Violence

Snazzy shiner-nosed suits
Spray Thompson spray
Into bricked-eyed bullies
On Valentines Day.

Shinny baton machetes
Twirl glimmer-glare in the sun
Hacking scab frowning gashes
Not wasting single slugs.

Dog

I am a dog.
Head hung
With
Constant
Embarrassment.

I am a dog
Licking your
Hand meekly,
And you jerk
Away
Just to slap
My cold,
Wet nose
Again.

Fire

When the taco truck's tires were burning I had wanted to cry. Smothered in stacks of smoke they tell you to crawl on the floor AWAY from the heat. We couldn't deadpan after the yellow body suits because our tongues stuck to the ribs on the roofs of our mouths. I wanted to scream or eat. Black smoke plums up and billows from flaming roots. My brother gave my phoenix pendant to my father. There should have been something for my teeth. When babies are in danger they can sense their mothers shooting secret screeches into the sky and the babies know to chase the mother whimpers. The metal wrapped and burned around the diced beefsteak tomatoes. Preparation is a sort of incarceration. Sudden incineration. Protection. My gums itched dryly in the dust but I could not scratch them. Heat rises. Your palms sense the surface heat of potentially engulfed doors. I cradled my arms in my hands. Roswell happened. People die. Tuve hambre ese día pero yo no lloré.

Drums

stick strike
count off

it's that
boomboom
rat-tat-tat
that I feel coming up.

the thick chunk
deep bass thump
snare sting crash.

rollingrollingrolling

stop

it's that
boom crash
boomboom crash
rat-tat-crash-rat-tat-tat
boom crash
boomboom crash
snare sting crash
bassbass
that keeps me here.

In My Brewster Chair

Sit and speak with me now
that I am bent and hobbled
in my Brewster chair,
swelling with the rot and bloat
of age and feting along with the time.

Talk to me about mothers and memories,
and count how long we spent in crystal gazes,
locked in the blistering sunlight of youth
without being burned at all.

Whisper into my ancient years
the folk stories we crafted
for our choirs, and remind me of
our animals and their nicknames,
and tell me which ones we became
in our dribbling dream-scapes.

Remind me of our green poetry,
craved into the soft saplings,
proclaiming our love like lucky spinsters
on the barely-born trees.

Forget me not the names of our children,
loved, lost, and never born,
who might have made a difference
and kept me away from this iron maiden,
there was hope for me
in the rouge they put into your cheeks,
but I have crumbled amidst my prayers.

Remind me slowly of the wounds
that we had given to one another,
now drinking honey from the scars
where there would have been blood.

Snap me back into my yesterdays,
life has decided to keep you
and I am bound to go away,
to stay away;
until you remember me again,
I will be gone away.

So keep me bitter on your breath,
stinging your lips
and ravaging your tongue;
I would have died in your position
at even the chance to keep you young.

Lady, Keep Walking

We trade glancing hellos
And she enblows with
Hickory breath
And a lemon juice smile.
She walks past with a
Pendulum rhythm
On whisper heels
And those lying, sleepy eyes
Of bruise-blue gravel.

Lady, keep walking.
You don’t know it,
But you’re ruining me.

Dance Tape

The winding-grind click
of an old video camera split
the silence in her eyes in two.

With perfect focus
and her seraphim face in full view,
I asked if she was ready to dance.

She jostled her head excitedly yes
and asked me to start the music.

And as she fluttered and twirled
I wondered, so unskilled,
what it must be like to be beautiful.

She moved with the music,
she moved in the music,
and I was happy to have filmed it.

She told me auditions need tapes,
we sent it in and she had to wait,
but I assume she'll make it anyway.

Writing "Rain"

I'm going to write a poem
and title it "Rain"
and describe the cherub puddles
that glimmer afterwards in the sun.

I'll described how rooftops well
with aqueducts' capacity
and how some send stickly streams
dribbling down toward shiny,
off-white linoleum floors.

