Portrait of a Morning

The faucet woke up angry,
vomiting auburn sludge
across the pearl basin
and down the sterling drain.

The rotten cusps curled up
the concave walls of white
as the garbage surge dimpled the pool,
pushing the settling edges higher.

I stood and stared disappointed
into the sink. The crushing morning
bled in my eyes, my distant
face hollow but solid in the mirror.

The burnt rubber of my mouth
would overpower the sulfur
or perhaps copper tinges in
the browning dirty water;

I welded my eyes shut with
the remaining crusts of sleep
before I dragged the brush along
my teeth, cleaner from the grit.

Spitting into the sewer was relief
And I killed the flow to help end
the smell that had begun attacking
what was left to enjoy of the morning.

I staggered to a closet
to rummage through wrinkled ghost
reminders of late nights.
I wouldn't take the chance of a shower.

Waiting in Space

When the room is crowded—
dozens of eyes searching
every wall and corner
or just sitting and

filling the softness
of the somber used space—
I feel so separate
and alone: away from

the breathy atmosphere.
But the lost emptiness
fades around each body
and in receiving the

secrets of the room
I am closer to the
four walls and floor
than any other set of eyes.

I am not above them
or alone, I am below,
waiting with the space
until, again, it is relaxed.

The Victor

I sit quietly withdrawn
covered in the tattered blanket of victory
after an argument with you.

I made my points and threw my logic confetti
all over your clean floors,
and I laughed so deviously
as I watch you sweep it up, slowly,
fuming and fading into contempt.

I wounded you with my wisdom,
and though you waited so patiently
to make your false points,
no order you could conceive
was stronger than my razor wit
and bellowing broad sword.

But now that the war is won
and the spoils are mine,
I sit alone—draped in the winnings—lamenting
my selfishly foolish crime.

Triumph, at such cost,
for an assuredly correct mind.

Hiding

I was young when I would hide myself,
sitting against the cold frictionless,
white wall of the washing machine.
I would cradle my legs and nestle
my chin on my knees, eyes keeping vigil
on red ant processions,
red streaks near the side door
to the laundry room
hunting for food or on the move,
but always in collective lines.
When the red dot ants stopped beguiling my eyes,
I would pick at the curled lips of pealing linoleum tiles
that stayed mild in the summer.
I wasn't hot went I hid myself when I was young,
Even though that suffocating Georgia humidity
Laughed at anyone who happened outside.
And outside was so close with the side door,
True escape if I could ever muster the need,
Hiding with the washing machine beside me.

Poetry, Moments, and a Point

It keeps happening, this upheaval, like a battle that will not end because either side is prepared in parody for the other. I'll read a line of a poem, or a stanza, or a verse, or a short story and bury myself in the images, six feet deep and four feet wide. I feel at peace and tired, but soothed and clear. That moment after reawaking to the possible beauty of depiction is sublimity. It's the ideal taste of a grape colliding, overtaking, and matching the ripe grape you finger into your mouth not expecting it to taste like much at all.

But then it all collapses.

Life is a continuum, like the fourth dimension of time I'm told is. And while moments are the brail for life's smooth silken plain, they are fleeting: The holes in the contact paper of self-playing pianos are beautiful when you can see what the machine will play next, not knowing what it will sound like but witnessing its means for existence is beautiful. Well, eventually there are no more holes because no song can last forever and pianos can not play themselves forever. Moments are fleeting, just stains on the great expanse of sheet covering the mattress of your dreams.

I'll find my zen in a phrase and lose it dwelling. It flies away, perhaps because I scare it off its branch or that it just prefers other perches. I wish there were no such things as distractions or real life, but just poetry. And all the poetry could come together to create the New real world so I'd never lose track. But then, the process would be backwards and we wouldn't need the poems to remind us of the beauty behind, over, around, but most importantly of the brick wall on 23^rd street. Or the things like it.

If things were perfect there would be no moments and I would forget my peace in having it always. I'd much rather realize and lose then complacently never notice.

At Your Doorstep

Am I damned to be the neutered suitor
praying at your doorstep,
whispering shallow promises to a shallower shadow
that would encourage me to keep whispering
and waiting, wallowing really, at your doorstep?

Do I have to die every time my glance
is caught in your eyes, and why does my chest
buckle when I turn unamusing text
into a chance to mourn over memories
that I've not created? I save my self from
saucy intrusions by other, delicate wretches
while quietly and awkwardly lighting a candle
at mass for me, for you, and for chance.

