On the 27th

“No,” called the miser,
“I will not have the Spanish
Mast crumble my dock!”

But no stewards heard him
On the stalwart old thing
From his office on shore,
And I’m not sure if he knew
That the ship was speeding
Toward the dock already,
And would crash into the planks,
Making a mess of the lot of things.

“I don’t care,” cried the miser,
“If it is centuries old or more! I will
Keep control of this port come
Rain, hell, hair, or nightmare steam!”

Bricks

Bricks tumble steadily down,
With such destructive force,

When children climb such lofty towers
And from their hands drop them forth!

But why climb and destroy at all
If you have a friend who's tall?

"Shortcuts, Darling!" They will say,
When they toss bricks from their friends,

"Have made things so much more attainable!"
"And what new ease in reaching out ends!"

Lilies

The lilies won’t bloom
Come spring, in our garden,
In their usual yellow,
Because I uprooted them,
To see the brown dirt,
And watch it crumble off
The roots, and see the divot,
Because the hole was good
To see, it was good hurting
Your flowerbed after you left,
Because you watched it so close,
And mothered it well, you had
A natural gift, a green thumb,
But you left them after all,
To rot away with me, but the spring
Won’t see them die, or grow either,
And maybe there’s justice in that,
Or some sense with you being gone.

At the Park

She sat up, bounding,
After some small thing,
I came calling, but she
Ran too well.

Perspiring,
I ran after, deciding,
She was fast, quickly rounding,
And realized how sweet
A dog I had, then laughing.

But poor small thing, bleeding,
And my sweetheart, eating,
And me giggling, elating,
But how sad
For the small thing, beyond saving.

A Rainy Day

In my navy, white-stripped, pajamas
I got up and closed the shutters,
Ignoring the deep purple rain clouds outside,
And then sat back in my hunter velvet chair

To pretend, as the gray-white dust swept over
The cool oak planks of the floor
(and I without socks or slippers!)
Like my tuxedo tomcat lumbering toward his food bowl
Refusing to ever lie on my lap,

That I wasn't an undressed emotional invalid
Avoiding leaving my cavernous house,
And not because of the nightmare palette sky,
And that I wasn't an infant needing you like a mother.

Pictures

These sepia storms of people
And grayscale maelstroms
Plaster little windows
Where portraits should be,

Or, preferably, poor renditions
To these pretentious poses
And vague impressions
Of what strangers present
And I am allowed to look at.

Dance Whispers

Spin into me
When I move
Your hips up
Against mine.

I'll lead you
Up until then,
But when you
Spin, I will let
Go of you and
The floor will
Be all yours,

Take it and shine
And be beautiful
So that everyone
May see how we
Dance so well. We
Will impress them
And be asked back

As long as
You rest when
You need to be
Against me
Again to dance
Again and finish
The rest of this
Sexy little number.

The Shaman

There’s something about
The shaman’s murder lust
That ruins him as Dionysus.

His wine is fine from the vine,
And his soul magic coils so serpentine,
But his killing leaves the fruit on the brine

And ruins that rubble he will cast with.
Making his body sweat and his breath quick,
He will choke the life from the atoning.

A dead confessor for another rain,
And another storm while others pray,
And all the while the shaman dances,

Drinking and softly speaking sweet arousal
While the blood chalice is passed around,
All of them gorging on the warm malice that they have found.

Ring Around the Daffodils

Please, ring around the daffodils
Til Heaven's scaffold collapses.
Let the sky walkers plummet down
Toward our lovely gardens,
Whispering of our onions and roses,
And we, yielding, gossiping on about
Galaxies, angels, and super novae;
Spilling our breath on the broken bits
Of golden gate and street way,
And laughing because the sky walkers envy us
And our platinum cookbooks
That retain readability in the daffodils
And the rest of the ling'ring mess.

She Frowned

She frowned
and let her eye lids
close over the top half
of her tortoiseshell
then black pupils.

Her lips pursed
and her head hung
low like she was
looking at my knees.

Then her eyes
went distant
and watered
while her fists
clinched tight.

I walked away
without turning
my back and
not apologizing.

New Suit

He moved slowly closer to the fire,
putting his bare hands over the flames,
and rubbed them together, grinding,
to try to get blood flowing back
there.

He looked at the other men,
sitting around the barrel and looking
mean with old beards and lost eyes
and the heavy smell of stale piss,
and looked down at his new gray suit
and long, black overcoat, and shiny
black shoes reflecting the orange flames.
He could barely see the argyle black and
gray socks his wife bought him last
Christmas.

It's all right that I'm here, right? He asked,
looking around at the piranhas and hyenas
and vampire bats.

You don't mind that I stopped for a
moment? I was just cold, you see...
He tried to explain, already back-
-pedaling back into the cold night.

Sit with Me

Sit with me,
Just for now.
Let the wind
Run the sky
And watch the
Gray clouds
Stand still
While it gets
Cooler and dark.