I'll describe how the young people
dash through the drops
hoping to scatter past
their ensuing wetness,
and how the old people
grit down and lumber
through their sogginess;
stoically accepting.

I'll describe the humid air
fogging the inside of car windows
with such misty poltergeist
that the windshield wipers outside
can only push away the rain,
never reaching the polyping,
dreary clouds within.

You're All

You're all chapped lips and scrapped knees,
neurotic wanderings buzzing like summer bees
toward flowerbeds where small stink-weeds
attract all the flies.

You're all watermelon juice down a chubby chin
and smiles full of corn kernel skin,
an evening down home where the smell of a grill
deviously blends with the dusk-scape sky.

You're all the quiet and reclusion
of being hurt without tears
and running to no one with torn heart-string fears,
an isolated spasm of a steady will
but displayed, as if on a stage,
for any willing detractors.

You're all birthday cakes and tacos,
eccentric without irony,
with a defiantly high spirit
in the shadow of this hullabaloo.

April 2008: Style

I live and walk,
With the collegian haze,
In the soft spring irony
Of cigarette smoke
And workout clothes,

Of jogging shorts
And Eskimo boots,
Or tights as pants,
With blousey long-sleeved
T-shirts and baseball caps.

The Van Dieman Blues

Oh, didgeridoo brown man,
Moan me a prison-island tune,
Where I can trance and dance and scream
And fly my flag and kill and bleed.

Oh, black warring runners,
When will you learn,
That Flinders keepers
When that deep Bass is strummed?

The worth of a whale waivers,
But that throaty wale is worthless
Unless it speaks with soul,
So moan, so moan, so moan.

Oh, boomerang brown man,
Hunt me a hungry heart,
Where white powered wigs
Learn to hold their smokey shots.

I Am Languid

I am languid,
with all the energy
of a carpet sock

and dragging around
this routine moor of a room.
Repeating all my

mantras, mantras, mantras,
and walking into dawn
to sleep through noon;

even the sun has abandoned me.

Spring Stew

The spring lavenders have melted away
and I have learned to quietly, gently
rock in their absence, and their holes
have filled with murder browns and
coward greens, but my scolded child
stance protects me from melting away, too.

I hasten and concentrate on my youth,
I am bound like plumb clouds to an angry storm
or vintage reflections to a dying mirror
to my age, but winter tears at the draining sun,
holocausting through rabbits and lilies
to create such bitter gray men
with well-hollow hearts dregged with feting,
frosted blood; such solid, cold, frozen
blood that it should never melt!

But, impossibly, all men melt and swirl and mix
and cauldron back into spring beginnings
with yellow chicken births. The cracks of pearl
seeds bore on to more melting, now of yoke,
but my twittering seat has saved me
from the molting before, and I sit vilified
with my foolhardy gestures, my gibberish
back in vogue with the suitors,
and feeling so small and unstructured
that growing is no longer maturing,
is no longer a nightmare,
is no longer a concern.

And that hidden, bitter refuse
dines with the snakes and putrid reptiles,
waiting to pounce and thrash again,
waiting to reconquer,
forgetting that it too will melt
and boil in this lavender stew.

Windy Fountain Meals

Windy fountain lunches
push tiny water explosions
onto my plate,

and while I eat at my turkey,
lettuce and provolone,
honey-mustard sandwich,

I close my eyes
and smile as
faint splashes whisper

on my face a story
I'll never understand.
The sun ripples off

of fake waves
as the rain-water pond
sways in the breeze,

and the sun seems
like it belongs there,
as part of the water,

not at all like
a surface highlight,
but a cohesive whole.

Even still at night, with
the moonish silver slashes
that ride the ripple-waves then,

but more calm because
windy fountain dinners
have the soothing candlelight

of the stars
with their gentle
massage-showers.

On Sleep

There's a knock
at the door,
and I,
laying down,
ask,
"who is there?"

