Howie. Not a poem

Howie died.
A social worker came to my back door. I don't even remember if it was a girl or boy social worker.
"I think Howie is dead, can I use your phone," the social worker said.
I looked down those stairs to the basement, five or so steps.
Yes, Howie was dead. Somehow fell down the steps, legs and arms at an awkward angle. Blocking his own door. Stiff.
What I knew about Howie was he was a cook. He was always drunk. I went into his basement apartment sometimes to play chess and drink peppermint Schnapps out of shot glasses.
When they took him away, the bends stayed. The bent at right angles knees and elbows poked under the blanket.
But this is all tied up with the days. ...
the room mates, Charles and Byron. The quesadillas Charles would make with corn tortillas, Munster and jalapenos. 
Their young passion for photography and their darkroom in the back of the house we shared which led me to  the camera. The chemical smells of darkrooms, the dark calm patience, swish of liquid in the trays.
A Beethoven bridge between my father and my life because that's all Byron would listen to, that damn classical music. And my mom taking Byron to a Bob Dylan concert, or was it Neil Young, because I couldn't go and I can't remember why but I remember how wrong it was.
And then the more piles on until I am drowning ... the moped, the Rocky Horror nights, red curtains and red roses on the wallpaper of my room. Wooden floors.
Howie died. 
His hair stuck out all the time, long and wavy, sticking up.
Both statements are equal.
I earned my degree, then became something else, but Howie was dead all the time anyway.

Changes

in change
redness, raw scratchings
sketches of time and heartache

in change
rattling bones and snuffing dog noses
so far
how do parents survive?

the ribbons, threads, quiltings, loomings
it's all the same
confusion, tangle,
one at a time
loosing the arrows
is so hard
leaving those red welts on the forearm

always an ache
it never lets go

T.J.

i shouldn't post about tj, he is not mine
but belonging to all those lost children in black
to their hearts
i shouldn't cry about tj, he is not mine to cry about
i am not really
i cry for the pain he left behind
but how the ripples move out from here
from one goth child's heart
into the world of confused youth
16
he had no way to know life
but he did
from all accounts, this child's wisdom was unbounded
he comforted by knowing what they needed
eyeliner, black jacket, purple streak in his hair
scary, giant
smile
16
farting in diners
walking the halls, all peace
i shouldn't think about tj
he was lucky
he was loved

Yet another year

What is a year?
Here in New Mexico it is 100 years
Space, trains, adobe softbrown walls
Farilitos, surreal white wastes.
Here in Family it is another journey
Eastnorth to the comfort discomfort of the gathering
Relishing icy water, toe nibblers, laughter echoing, and
a clamp on the heart for the missing faces.
Here in the World Mountains of confusion
the lack of demigogs, mediocre choices for
the future
hoping for strength so revolution rings again
stealing a line ... not with a bang
fading

Thanks

Thank us for the world and the word
The golden leaves at the window
The rumbling cat purr and the silent breathing of sleeping children

Wishing stars, pine winds and sunwarmthlight.
Thank the world for us, streaming glowing
Sitting in darkness, moving the cities, digging holes through and through
Little people digging graves for mice
Setting up twig crosses
Teaming, creating god
Thank god for providing
Structure
A method to madness
The unthinking universe, the never neverness the nevermindness
A reason for the endless, unreasonable starfield
Unwrappable in man’s mind and
Providing a wrapping
Like maybe we are the Christmas present.

Two happy days

Two happy days
will brighten the elation quarter and
run a dull stick through the gullet
with the drip drip of
saliva
until too full eyes must tear
with laughter
That voice, that laugh, that little tune
that says
two happy days are enough
just for now and another time
there will be two more.
The master waits around the spider corner
to boom boom beats of eardrums
or is it you inside your head
ding and the bell goes off ...
idea.

New Orleans

Ho
Lets go
layer under upon
color
grey, brown, red, blue all in mute or neon.
skins all
blends of mellow and loud
show me where
dead people stacked on dead people, ghost upon ghost
so many orbs, journey
water, stink,
no fresh fruit.
toot, toot cacophony
only with time, or in times past
can we unravel the threads.