here
are complex and impossible
                            to remember.
if x is inspiration and y is motivation
times something to do with skill
(and) (or) talent…

what’s the use?

i never paid much attention
to the surrounding calculus.
i never get the right answers
and if i do,
i’ll refuse to show my work.  

somewhere- too-
in this mess:
are lines
        and planes
            and three dimensions.
what are we meant to do
with a lifetime of remainders?

346/365

woke up sunday morning
clenching an image i couldn’t shake:
a tiny rusted metal heart
wrapped in barbwire  
embedded in my chest
like a brier or mechanical barnacle.
its ventricle clogged with dust and grease
unable to pump or move at all
frozen shut by time.
mechanical stasis.
a clapped-out clout.
but it wasn’t a heart at all
and there were more than one
a batch of jagged ballbearings
let loose in my body: obstructing
the flow of blood and air.

throughout the day:
talking to my mom about
the joy plants can bring
and her poem about her friend’s dead son;
devouring a rosewater and pistachio donut;
time at the bookstore; a grilled cheese sandwich
with grilled onions and a flat coke; afternoon reading
smudged into an aggressive nap; my daughter and i
on her porch lodged between a playlist and some journals
waiting for the rain and small conversations fifteen years
in the making; a call with an old friend unloading
the shame that comes from stigmas we’re told to ignore.

it’s late now.
the metal
parasites
are gone.

i doubt they were ejected or expelled.
my body has absorbed them again
grinding them into dust to season this flesh.
just another mill.
doing what mills do.

345/365

the night we sat on the roof
taking turns and dares to
jump into the tree. proving
invincibility with reckless
pique- the popularity we hated
and reluctantly chased only to ignore
partying down in our house now.
the one with the indestructible floorboards
and its very own harem.
i’ll go down soon and yell at them
to leave- they will not enjoy what they
threw away. later by a fire
after midnight, another quiet song
and the soundtrack to this memory making.
i’m so light i hold just one breath
and go back to my nest
sleep with innocence. all of youth
is one long night.