Anger’s eyes are in its fists

Anger is like a blind tour guide walking you through the town you were born in.
No eye for sights you see. Teaching you only what you never noticed before.
All the steps in between.

Anger’s eyes are in its fingertips.
Anger’s blind curled firsts can’t resist feeling up stranger’s faces.
Showing you places it has never seen.
Taking you down roads to where you’ve always been.
Tapping sidewalks like a telegraph with a long scrape
and a short knock and another long scrape.
That is how anger asks for help.
With a stick and a fist.

Whispering how if you say the word what it will spell hell
in brale across the side of your face. Behind sunglasses.
Shade shaded eyes from stranger’s pries and useless light.
Blind. But still out looking for a fight.
A tour guide for your own home who keeps falling down
and demanding why didn’t you say there was a curb.
Rising to darkness in a world where suns never climb.
Eyes only cry. And the world is just that place below the sky.
And anyone who gets in anger’s way will learn to step aside.
Because any one of them can see, anger is blinding.

Using someone else’s affliction to play out a lame analogy.
And if a blind person gets angry at me for writing this, fine.
It will be worth it to see, so perfectly, the blind lead the blind.

Full On Thanks

What are we supposed to think.
Freedom spread like pink frosting.
Hope dropped like a cherry
on top of Sunday morning.

Life. Religion. Self-perception.
A sunday morning world.
Slicked back hair and shoes
for no other day of the week
tied like the ocean to coral feet.

Dying and we don’t know why.
Just how, and what from, and how soon.
No idea why. At least on paper.
What were we supposed to think.

Watching neighbors across the street.
Carrying grocery bags inside the house,
two days past Thanksgiving. Family living.
Spread out across the state and states and states
of living and being and identities unknown. Finally home.

To make a meal out of life.
And get sick filling up on it.
A dessert desert devoid of the various instances
that make sense of all this, instead of just shit.

Asleep on the couch in front of sharks who hunt
each others balls for a living, slews of parasitic fish
that chase confused, concussed, weeping uncontrollably
offshoots and byproducts. The easy game.

To sit in front of and blink your full tired self away.
Hope full. Food full. Full spoiled.
Not a thought in mind. Besides,
what are we supposed to think,
so full on thanks,
and food,
and drinks.

What intent?

When a man dresses a certain way,
you don’t question his intentions.
You ask him if he has a home.

Too nervous to eat. Free food. Can’t see his feet.
Blown out pants must cover shoes. Trust.
Or you can ask if he has a pair of those as well.
The words are out. Do you have a house?
“I have a tent.” But what intent.
He wants to know if we want
to join his band.

Busted pink yellow ukulele strapped across his back.
Silver Bach Stradivarius trumpet strapped tight to mine.
Putting sound in the air for church-version worship.
At my father’s house. They always ask
and sometimes I even say yes. They let a nameless
young good looking yet odorous young man sit in the back
and watch along. Monotonous non-songs in predictable inflection.
Twenty-seven people who don’t read music all that well
or sing all that well or ever even believed
there was water once at the bottom
of all these wells.

Free heat and an uncomfortable wooden seat
for just under an hour. They even let him shower.
Too anxious to eat there with all of us, so some
equally abandoned person took him out to lunch.

He did not ask my name.
Or if I had a home, or who I am.
Here is a young man who understands.
Who did not know me apart from Adam,
and asked if I wanted
to join his band.