no matter how mannered

no matter how buddhist

no matter how many dresses

who?

who is handing out the charity turkeys
on new year’s
in the mission, low key—crying—with

some lady saying “it’s ok honey—we all do it, you just ain’t been
down here as long,”

all that shit, in a man,
always,,,,,,,,
but
whatever really,
a man, hey, he is still a tug
tugboat.

a tug.

and sometimes,
sometimes, not always,
but sometimes,
it needs repair/slides up aside
there—“there” like arms; like long pale arms—
……………………..from the junk ship
down come the ropes—to bind
tugboats plastic outsides align—soft
each splinter of wood into the fabric
of shitty-weather salt-riddled plastic
feel like rooms
if a child were born
in the heart of a man
…inside his tug,
his cry machine,
his eyes.

…beaten too—from a weather-only an
ocean-sized dream that never ended
could whisper it to you—///////////rusted

so that you might believe—and you do.

inside the flicker or the blue
no words say shit—just a look
and every horizon-wave-tide—
bloody rope gloved catch—it is.

it just is.

she sees.

in a lucky thought here—she smiles—
but we just don’t know.

we don’t know what she
or he would really do.

not really…………………………………..

so
into a bed two could go, harbor side
torn apart—funnily, no different than
any mechanic, working on a car—but
this ocean, he works in it, and it—it—
THAT ocean
it is so many-many-many-many hearts
in a row—what you throw out and what
comes back—never mind so much……….

it’s all that bottomless and in-between
that, well, you know,
that is what drives any tug driver home
H O M E
home—
eventually—
that is if a man were lucky.

lucky being fickle,
fickle luck being funny,
funny being sad sometimes,
like you just ran out of it—
steam, money,
dreams, honeycomb
or blankets,
and somebody was going to get cold.

cold,
not in a home.

to know a home
my god, how lucky.

and certainly a postman too, a diver or a saloon owner or
a personal driver or
anyone,
it drives them home,
this in and out of an ocean of somethings
thoughts, working-assembly-line
working-desk-sitting-phone-answering—
everyone, even those in a dream when
they do a thing—
something in them realizes that clock
upon the wall
if it is to be anything so true
it is just numbers of a face—kind,
beautiful
we are lucky to return to—
our homes……………………………………….

and
into a bed the bind is not the sizes of a shape of a person there
to hide against
but hopeful blue light if a tv set is on—
or just doors/windows—open to the stars,
or……

impressions of stars cause unnatural
light also binds itself too, like when
it is not a me
or a him or her
or a you
but an us.

where the ocean stops…………………….

but it stops.

not home.

no home there.

lucky-not.

noisy noisy waves, tideblast, blast in a face, squinting in
place…………………….

sarong or blanket flag flying
horizontal colors
against that line
that goes down the sides
of a woman.