Alone in the dim living room
I approve of some thought that passes
through me, and out of my mouth
once again comes

that unexplainable awkward “hmmmm…”
in a satisfied tone
that I can never explain adequately
to anyone who hears it: how can I be
agreeing out loud
with a half formed idea that
I can’t even explain? I am glad I am
alone, until I realize
there is one being here beside me,
the only one that
ever understands why sometimes
I speak before I think, even before I understand it —

the guitar in the corner
responds to my ecstatic grunt
with a low chuff, a resonance just below
the level of music — close enough that I know
I will wrestle it later
and try to have it tell me
what it was that I meant
when I made that sound.

I wrote this for Mike McGee to use during his 24 hour feature which started tonight, and was honored that he chose to open with it.

Go hit his blog at mikemcgee and you can connect to a live stream from San Jose…

He sent me one to debut tonight at the Hut. I will try to do it the justice it deserves for the great premiere he gave mine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poetry Shoes

It was an ordinary day
( by which I mean to say
it was as beautiful
as every other day)
when I walked up to the edge
of the roof
of the twenty story
Bank Of America building
and stepped off.

Since I had my poetry shoes on
I wasn’t worried —
in those things I can do anything.

I sauntered along,
high over Tenth Street,
twenty stories above the people below,
sustained by sestinas and clouds of clerihews,
and the wind in my hair and my face
(and even the small gusts that would sneak up
the legs of my pants) felt as cool
as anything you might see in a fashion magazine —

“gonna have to use that line in a poem sometime,” I told myself —

and by chance I looked up and I saw
I wasn’t alone. There were people everywhere!
People stepping out from their offices,
people who’d snuck up to the rooftops on breaks,
people who’d slipped on their poetry shoes
to rise above it all,
just to get through their rotten days —
by which I mean
their ordinary days.

We all need a way to soar.
Everyone needs a new pair of shoes.
Get away from the bank, the school, the office and slip on
your poetry shoes, brothers and sisters,
your sonnet sneakers, slam slippers, brawny
epic boots, haiku ballet point shoes, beat tap sandals,
cowboy flippers — slip ’em on!

Step out into the air
and take a walk with me, or show me where you’re going
and I’ll follow you anywhere,
high above Tenth Street,
away from the banks and the dangerous pavement;

on this ordinary day (by which I mean to say
on this beautiful, magnificent day)
the sky’s gonna be crowded with hikers who know
the best journeys always begin
with one
well-shod step
off the edge.