Intention: Sweets and Candies of the Mind (This is not a poem)

 I wait at the oven 

for a delicacy that I have been 

baking for many years 

little Roald Dahl pastry puffs

little Sedaris Snacks 

Empty carbs and sugar and fat

of language 

the flavor of rain 

as a child when 

you must sing to 

open your mouth to the sky 

ahhhhhh she says to try 

to catch the drops 

unworried about the 

flavor or the purity 

just you, as a child, 

with your arms out 

waiting to be quenched 

by the sky 

a dance and a tap of the feet

a little jig of joy 

nothing better than your body 

responding to the cup of your heart 

as it's filled with rain. 

a Plastic Pudding Cup with An Aluminum Lid that You'd Lick

 What a heavy load these 

fifteen years have brought on 

my creased spine 

each year, the children 

look younger and younger

always about to become

always cloying at 

some unseen version

of themselves 

a full-fat vanilla pudding 

cup left half-eaten in

the dumpster behind 

the Hawaiian-themed 

apartment complex

with the unlit alley 

They'll become some 

thrown away, cast off 

disposable plastic 

and the only cruealty 

that we have given them 

is the hope that they are 

anything else. 

2 or 3 minutes at my plastic desk, conjuring the Sandy River

 When one can write a poem 

As fast as it can be thought and 

Even faster than it can be spoken, 

Is there even time to think about what

Every line means? Is there even time

To consider how and why the scrutiny

Will reign and, should I act more like a 

Person and less like a poet, or 

Should I keep trying to catch the

Water in a rushing river that 

Will literally only stop when the world stops,

Or when the trees fall down to block it, 

Or when a human dam is made to 

Cultivate its power. 

Is this poem my dam? Stilling the infinite waters of

Human thought about the inevitable ending 

Of life. Or will the water still keep running 

After I am no longer making it? Will someone

Else open the dam and let the captured fresh 

Water of these words run free again? 

Can we 

All agree that there is nothing finer than

A little cold water on a hot day with hot rocks 

And cold river grass between our toes? 

The

Break in these lines is my river grass and 

The water is pumping into your mouth 

Finally, finally, you are no longer thirsty 

For answers. You are finally full of river water 

And it is finally time for the dam to let you

Evacuate the contents of your stomach back

Into the river flow for it to take a piece of 

Your insides and put it into a reservoir for 

Those who come looking. For those who want

To swim and take a drink of me. A drink of me

Here. Served. 

Get out your metal 

Cups and close your eyes. Let it 

touch your tongue and 

Swallow.

These Words Will Follow You

 On the back of a napkin

In the notes on your phone 

In an untitled google document

On a work account during a lecture 

On your arm, on your 

Tongue 

In the fur of a kitten 

A tattoo on the ass of a priest 

In the back of a bible 

on the back of a one-way sign 

Beneath a freeway overpass

On the rope of a ski-lift 

In blood on the cell wall 

On the inside of your 

Skull 

On all 4 chambers of 

Your beating heart 

These words are 

Scorched, branded

Chiseled and scribbled 

On a marble surface 

That was already written -

At the beginning of 

Time. Already written

Before you read it and after - 

Already here for you to 

Remember and forget 

And remember again 

For you never to have to 

Remember because 

It’s here, forever.

Bench, Bleached

A memorial garden where 

The stones have been collected 

Spry and gray, the samplings 

Search for moisture 

The sprinklers have been 

Shut, the pews inverted 

No moment of remembrance

For this church, vacant 

And I sit on a cinderblock,  

Surrounded by vines and tendrils

Near roses charred by sun -

Oblivious, watching Netflix on my phone.