the capacity of understanding

i stared into the eyes

of a young man barely

more than half my age

he told me things which

i am sure he did not

think i could understand

i watch the monitors

resting heart rate is

170

normal is 120

blood at 88%

oxygenation

and they say she is on the rise...

three or four things now

this child was born with

a look of concern

-the face of the Sun

as if carved into stolen

wood from a far off place

next, no matter what they tell ya

dismantling a bomb ain't shit

it's the careful maintenance of the 

pieces and parts in a life 

that can't rub together that

takes the strong gut.

the will of an astronaut,

the compulsion of a moron

last

on some subjects

i'd just prefer not

burden

the capacity of understanding

of them that i love

about how everything is nothing

i carry the
first hat my
second child
ever wore
just
moments old
in that black leather

in a pocket
with the plastic
clip
from my first
child's
falling belly button

i thought

if someone stole that coat
and went into the place
those things close to my heart
my love my
comfort dragging
my stupid magic would
just be thrown on the ground
or in the trash some
where

just junk in
the beaten pocket
of some bad ass
jacket

and that's
what
it is

that's what
it all
is
our rocks
and spells
and holdings
blind magic

things       just
dust and clay
heaven's gate
and rot

angel no.

and i know
this
we know this
so why...

there is something        
psychological                        
because
we don't

something within ours
leads eyes to
covet

even the attachment
of the
unattached
bears cautionary
discression

for
cold and wet
bright light
and trolley

and
sometimes

we find the
need
in our young
stomach
to forget what
we know

about how
everything
is nothing

this beautiful
spun sugar structure

-i was just
thinking too much
as my daughter was
looking for a hat
for her doll

even the most precious
of all of this
is fundamentally
dust

it is the spark
the breath
the light on in
the eyes
which makes us
forget reason
forget the fact
that plastic garbage
is a father's magic

this is my opinion
and
there are billions more

eyes

i was drifting
the other day

laying on my couch
thinking about eyes

i always felt them
tiny windows
allowing soul to
reach through
from infinite
vastness to
sphere of existence

god
touches
world

my daughter
emeline
could not see farther
than me
or her mother
when first arriving
on this plane
when first breaking through
to the
firmament

right now not
yet two years here
and her eyes see
what forty years
and the lives of the
prophets
have taught me

that which was and always
is
that which schools
and affiliation begs
we forget
lest we go astray
and feed our own

reality
the collective result of our
being and our
having been
and
of the truth in love
and pain
that we all share

body and mind
grow older
stronger
id feeds ego
firmament
waxes to
lower world

soul along for the ride

i just turned 40
and my eyes see
less and less

i turn once again
to the couch
and me on it
wondering
thinking
that as we get older
and we draw nearer to
that final answer
as arms grow shorter
does the gaze
of angels
lessen
through that
window

maybe
just as
we get along
and tire of the
fires and
the floods
the famine and
the greed
the continual toil
of the experience
world
so does love

its just that
those eyes
they look so
other worldly
when set into this
mud
and when we cease

all else

fingers
lips
skin

lose all trace
evidence that life
was ever present
tissue shrivels
loses the glow from
bright blood pulsing
darkens slightly but
eyes
eyes look like a complete
and separate creature
altogether
they never seem to
die

now ours
eyes turn toward
architect
focus inside
back through
windows
seeking that growing
familiarity
smell of home
once the savages
here have
had their fill
after the bills
after the sunsets
after the fires are put out
when the body nears
the finish line
with no more
dirty corners to
brush against
mind shifts to
sound
as soul begins the
search for respite
eager and urgent
begging body to
draw the blinds

made up

wickedness
thrives in
cracks

not in 
hearts but
in the
vulnerability
of need

demons
feed
on
opportunities
presented

it does not hunt
it lays on the
bottom
of the ocean
and uses
bio luminescence