About this Project

Airlift for the Soul is an effort to archive what happens in the poetic ether of our collective psyche during the COVID-19 pandemic. Some poems here are offerings to individuals who have requested a personal poem, while others are my personal record of the day.

05/04/20 Dream Wildly

I have had no dream

of what we are returning to.

It’s strange

because I can dream vividly,

without language,

with the sound of the highway

at night,

going away.

There are still those who are going somewhere.

we are locked in to the same ride.

but I have had no dreams

of what we are returning to.

I’d like to dream wildly,

like a child –

wouldn’t you?

05/03/20 Beat, Beat… Beat

Your heart is a danger

with all its seasons of flowering,

capable of losing

its debate between the ministries of will

and concern,

in the million stop and go rhythms

of daily traffic;

and,

the roads are slippery.

Don’t obey every light;

not each sign is written correctly;

live dangerously

if only for a single

beat of the rain

05/02/20 This is my Best Poem

It is raining,

and the cat demands

more food.

It’s a good way to ask,

all furry and arrogant.

I oblige the gods.

This is my best poem.

A sacred poem

05/01/20 Every Vision Quest

They were always marching.

Don’t tell me tomorrow

we’ll wake up

on our low thread sheets

though freshly laundered,

grill a piece of toast,

and something’s going to be different.

A half-baked sage

told me this was going to be a learning planet,

and I wanted to rebel too.

It’s not that I won’t

throw my hat into the ring

and see what it feels like to die a little

for a paper revolution,

but don’t dangle heaven as my appetite.

The ship’s too big now.

You cut out a wing,

we all go.

I’m not voting against it,

I just can’t stop dreaming of consequences.

Every action is a loan,

against another wayward soul

which began its vision quest with a belly

full of good intentions

04/30/20 Workshop 2

The hunker down played coy in the beginning,

expecting an hand-drawn invitation,

but New York is sad now,

like a fat worm

wrapped around am emaciated light pole,

so why are my feet

as solid as the earth,

which says nothing

about the weather,

or anything else

really –

just mush

in a sandlot,

all these lonely eyes wanting to play,

truce or not,

and you,

my friend,

so full

of lost conversations

and other dead things,

that will grow, die,

decompose,

grow,

die,

and decompose again,

whenever we

decide,

this voyage

is over

04/29/20 Hoffa’s Secret

I’d like to file a complaint,

but the bosses are on the other line,

with a more helpless creature;

the politicians are counting outdated currency,

and my bank has given the keys

to a chimp with a drinking problem.

People like to tell me

of a higher authority,

but all I see is another paper dream

on strike,

negotiating in confidence,

with a patient deity.

We’re alive;

another bucket item off the list;

the earth is self-employed right now

04/28/20 Negotiating in Line

If broad conclusions were the price of admission,

we’d all be swimming in the dream

of a fat burglar,

who got the timing

just right;

but as it is

we are on loan here;

a little pushy in line,

punchy with in the shift of the weather,

negotiating blindly,

and with God knows

who

04/27/20 Where We’re Going

There is no consciousness to this place;

tragedy is when everything goes wrong;

comedy, if everyone gets married,

even the jester;

it’s hard to tell the difference

if you have not shared a drink with the author,

vetted their intentions,

put out a cigarette or two

and over-tipped the clown.

There’s always some cocky bird

trying to wrestle meaning

from a naked land.

If you want to know “where we’re going,”

ask serendipity how she always finds her way back

to the lead of the show,

and edit your prayers

to suit her voyage

04/26/20

Strange how confession

makes you blind;

it’s like a leap to the sun –

feeble, if you are not committed,

dangerous, if you are,

and if you succeed,

making you one with everything

04/25/20 A Prayer, from Cats

In this thin envelope of being

you are loved,

no matter what the war of shame begets you,

you are loved,

and if this hurts

pain is a signal

that beckons and defends you,

you are loved

my dear ones

you are loved,

“you are loved”

the prayer that summons

&

protects you

04/24/20 Just a March

It wasn’t long ago I signed

a knot of good intent,

and marched along its parchment lines

with visions I’d pretend;

but come the river,

its banks tout,

the night rushing to our end,

I send a message back again

confirming my dissent

04/23/20 Workshop 1

I remember when the earth was cold,

absent in its shelter,

an aged orb

wan in a shuddering light –

I remember that the last thing

you wanted to face was

the world,

and you were hungry.