I might hearken Gabriel if I knew him willing
to slit my throat and stop this pathetic letting-out.
I'll die crucified if you would just tell me my sins.
But I'll go on grinding dust out of my knees
at your mosaic concrete doorsteps until then.

Goodbye, Above Me.

I'm sorry, but the bleeding wounds of my eyes
must heal over and close now,
and scab, because that searing, rising sun
searches for portals into their caves

and the walls are still stained soot
because of the fires your burnt there.
Your simple drawings of buffalo
and women still ash across my eyelids
and those discarded berries and weeds
you used to make your colors
will always be the palette of my memories:
faded, crumpled, and earthy
after their bright, invigorating utility for you.

But the monolith sunrise awaits!
and 'goodbye's would last forever, should we let them.
Ascend, now, to shade and cover your glass face,
pose your thumb, and fashion more eloquent tools.
Leave me behind to hunt and gather the traces of you,
or what I will make into you,
while I marvel at your wheel and arrow heads.

Dawn awakes to steal you, the theft short on patience.
I'll try to hide my eyes again
in the repressed dark of my cave; of me.

Goodbye, Above Me. Goodbye.

A Memory

The air, dressed in frost tonight, sears past my face;
And I’m staring into a freezer again,
With Dad, waiting while he picks a gallon,
Hands plastered on stiff glass doors with steep black handles,
And I get so excited about the chocolate, pink,
And vanilla.

A smile insists the night toward my face
And the dim, staring stars have a new focus.
They may leech from me my memory,
I don’t mind.
Their cool kiss inspired it,
So, decidedly, the memory is ours:

My father and ice cream belong to the night
And walking—thinking—gladly I do as well,
And I can see the stars winking back.
They adore my lonely 'piphanies
Because they know I’ll remember
And allow them to remember too.

Catch The Sun

In morning my eyes open
To catch a bit of sun,
But there is nothing here to catch,
The storm has already come:

Gray shingles never sparkle
When they hide away the rays.
Only the filter side shines,
Rarely seen on dreary days.

Dark slate fronts gloss the sky
In rigid formations, as they pass by,
And the sun I should catch in my eyes
Is away today, to my surprise.

Three Stanzas

I.
You’re talking and chatting
And allowing me to know,
The person they said hid
Herself away long ago.

II.
The chocolate velvet bark,
Wrapped around either side
Of the monolithic tower
Tree trunk, could provide
Enough wonder to vivify,
And devour any want of mine
To ever venture back inside.

III.
I read the words of Adam Smith,
Several tenets of the Marxist,
And prepared to discuss them.
But economy is dry,
Because it doesn’t describe,
And the language is dense and drab.
If only wages, labor, and time
Could support metered rhythm and rhyme;
Then, perhaps, I’d be an economist.

The Beach

In the dunes of peach-tinted sand,
Near the sleek glass ocean plate,
I sat and bore a thousand holes,
Each with enough room to lay.

On that still evening swelt,
I decided I might get away,
From the duties that crowd the week,
And hide myself away,
In the crest of the beach.

I picked an indention,
Large enough to lay,
And filled it with sand
To relax life away.

Cover me, sandy grit,
And cocoon me tidal cover.
I should only venture out again
At the pleading call of another.

Such a Silly Thing

She let the rain drip into her eyes
From the tips of drenched, matting hair.
Like blades of grass offering up dew to the dawn,
The drops bowed and found their place.
She was away from me and the warm shelter I provided.

My eyes were wide as she began to dance,
Each twirl leading to another spin and twist,
The umbrella, stale in my hand, was no help now:
The water found its way into her spirit.
She was happy damp, smiling, and spun.

And as that slippery top whirled before me
I was a child again, watching and learning;
Wishing on old stars she could teach me now,
And that I could let go of stubborn inhibition.

She was so free as her dress lurched out,
Away from her rotating core,
Throwing specks of wash from its rings.
I stood alone holding her umbrella,
Laughing, because I knew she would start to sing.
Laughing, because I knew such a silly thing.

What It Is

It’s that boy that won’t leave your bed
When you plead with a weaning smile
For that sacred bit of linened privacy.

It s those poetic descriptions that just will not come,
Despite all your begging and prodding to the otherwise;
Even with the careless ambition of Icarus,
Still doomed to Sisyphean routines
Of nothing new to say and old holds on truth.

It’s the emptiness of Home after creating a life
And the little chips of your nerves fluttering to the floor,
Knocked away by the all-assuming family, but with love.
Because if they love you, then that makes it seem alright.