A familiar voice
replies with
a friendly name,

But I am unwilling
to answer.

The canyons in my bed
sheets amaze me in my
dreams while the sloth

of a sleepy afternoon
seems like the most
selfish sin.

I roll
onto my side,
my aching shoulders,

but I refuse to roll
onto my back,
where I may dream

of god and her treachery.
Nightmares of abandonment
and the fading faces

of those who should love me
litter my dawning hours.

Falling asleep is
a depressing dance,
and I am most afraid

of missing you too much
when my burdened eyes
dare to crust over and shut.

Yet,
is it too much
to say
that I think
I am dying

when I drift
so slowly toward
that eight hour
prison beyond me?

And There Goes

And there goes a horse
Running through a California
Desert-plain, free and shining,
Rippling in that visceral glee
And mocking the lack of grace
At the core of my humanity.

And there goes an octopus,
Giggling tentacle death,
Whooshing through seascapes
With rainbow emotions beguiling,
Hiding my dominance within
Deceptively clever intentions.

Heave

Heave!
And bleed with their
Jagged fingernails,
Crush your eyes closed
And inhale the soiled
Cotton, fists clinched with it,
Pounding and breaking,
Shattering with thudding smiles!

Heave!
And stretch toward the streams
Where snake-vines shimmy
Toward the breaks
And coil-rush up silken calves
To burrow into the blood-meat
Of the chubby thighs!

Heave!
And cry onto the red hand-welts,
Bathe in the pureness
Of the echo in the slaps,
And be baptized in the stings
As the bruise polyps onto the skin!

Morning Ice

Rampantly, shivers chatter past
And slip languidly on the walk
Through the shadowed, blacker glass
In the fog of the frost-dew morning.

Early chirps sing at sterling ruby
Puddles, swirling into cracks
As peppered breaths steam the sky
And warm coats eat the white grass.

Prone before sunny throngs,
The morning whispers harshly
From yesterday's sing-a-longs
And the loss of caution in ice.

Drunk from the spirits and
Daggered from the world,
She sped toward home early,
But late by any other word.

Out the Window

Breeze beaten branches
Bounce in the rhythm
Of the wind,

Flopping their luscious leaves
Which hold tight against.

The thin, sinewy branches
Spider out against the sky,
And the sun illuminates
Through the veiny leaf-sheets.

Absolutely Horrible

Why am I such an absolute terror to myself,
(Absolutely horrible!)
Looking at pictures of you?
I know the penalty, but ignore,
Of seeing you, but knowing, no more.

And still I chain myself to those memories!
(A silly boy, indeed!)

Why masquerade in strength,
When I get so sloppy, so weepy while surveying?
And when on the phone, so stoic when alone,
I can't even hint at what you mean!

The Western

The Western shades of desert hues
Moved us to the shore,
And drowning tides of further reachings
Stunted our folksong lore.

We were men, and traveling,
Across sand and forests and lakes,
And if we stopped to take it in,
Then we gathered it all the same.

The rivers bent on pine fractures
And wild turkeys hummed with pumpkins,
Autumn found a winter breath
And we watched snow on northern beaches.

The Western shades of olive hues
And the promise of fertile land,
Pushed us far into this wormhole,
Of endless regret and never-had.

What They have Given

In the spastic chase of the Titans
the new gods forgot to build
a pleasant man, and kept us
in the cocoons of their imperfections,
leaving us smoldering with their envies and vengeances,
unfortunately bound to emotion and toil
and able to excel to their thrones to question their reins,

how dare we mock what has made us, no matter how imperfect!
We have been given heroes and so then hope
in our Hercules and the others, and they fight
our monsters, mirror images into what the gods have given us,
but what they apologize for in allowing them to be defeated.

Our Sisyphean struggle is our torment, but also our gift,
and those high Olympians knew that life was full of breath
and worth breathing, because our experience is worth having
and our lives, disheveled, worth living.

