Everything looks different.
Feels different.
Tastes different.
Height that commands attention.

And from here,
Well,

way

down

here,

Is where you find yourself
Always looking up.

Jimmy always ate all his veggies even since he was two,
Ate all his peas and lima beans and so very strong he grew.
He scoffed spinach like Popeye and took his vitamins too.
And when Jimmy ate meat it was thirty times he’d chew.
He drank water everyday, eight glasses or more
He could do fifty pushups when he was only four!

Jimmy knew exactly what to eat and by the time he was able
He wouldn’t touch the meal until he’d read its food label.
Jimmy stayed far far away from any sugary treats,
He had no tooth for candy and that is no small feat.

In bed he snoozed his restful sleep,
Never did Jimmy count any sheep.
“Eight hours for me, no more, and no less.”
And I think that was the secret to his success.

Holding his breathe longer than a fish
He swam through water like a swan.
“He’ll be the next Michael Phelps!” they cried,
Why little Jimmy could swim a marathon.

He never sipped a soda, never smoked a cigarette
He shared his wisdom with me once, but I admit I did forget.
He rode his bike to work and he never once was sick
Amassed as many vacation days as you could shake a stick.

He ran five miles each day and five more at night
Like Usain Bolt, he was a rather impressive sight.
Jimmy was invited and begged to the Olympic trials
But he declined by saying it wasn’t worth his while.

By the time Jimmy had reached twenty-five
The papers declared, “He’s the healthiest man alive!”
They watched in awe and even began to wonder
If he keeps this up, he could live to be two hundred!

Yes, Jimmy was the fittest person in the entire world,
But as he left his house one morn that title soon unfurled:
He forgot to look both ways when crossing the busy street
And now Jimmy is the world’s healthiest pile of concrete.

I’m afraid of mediocrity
To settle for what’s less
I give up on potential greatness
Instead of striving for the best
Thoughts weigh in me with unrest
Believing I should strive for better
Rather than just striving for this jest
To rise above, discover true success?
But with contempt I’m told
I shouldn’t make a mess
“Don’t be such a wrench in the works.”
And so, with a sigh, I digress

I would like a little clarity
And I’d like not to have a choice
I’d like to always be attuned
And listen to that still small voice.

There are no words to describe how fortunate I am.
There are no words to suggest any comparison.
There are no words to fathom the immensity.
There are no words to describe what this means.
There are no words to capture how blessed I feel.
There are no words to portray this abounding joy.
There are no words to express my awe and adulation.
There are no words to depict how wonderful you are.
There are no words to convey how much I love you.
And when I introduce you as my fiancée
I can only smile, because I have no words.

I have a box of secrets.
No—a vault.
Locked and securely hidden
In a closet full of skeletons
Guarded by a warped pine door
Just now beginning to open.

And while this box of secrets is real
And all its contents true,
This is more than that,
This box is just a metaphor.
And really, I’m giving you my heart.

Here’s my box of secrets
Exhumed from years of effacement
And finally the cylindrical sparkle
Flanked by joints on your velvet finger
That says I’m not who I was anymore.
Here’s my box of secrets,
Take them, they’re yours.

A spellbinder of sorts – that’s what I tell myself
And according to me, it’s the only opinion that matters.
With what fluency and elegance he speaks, they’ll say.
The arguments he wins—
The way which he fluently, pedagogically selects every word.
Extraordinary diction!
Stupendous articulation!
Syntax and vernacular unmatched – surpassed by none.
Grammatical mistakes? Nonexistent.
With what precision and accuracy he wins every argument.
A counter for every comeback—
How he persuades the masses,
A general of the mind!
An admiral of the spoken word!
Opulent lexicon!
Sagacity of wit!
As though he knows what we’re thinking, they remark.
He’s right, they cringe, how does he do it?
Resistance crumbles like the walls of Jericho.
Surrendering dresses tumble to the floor.
Speechless but roused to action—
Ready to riot at the sound of my voice.
A pioneer!
A master!
These neophytes have nary a chance!
The power of my language trumps all opposition.
The President and prophet consent to my will.
The two warring parties zealously sign my treaty.
The board of directors submits to my proposal.
Of course I win!
But, in point of fact, I am not speaking at all.

I never would have thought—
Wouldn’t even have thought to think
(And certainly didn’t)
A year ago—
That this is where we would be.

Now another year has passed—
And I can only imagine
(Just barely)
As the next one comes—
How much more awaits us then.

This gift, and I’m so undeserving—
I’ll never understand how it happened
(But it did)
And by extension—
I’m the luckiest man alive.

When I said,
“God this is yours, I’m giving it all to you,”
You turned my world upside down.
Starting in my toes they tingled
To sensations ambling in my ankles
That tightened in my shins—
Taut Charlie Horse’s without pain
Pushing past my tensioned thighs
Swirling to the tip of my spine
Splashing into my tottering stomach
Surging around my quivering lungs
Ascending beyond my pulsating heart
Catching in my straining esophagus
Lifting my buoyant arms skyward
Pressure coursing to my startled eyes
And finally, though it only took a moment
Through my head you compressed
The last remnant of my resistance
And poured all of me out.

Who am I kidding?
It’s impossible to keep contained
Or rather, the containers empty?
My fingers too busy to type keys
Of stanzas and enjambment
and end-stopped.
No inspiration?
Motivation?
Stimulation?
Where’s it all gone?
Lies.
Who am I kidding,
I’m just a lazy sob story
Preferring to sleep
And complain
Pretending there’s better things to do
than write.
And it should be noted:
by sob, I mean the acronym

And who I am
Abides in this Irish hand
Extending into a bottom
Of this collected basin
Is it any wonder
They cannot find me anymore?
Yes, I would agree.
But not all the time.
So much rests there
Shivering residue
Laying framework, I say
But do not listen
If the wound still smarts
It is only temporary.

Tonight I heard God in the chords of the acoustic
He hummed a low melody
A barely distinct churn of a ceiling fan
Blending out pinks and white noise spoken
Intermittently nearby.
He said, I’m here.
He told me, just listen.
In the strumming of the guitar he
Clothed our naked hearts veiled under fig leaves
Balmy lakes like suede comforters and warm hands
Sweet, but still mild Werther’s toffees,
Butterscotch flavor clinking
Savored to the backs of my teeth and tongue

I saw him in the fractures of the broken glass
The climbing strokes of his pencil
Sketching infinitesimal splinters on transparent canvas
Sun leaking on his page
Flinging reflections to brown and sometimes hazel eyes
Depending on the season.
There was portrait in the fissures I couldn’t see and
In the shards one I could see with not yet hazel eyes.

A single band playing all I’ve wanted to hear.
Close your eyes, he said.
Bow your head, just listen.
Smooth calloused fingertips stirring back and forth
To and fro
To and fro
To and fro
Effortlessly to waiting ears like labyrinths.
This could be forever and I would answer yes.
Dark hair shading forehead and eyebrows
A reconciled smile and quiet eyes.