It’s the stutter and squelching of saying what you mean
To the people you know need to hear it,
Torturing them for no other reason than broken confidence
Or that sad, by now comforting, cowardice.

It’s not what you are now, but what you wanted to be.

And when you find it, I would appreciate if you would tell me.

New Pants

I told my mother I should need new pants
And she, after agreeing, decided to ask back
About what sort of colors I would need.
I took a moment to think and then described
What my new bottom wardrobe should look like.

I needed a midnight black pair of slacks,
Front-faced with loose pockets and think belt-loops.
Pleatless, plain, and classic black like old Hollywood
Or the fifties when style was assumed and uncultivated.
They would be my showcase, my burnt neon annonce.

I needed a stolid gray, perhaps with a small plaid.
A pair of slacks for foundation and security,
Confident in their sleek, understated power.
Well fitting, straight-legged, with a humbled flare.
A pair to read and think in; something intellectually stylish.

I needed a sensitive navy blue to walk in,
A looser fit for free flowing conversations,
A pant to make a serious point, but giggle through;
With hanging, large pockets and a tight waste,
The perfect collision of comfort and taste.

I needed a tan or a khaki, something safe.
A pair for the days when I'd fear it might rain.
Normal in every sense of the word, almost mundane,
Fitting nicely, not snug or loose, and looking respectable.
Something to showcase a fancy shirt or newly shined shoes.

After a Change

I have changed a tire,
And ended greased and marred.

The black streaks of the road
Nestled firmly in my oxford,
I strolled out from the lot
Such a masculine accomplisher.

My grip burnt around new tools
While my head buzzed with instruction.

Broadening the smile
With a surge of archaic confidence,
My ruined hands decreed
Something wrong went right,
And I wore the grime to prove it.

Wanting Your Words

How may I point out
The problem with your words?
The false things that I find
When your sentences are heard?

It is not that you speak softly
Or offend with your syntax,
It is more that I am absent
From you lips and spoken facts.

Yes I am a smitten man
And will not be found ashamed,
Of my feelings boiling over
When I find you feel the same.

You murk my days so beautifully
And haunt my nights with joy,
I can’t allow my thoughts to seem
As hopeless as a boy’s.

Know that speed I conquer with,
Is captured in your eyes.
And that now you should speak of me,
My love is no surprise!

The Kitchen Lonely

Writing about you
tonight in bed
I am not as lonely
as a midnight sip of water
in a dark and empty kitchen;

when each gulp fills the room,
as light would in the day,
and every collision of a glass,
against cupboard walls or thick countertops,
sends shrills of alarm pulsing
at the fear of stirring the sleeping house.

I am not as lonely as that
here, alone, without you,
but understand that I am close.

I am thirsty
but refuse to get out of bed
for fear of all that hollow echoing
and the linoleum tile floor
bouncing fake moonlight into my eggshell steps.

No, I shouldn't need a drink now.
There will be plenty of time
to miss you in the morning.

On Attempts

The fear of failing is not in the cut
Just as the hope of success is not in the bandage.
Your futile attempts, plotted and executed,
Will only scab over and rot,
Eventually passive enough not to mention.

But scars are their own rewards,
Red badges granted by excitement:
The thrill of falling and bruised skin
Or being mocked for loving something
And never fully understanding it.

So when you try, when you risk yourself,
Do it with a sense of irony.
You know what falling feels like,
And have flesh torn memories to prove it,
So if you fall again, doctor yourself,
Gather yourself, and move on.

There is no reason to pause, defeated and sprawled,
Simply because you know how things are.

Lost and Found

Such enthusiastic devotions to ideas and dreams
Conqueror all that persists in the lingering night scenes,
And such a busy head, full of this new, sweet poison,
Makes me mistrust my suspicions of losing something golden.

Not that what was had did not shine; it was bright,
It was magnificent, and it was searing. But it was not lost.
Nor was it mine to have all. Observation over ownership
Has sunk ships and swimmers for all their misunderstandings.

Closeness is kindred and I understand the rules
And I understand that I did not lose. Nor did I win,
For there is no prize for covered eyes if they close again.
I was tired of the dark, so I gently force mine open always.

But even with wind-dried opportunities I decided looking was wrong
Until I happened upon something happy, it was wonderful what I saw:
A chance to express all that I did detest about any humble fall,
And the comfortable grasp of shared laughs in vulnerable moments.