Doors for a Writer

My fingers pile-drive on the library desk
Before I play the keyboard like an organ
Thinking up witty rhymes and retorts,
Pretending to be a verbal virtuoso.

I have too many ideas to play so smoothly,
I have too many unfinished epics in me.
I have cantatas, fifths, and sonatas
But in my own imagination I remain
A dejected persona non grata.

Where is my rock star,
My Dionysus, and care?
Why have I thrown that classic Soft Parade
Into the Crystal Ship’s tattered snare?

Jimmy Morrison,
Mr. Mojo Risin’,
Help me break on through
To the other side,
And I will tutor you in shaman spells,
Bach’s Third, and genocide.

The Burdon of a Smile

“I wouldn’t want you to go. I should think that you would want me to stay.” His brow buckled and looked like it might melt down his face.

“I don’t want you here if you don’t want to be here. I can’t do this right now.” She turned away from him at the door and walked slowly back into the kitchen. She stopped at the sink and swung her head up to look at the dogwood they had planted in the back yard when they first bought the house. It had gotten tall and the white flowers where raining from the branches in the breeze.

She thought about going after him when she heard the door open and close, but decided against it and to stay at the sink with the dogwood in view. Hearing the car start and back out she pictured the routine: he would go, drive for hours until he felt far enough away, and they he might come back in a week or so. It had happened before, in the beginning when they had had hard fights. But not lately. Not since she had gotten sick and she needed him there—just to be there and smile at her when couldn’t for herself. He was so strong then. He face was a lion and he represented everything she had wanted to smile about despite the gentle crush of it all.

Her family, her hopes, her wasted life. Everything had hit her all at once and she had spent what seemed like a lifetime in bed. In reality it was only two months. But he never left, he never gave up on her, and he made her believe that there was something bright there. He kept her from the abyss, tethered to his towering courage in her. But where that was tethered for him, she had no idea.

But he had just gone. He had just walked out of their little house and left. She wondered where the strength in him had gone. What was there now that she had found a smile to make him leave? She had started again, thanks to him. She was singing again around the house and was beginning to make her way out more. Her friends looked forward to her coming over. She was reinvigorated now; she had found a new purpose and he had helped to rebuild her. But why had he gone?

She moved from the sink to the small oak dining table in the small half of the oversized living room. Sitting down she couldn’t believe that he had gone because she was better. That was too simple and didn’t make sense for him. Was there another woman? No, not for him. There couldn’t be. She could see him with another woman as much as she could picture herself with another man as long as she knew that he loved her. And that they were married. But what had hurt him? What had set him off and then sent him off? Was it really because she was well? She couldn’t accept that not absolutely depending on him for happiness had been healthy, for either of them, but should that make him want to leave? And if so, why not when she was sick? Why now when she was just getting better, and almost normal?

She didn’t know why being free of the burden of her would have hurt the strong, lion-faced man that she honestly did love. So she sat, and put her head on top of her folded arms, and she cried thinking she had ruined her marriage with her recovery and that he might not come back this time, and that she wouldn’t need him and could smile without him here at all.

A Found Poem from the Suicide Note of V. W.

I can't read.
I begin to hear voices.
I feel certain that I am going mad again
And I shan't recover this time.
I want to say that — everybody knows it;
I can't fight any longer
And I can't concentrate.
Everything has gone from me.

You have given me the greatest possible happiness.
If anybody could have saved me it would have been you;
I know that I am spoiling your life.

So I am doing what seems the best thing to do.

This is a Confession

This is a
Confession
Of sorts.

Mainly an ode
To my paranoia
And lack of trust.

I don't keep many friends
Because I don't think
That many people care;

But this is fine
And right, I can't
Say that I care for them.

But I do have friends.
There is a handful
Of people for my smiles.

A couple of my friends
Live very far away,
And we don't talk much.

