xmas. with an x.

why do words just tumble out sometimes, and they don't sound the same as anyone else's? what was that thing about how you spend your whole life trying to write the first poem you loved?

who did i love first? i loved so many. they whispered in my ear and made my breath come fast and shallow because there was no room in my chest for anything but my heart. 

i understood nothing but i felt everything. poetry is about the chest, the heart. and feeling it in the mouth. i don't write poetry but maybe that's what i do write. just in sentences. 

boredom borne of frustration. xmas eve, and nothing to say. i feel nothing today. 

i ought to, shouldn't i?


nothing. 



maybe i am not eligible for christmas. 

james wright, he was my first. he will speak for me while my heart is in my mouth. the briefest breathless moment before nothing returns. 

just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. 
and the eyes of those two indian ponies
darken with kindness.
they have come gladly out of the willows 
to welcome my friend and me. 
we step over the barbed wire into the pasture
where they have been grazing all day, alone. 
they ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
that we have come. 
they bow shyly as wet swans. they love each other. 
there is no loneliness like theirs. 
at home once more, 
they begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
i would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, 
for she has walked over to me,
and nuzzled my left hand. 
she is black and white, 
her mane falls wild on her forehead, 
and the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
that is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist. 
suddenly i realized 
that if i stepped out of my body i would break
into blossom.