Going Home

​the world had seemed a prison
carpentered of dead sticks but
at last the night’s tide subsided.
I let all the doors
fall from my face and owned
the exhaustion of hard living
in the heart’s attics.
I admit my embarrassment
of not having learned to
play the guitar, of penning
out these tiny poems on
a rectangle of light, of limping.
you remember the tale,
the one about the man
who stood as still as a tree
until he became one.
it’s not so bad to become
what you truly love, even
if you must give up the gift
of praising it to be it.
the Buddha said absolutely
nothing in favor of enlightenment
just pointed a single finger
at the ground like a tree
casting a root. in less than a
century I’d already
mastered the art of
transformation and driving
a car fast through the night.
it’s not rocket science
but anyone can convince
themself right. admitting
you’re wrong is another
thing entirely— that you’ve
not become what you love
just had the right tongue
for it. hold the whisky and don’t
misunderstand me:
i’m making an ocean-like
sound in my throat. tell the
vultures to get out of
the way. I’m coming home
with all my eyeteeth and
preferably alive.