by Bruce Holsapple

What you’re telling yourself,
the directions you’d go
what you’d gather

extend the arms, stretch your fingers
& presto, your obligations deepen
family house job car yard

brace against those, precisely who you are
disclosed inch by inch

But then who you are
occurs before you get there!
Is this another one of your jokes?

Well, not exactly

Change the light bulb, that makes a difference
fold towels, underwear
hang up shirts
put the stepladder away
make toast

butter
bitter
bluster
blister

Wind smashing crashing thru trees
the tall grasses flattened
relentless push

But grateful I say to have 5 fingers
on each hand, ten toes
hot shower, towels, clothes
a belt to buckle
erect posture
the 5 dictionaries

Confess, I don’t feel like I should feel
or so you’d guess
not even vaguely desirous
everyday dive into chores

No place you “is” save in motion
half my thoughts
predicated on the next moment

One is given to fingers
to skin, thought, eyes
given to trouble, to grasping

No step that isn’t the path you is
but there are depths!

Yet if there were anyone
who should be considered
on the alert, it’s these ground squirrels
jerky this way, that way
telegraphic brown spurt across the yard

The problem, the doctor surmised
was a slightly mutinous twitch 
buried deep inside, tell himself one thing
do the opposite

Odd, isn’t it, who you’d portend to be
discovered outside in, a matter of skin
as by crawling thru barbed wire,
responsible for every move

“All those little things you do”

Oh, but that’s what makes you special

I don’t know/
you’d think a heightened state
would take one across some threshold
Certainly drugs do that
alter what you see
a calling of sorts
sort of like poetry

(same with the bear tracks I glimpse
walking the trail I’m on, yikes!
the attention jerking
higher a notch)

But your easy strides
& brown coat flapping
Oh, wooded path!
Oh, windblown, displaced warbler
that path summoning
step by step
the lengths you’d go
that industrious glare
views to which
you’d give yourself
my hero

When you move, amigo, the ears fill
with the sounds of that motion
you need to still yourself in order to listen

determine if they really were all laughing

Nothing like being found ignorant
when you should have known
nothing quite like shame
to expose your social roots

pain, illusion, loss, no place they’re not
nothing quite the same as
subconscious guilt

Moss green stone liquid toss explode

This is a stick up, hands to the sky!
think about cash, possible sources
think about sex, girls, maybe
about sleeping, pillow, stretched out, the bed
about the computer, screen lit, flashing
about errands, stop at the library
pick up mail
about how the truck’s running

The drive to knowledge
drive to prove who you are to yourself

who you thought you were
done in, flipped open
& plunged through

Now, courage, that would
seem universal—

the sense of journey
meaningful in & of itself
sense you’re getting someplace

Want of accomplishment

I mean, you try to extend
your grasp, saunter out
onto those imaginary bridges
nothing but words to guide you
gather bits of evidence
Step by step the view fluctuates

I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong number
His heart sank, the world saddened
That’s what everybody says, he sniffed      
What was I thinking!?

Oh, for crying out loud
what are you, denying responsibility
for what you’ve become?
this gets rather cloying, doesn’t it?

Okay, but you get the point
There has to be somewhere deeper
Otherwise we’re pond scum, he blurts
with a twitchy look, sideways
knocks the dirt off
shakes out the hat
Nothing we do much but respond
being breathed, so to speak

Times when you can’t think
Times when you can’t stop thinking

I only meant to keep the vision pure

Yes, but ignorant of who you are
save what you’re obliged to do,
breathe, eat, sleep
the automatic stuff
don’t even feel like you should
Who you are in effect
taking place without you!

Yes, that’s the way it feels at times

by Bruce Bond

In a time that draws closer
as we go,
the well at the center of town
carried a fever
that spread across the county
to drain the resources
of the funeral home and its attendant
garden.
If only they had known.

So public works filled the shaft
with earth and laid a stone
across the mouth,
a template for a vandal
who, camouflaged in dark,
painted an eye across the lid,
an effigy of many
who came and went.

Every time the city painted over
the eye,
a new one appeared,
as if it floated through earth,
through the dead well
beneath us,
like a song inside a tunnel,
a cry inside a song.

Foreclosed shops along the square
tell you,
this place could use a little music.

Something to call the people back
from their quarantine habits.
Eye after eye
floated through the halo
of the one before,
to coax a child to stand
above the giant circle
and look down.

Some asked why.
You could hear them whisper.
Others thankful they survived.
Some turned to the stranger
beside them
and, thinking her a neighbor,
glimpsed her face.
Those who remembered
less and less paused,
looked,
and, as shadows fell
to earth and through,
they looked again.

by Bruce Bond

Wander the fields
just over the border, and look back,
the body you once wore
lost inside the smoke and embers.
Wherever you wake,
you wake alone.
Moths disperse.  The sting-green
glow in the clock
hangs its number
in your iris.
Where news is scarce,
the story of one plurals in the skull,
but mostly
you see darkness.
An estuary drinks a river of blood
whose name fades.
Try to remember.
Turbulence recedes.
A human wreckage
carves the ocean floor.
Stars shiver in a fever,
as they have always done,
but today, they grow virulent, confused.
Tell me, you who huddle
among the coats
and constellations.
Are there hooks
in the faces
of heroes and gods
to hang our faces on,
as those who hang idolatries
in closets, or a nemesis
over the dartboard eye.
My father taught me,
I came out of nowhere,
though I knew better.
I was another man’s child
in another life.
An orphan of myself.
The world I lost,
I lost it everywhere.
I mourned it, needed it
the way sky systems need
the dark to hold them together.

I felt estranged
and brokered a distance
from the shattered voice or vase,
the weeping on the phone.
I needed stillness
to release
a cricket, a lock, a soul, asleep,
whose sobs are only laughter after all.

by Bruce Bond

Flying dreams make strangers of our children.
Any bird will tell you.
If I swore they were true, who was I
to say otherwise.

If I survived
the cruelties of others,
and myself,
if gravity forgot me or forgave,
raised my bones
above the startled
flocks
and banners of my school,
it was not news.
It was a premonition.

First worlds are hostile.
We arrive the smallest citizen
in the room.
They cannot help it,
the towers of the voices
that make a body smaller.

Is that your mother who calls.
Is she the scale you remember,
your dad inside the lemon branches..
Is he cutting the stems of suns
that fall. When your father leaves,
do they keep on falling.

Do you wake an orphan and see
in every dread
the dark pleasure of being
alive:
in every dream, the garden
will not save you, name you,
but it sees you.
It watches over like a precipice,
a god,
an empty chair,

the eye of a bird in danger.