Sit with me,
Just for now.
Notice the chill
And where the
Sun might be
Behind the fog.
Then you can
Go on again
Just walking by.

I Don't Believe in Angels

I don't believe in angels
Because that would mean
That there is something
That god loves more
Than December mornings
Born from long, cold nights
Curled on a couch,
Covered in a blanket,
Watching her sleep,
And feeling so lucky.

And no god of mine
Would even think of loving
Anything more than that.

Bears

A bear eats salmon and shows that
Death for life’s sake is necessary.
But our own is hard to fathom;

We like to think that we know nature,
And that we can escape it, contrary
In our manners
With our ‘Sirs,’
And in our gentleness
With our ‘Madams,’

But we are bears,
Bloody and careless,
Simply waiting around to eat.

And we hunt down our meat,
Not waiting for it to jump
Out of the stream.

Taking a Nap

I fell asleep with a nervous stomach
And didn't dream at all.

I woke up hot, sweating,
My stomach still a knot,

And with a crook in my neck
That ached when I moved my head
To try to look to the right.

My breath tasted dead
And I was hungry for meat.

I should have stayed awake.

An Imcomplete Dream

You are running out of time!, She said,
And I laughed because She was right
And I was going to be late, but to what?
I was hardly able to tell in the haze
And I had always supposed since then
That She was a dream I had waken up from
Without ever being late or discouraged
But I know the truth and the consequences
Associated with denial. I was late to Her
And will never be able to forget that.
Oh! To have it an incomplete dream!

Arms of Now

I have no home
or place to call

my own

and those
sweet embracing

arms of Now


seem farther away



and to not want




me any nearer.

We Are Young

We are young
And looking for
A button to undo
In this post-modern
Petticoat of a farce.

We are shameless
Hussies without
Our genuine chastity
In this quagmire of
Relentless sarcasm.

We are young
And shameless
And I am just
Another silly
Jaded optimist.

The Yellow Pedals

The yellow pedals
With black splotches
Shriveled and folded down,
Browning and peeling back,
While the lighter flame
Pushed slowly toward
The pistol pollen pad
Closer to the middle
When we melted
That little flower.

The Garbage Truck

I left disappointed
From my room
And sauntered down
To the parking lot
With scraping steps
Against the pavement.

A lumb'ring roar
Lifted my eyes
And I saw
A garbage truck,
White and rusted,
Begin to do
Its early work
At 4:07
In the morning.

It had been
Seven minutes
Late that day.

The Campus Carnage

On campus, a bus hit a van
But the bus was big
And the van sporty:
There should have been
A good deal of carnage.
But there was no great wreckage,
And the only real damage
Was a dent on the back bumper
Of the van and a crowded street
With people laughing about
How nothing had happened.

New Black Jeep

A new black jeep
Smashed into a tree,
And the front end folded in
Toward the engine,
And the tree
Was only scraped,
Just a flesh wound,
But the driver
Might have died.

The Fireworks

The entire party gathered, stunned,
Hunkering together
In the white snow,
Gazing toward the colorful explosions
In the midnight black sky
(Stealing attention from the ghastly full moon
And drunken escapades of the socially sloppy)
None of them knowing if there should be fireworks,
But none of them caring why there were fireworks.

Blinds

I didn’t know how to pull the blinds down,
Because no one had taught me how.
And then, after I was shown,
I was so eager to pull them down
Or bunch them back up,
And show what I knew,
That I would volunteer to do either
If the need was ever there.

A Young Man at a Party

He stood brooding
over the laws
and his constriction within them,
holding himself between stiff arms,
like a hug,
letting the handle
of light yellow liquor
dangle from the first few fingers
on his left hand.
His right leg leaned to the left,
toward his uncentered hips,
and the left leg was leaned on,
but rigid in the skinny gray jeans
and tall, black canvas shoes,
the right one tapping quickly
in rhythm with his words.

His faded blue denim jacket
folded and wrinkled over his arms
as they slivered in their cradling,
and his soft looking green t-shirt
was too tight on his thin frame
to move very much,
but it hung a little long
and covered his large belt buckle
that I knew was silver metal from before,
and that it was on a vintage white belt.

His black hair looked best dry and messed,
but he had parted it, with mousse,
and was wearing black, winged glasses, too.

Autocorrect; this one is for you

my stubble itches

i scratch loudly
and wonder
why all my
mistakes
are fixed
before i notice
by the machine

its just curious

what if i want
them there
or just like to
correct them
myself

i scratch loudly
wanting to shave
and correct my
mistakes
and correct my
humanity
all at once stolen

and then i shaved

clever cliché

i am a clever cliché:
the moon at night,
and the color gray.

i am a clever cliché:
the moon at night,
and the color gray.

i am a clever cliché:
rhyming,
and transparent in every way.
but honestly,
this is just to mention,
that i am tired of this thing
that won't set me down,
and i don’t feel up
to discussing it creatively.

i am a clever cliché:
the moon at night,
and the color gray.

i am a clever cliché:
the moon at night,
and the color gray.