But they are some of my
Closest friends, honestly.
But I also have friends around me.

Lately, though, I mistrust them.
And I wonder what happens behind
Closed doors with blushed faces.

I sadly come to the conclusion
That wondering is vain,
And I must decide:

Either I ask about suspicions
Or confront my suspicions
As a sign of my own bad friendship.

Neither is easy,
But I honestly hope
That I am crazy

Because I don't want,
At least not now,
To feel alone.

Perhaps it would be best
Not to prod at this
And find a way not to care.

But I have done that for too long
And I thought I might have settled
And found a sort of normalcy.

I suppose my away-friends
Are my best friends,
Because they are beautiful in the distance,

And far-away is easier
On the soul. And troubles
Are blind to the eyes there.

Crying Girl

Brad won’t know what he’s done.

And while the breeze blows back
The long shards of her blonde hair,
Her tears will mix with cheap mascara
And stream across her temples again,
Showering that plain-pretty face again
As she walks along crowded side-streets
Leaving her anonymous and inspiring
For for the strangers, just a Crying Girl,
Nameless and timeless, painted and printed
A thousand times before there was a Brad,
And a thousand more after his death.

And that, I suppose, is her vengeance.

This is Not a Confession

This is not
A confession,
But

Every few months,
As if on cue,
I fall into this abyss

Of sudden loneliness.
I forget what it must
Feel like to be myself.

I am weighed down,
I am shelled and separated,
Drowning through days

That would rather forget me.
I bob languidly through hours,
Sleep and eat recklessly,

And when I’ve found my dregs,
I think of you.
You, standing there,

Smiling, laughing,
And lighting dreams
With your hazy eyes.

And reminding me
That this whole mess
Isn’t important or real,

And you make me Believe
That anything is possible
In this distance.

I Bid You Goodbye

I bid you goodbye,
The biddable bitch,
For I leave today
On my noble search
For a real renegade!

I bid you goodbye,
The homely troglodyte,
For I leave today again
On my vain play
Toward a prettier friend!

Yes, I’ll write letters,
And yes, I’ll blow kisses,
But I’ll conveniently forget to continue
When I’ve found a better Mrs.!

The Effort

Where the rivets build their metal seams
And make monsters from steel and sweat,
Dreams are swept where paychecks are met
With all the cascading corpses they’ll create.

Whispers of patriotism clang along
Around the hollow pings of machines,
And posters stare doubts into confidence
For the dirty-tired working the floor.

Pots and pans, long since war contraband,
Are missing from glistening kitchens
And are as notable gone as the women there,
Filling the lines for men who have gone to die.

Spring Art

As fresh as a daisy
And as dandy as a dogwood,
The spring Easter sky
Moved like a maypole.

Swirling with pastel teases
And blankets of cut grass breezes,
The picnic stills were painted brightly,
And the memories made there
Were remembered so fondly.

The Poet's Death Ramble

"The page screams with triumphs,
Flirting with passion again
Over failed dialogs, but
Moving with the sprung rhythm
Of inspiration anyway."

"I have written a universe
And roll into the centuries,
If I am timeless, so be it,
For myself I have invented
Personal connection in eternity."

"Until the page is turned
The blankness stays hidden
And the words still bleed out,
I am the wound and the healer,
Listening to the breeze on the battlefield."

Why Your Smile Stopped

I wondered why your smiled stopped
Over awkward-dinner tiny talk.
But as I straightened the sideways silverware
And noticed you brush hair back behind your ear,
I found I had lost myself in wanting to impress you.

I thought if you would forgive my adoptive plundering
While I sipped my water and crunched the ice chips.
I only become more of you to be close to you,
Now I realize your interests were not mine to be stealing.

So as you finished your blackberry pie,
And I finished what you had left, but only a couple bites,
I sighed and tried my best not to talk like you;
I adore you but I am not like you.
And I’ll blame that for why you don't smile at me now.