I remember rain

without delicate touch;

that a cat wandered through

and you could not imagine the world with anything but distance.

I remember all the lights

on, as you kept reaching out

for an ineffable fix

to what you know,

but you hoped

was not, broken.

I remember you thought you were

almost young

but old enough

to forget,

here and there,

how to remember.

I remember all the hope

we kept

in our fear,

and all the fear

that spread out

at each summoning of hope.

I remember not being allowed

to stand with certainty;

I remember that there was nothing

but tomorrow,

and tomorrow was always

another day away;

I remember you

and I remember how tragically

you tried to imagine me.

I remember the orange peel

crusting on the table – you thought

it was death – ain’t it strange

how death can be confused with perfume,

what remains in the room after the guest of honor

has gone home with a more mysterious

casualty of danger;

the awkwardness of last contact

with the first line

of a song;

and you were tired

for the call to go on,

and then go on again,

a little more,

past the stop

04/22/20 The Pale War

There’s wicked

and there’s greedy,

the misters of small loss;

a convoluted heart,

too often covered by a cross.

Well go then

vote your conscience,

and I’ll clean up the dust;

there’s nothing we’re defeating

that’s not born straight from us

04/21/20 Say What You Will

We’ve come to second guess the voice

that time forgot,

an invitations sent,

an order

lost and found;

but still

the ministers

are dancing,

fools twirling

round and round;

it’s gonna be a loud one

when they receive our sound

04/20/20 How Do You Want to Travel

It is easier to be a scavenger

than a pin on an unfinished map.

But I like hard things –

they too are a voyage.

So,

I’ve signed up,

voted,

planted a garden,

left a bag or two on a side.

Sometimes,

I feel like I almost know

whose wrong

and whose right;

I was told this a perk of membership,

the sweet methadone

of righteous grit.

And yet still

I fumble in my hands any shape

that pretends certainty.

You see,

I still don’t know what I think until

I write

it all,

however dangerous the presumptions of such wandering.

I make little wind up dolls.

I never know where they’re gonna go.

it’s like,

they all deserve to travel by the assumption of freedom,

otherwise what’s the point of making a map at all?

04/19/20 What the World Wants

There is seduction in the way
you dot
your I’s,
cross your t’s,
brew coffee from directions of irreputable sources,
and set the calendar on the annual option,
as though you know
what the world already wants to be

04/18/29 An Offering

There ain’t much to offer

when the river is dry;

there ain’t much to debate

when some drown and some high;

ain’t a matter of ethics

or political try;

just a pale conversation,

a cold wave,

a last sigh.

There ain’t much to offer

when languages die;

there’s just ain’t much to offer

when we fail to reply

04/17/20 The Game

04/17/20 The Game

I keep looking into this blurry screen

waiting for something to save me,

but each flash of the pan is another disaster,

each with their own hypothesis of shame and greed.

Everyone has visions when looking into the fire,

and even a burn is beautiful

if you can stand the pain.

And then there are these little pods blossoming

between the attendants of an old debate;

they curl around the fingertips,

just when my belly is growling,

weave the words of an unpronounceable revolution,

point at something bountiful, and then disappear without leaving a name.

I keep going back to the screen,

thinking there’s a personal message,

A pattern,

but no,

just another

water logged feather,

and a blurry ink stain

from an unwinnable game

04/16/20 What's Your Poison

Information is like municipal water;

on first glance no one can tell the difference,

until somebody dies.

That’s why I prefer these nonsense

ramblings;

maybe you like,

maybe you report me for trespassing,

either way

no one will die

resisting a poem