Very long ago when the exquisite celadon bowl
that was the mikado's favorite cup got broken,
no one in Japan had the skill and courage
to mend it. So the pieces were taken back
to China with a plea to the emperor
that it be repaired. When the bowl returned, 
it was held together with heavy iron staples.
The letter with it said they could not make it
more perfect. Which turned out to be true.

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail,
Like the roistering wind
That laughs through stalwart pines.
It floods me like the sun
On rain-drenched trees
That flash with silver and green.

I abandon myself to joy—
I laugh—I sing.
Too long have I walked a desolate way,
Too long stumbled down a maze
Bewildered.

Heaped sweets and a treasure
For a new sin to play with,
To pass a night and day with––
Heaped sweets for a pleasure.

Who and who will win them?
Who will carry virtue’s pall?
Of what use are sins at all
If someone does not sin them?

Who will take the treasure?
Run and run on light-winged feet;
Who will buy my sweetest sweet
With a new found pleasure?

I drew a picture long ago—
    A picture of a sullen sea; 
A picture that I value now
    Because it clears Life’s mystery. 

My sea was dark and full of gloom; 
   I painted rocks of sombre hue. 
My sky alone bespoke of light, 
    And that I painted palest blue.

But e’en across my sky of blue
    Stretched troubled clouds of sodden gray, 
Through which the sun shone weak and dim, 
    With only here and there a ray. 

Around my rocks the yellow foam 
   Seemed surging, moaning in despair
As if the waves, their fury spent, 
   Left naught but desolation there. 

Three crafts with fluttering sails I drew, 
    And one sailed near the rocks of gray, 
The other on its westward course, 
   Went speeding out of danger’s way.

The other still outdistanced them 
    Where sky and water seemed to met. 
I painted that with sails full set, 
    And then my picture was complete.

My life was like the sullen sea, 
   Misfortunes, woes, my rocks of gray, 
The crafts portrayed Life’s changing scenes, 
   The clouded sky Life’s troubled Day.

I longed to paint that picture o’er
   Without the rocks of sombre hue; 
Without the troubled clouds of gray,
  I’ll paint the sky of brightest blue.

My sea shall lay in calm repose, 
    No hint of surging, moaning sigh.
My crafts, unhindered by the rocks,
  Shall speed in joyous swiftness by.

But this shall be when brightest hours
  Of hope and cheer are given me.
I’ll paint this picture when Life’s sun 
   Shines clear upon Prosperity 

I want to paint in a way that the “I” disappears into the sky and trees
The idea of a slowed down, slowly unfolding image held my attention

Variations on a theme are of no interest. A bowl and cup are not ideas.
I want my painting to be what it contains: it should speak, not me

The idea of a slowed down, slowly unfolding image held my attention
I paint things made of clay, just as the pigments I use come from the earth

I want my painting to be what it contains: it should speak, not me
Brown and ochre stoneware bowls beside a white porcelain pitcher

I paint things made of clay, just as the pigments I use come from the earth
I place the pale eggs on a dark, unadorned tabletop and let them roll into place

Brown and ochre stoneware bowls beside a white porcelain pitcher
The dusky red wall is not meant to symbolize anything but itself

I place the pale eggs on a dark unadorned tabletop and let them roll into place
I want to paint in a way that the “I” disappears into the sky and trees

The dusky red wall is not meant to symbolize anything but itself
Variations on a theme are of no interest. A bowl and cup are not ideas.

not back, let’s not come back, let’s go by the speed of 
queer zest & stay up 
there & get ourselves a little 
moon cottage (so pretty), then start a moon garden 

with lots of moon veggies (so healthy), i mean 
i was already moonlighting 
as an online moonologist 
most weekends, so this is the immensely 

logical next step, are you 
packing your bags yet, don’t forget your 
sailor moon jean jacket, let’s wear 
our sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter, 

queerer moon gravity, let’s love each other 
(so good) on the moon, let’s love 
the moon        
on the moon

                                              One river gives
                                              Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.

Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.

You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me

What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made

Something greater from the difference.
 

I make peace with this being a beginning:
speaking
when commentary makes me unbelieve
in my body / saying No
when asked if I found a church home
in my respective
shelter city / saying Because
they’re not good people when asked why I don’t attend
family functions / spreading the good word
of moving out 
of a town you could never call home
If home is really where the heart should be
my heart is somewhere in Fort Worth, Texas 
between sundry items at Ramey Market
or sinking in Kool-Aid
at Madea’s Down Home Cooking 
I don’t remember a time I wasn’t lying
about how much something harmed me
I run with the opposite
of progress
every time my father speaks
Congress is no match
to the grave I choose to lay my mind
in / I’m making peace
with all of the I’s in this poem
unfortunately being the speaker
& I am tired
of making peace with small
progress being a precursor
for my death
& ignoring the pleading for A/C
permeating through my clothes every time
a Texas summer gets hotter / I make
peace
with all the living things around me
shaking my hand as if we’ll make it
through this
unscarred & together
& the sun 
is just a metaphor for my falling–