Spring Series

I.
men in suits on cell phones
dodge past leaf blower blasts
and groaning, hissing city buses;
sunglasses shielding their eyes
as they hustle through the city in May.

II.
on his riding lawn mower,
Mr. John sweeps his yard
in even passes, cutting his grass
at night, headlights on;
diagnosed 'legally' blind,
Mr. John grew ornery.

III.
Wu-Tang Clan rapper Method Man
calls flip-flops feminine in the song "Ya'Meen,"
I listen to the song walking over freshly trimmed
grass clippings on the sidewalk
on my way to class wearing black flip-flops;
I inhale the smell of the grass hanging in the breeze
but won't bend to smell the lilies while the song plays.

At the End

Dying, she thinks,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
thinking Death and living
are the permanent things

Bleeding on the floor,
she counts: her dragging breaths,
daydreams under seagull squeals,
the yellow shores stored in childhood,

thinking Death and living
and memories
are the permanent things
she thinks, dying,

'Mother rubbed our rough backs
smooth with lotion, our patent skin
glowing in the failing daylight'
thinking Death and living

and light and memories
are the permanent things
Bleeding on the floor,
she counts: her purging breath,

the panic-gasps of drowning before
the shock of Mother stealing her
out of the death-hungry ocean,
thinking Death is the permanent thing.

Dying, she thinks,
thinking Death thinking permanent
Bleeding on the floor, she counts:
thinking thinking thinking thinking.

'Mother rubbed our rough backs'

Cool, Sober Nights

"I have sleepless friends
and on cool, sober nights,
with rain steady as biology,
their backs yearn for my umbrella hands,
how I snake down their spines
soothing them into sleep with my massages,
fading their nightmares into cough-syrup comas."

"With memories of stuck pills
haunting their throats, my friends rub their eyes,
tearing over in the pain in my absence.
I allow myself to dote on them when possible,
but my schedule twists and morphs regularly,
I can only play nurse for so long before my life
calls me back: I go to work, I want to rest,
but my friends keep losing weight, too tired to eat,
and need my massages to sleep."

"And I'll yield. In the rain I'll cross the city
without an umbrella, without a raincoat,
(because I own neither)
to tend to a friend with my hand-medicine
despite how they ignore what I endure
helping them. My clothes, drenched, drip
up flights of stairs, I climb past elevator doors
with 'out of order' signs taped on, mocking me."

"Sometimes I fantasize denying them my magic,
watching them huddle into corners
of their beds, drawing the covers, crying,
begging me to touch them, to quiet, just for a moment,
the monsters of discomfort and insomnia plaguing
their frail bodies. I imagine their sickly, gray-green skin
drying out and ashing off, only the skeletons left,
the bones begging for back rubs and the faceless skulls
looking like they would bite me if I tried. But I yield.
I close my eyes tight to escape the fantasies and
sure as spring sunshine, I yield to my sleepless friends"

Blueberry Pancakes

Sitting in an English class
focused on 18th century novels,
I spot an abandoned campus newspaper
folded on the floor, half a headline
still readable, and notice a photo of a veteran
dressed in his green Class As
sitting smiling in a chair being interviewed
under large bold letters proclaiming:
"...honored with reception,"
and a wave of shame flushes over me.

Suddenly I'm thinking about my father,
but he is an army engineer, the veteran
looks like a marine if I had to guess,
but something about a man in uniform
“…honored with [a] reception” connects
this nameless soldier with my father,
and despite my best attempts
to participate in the discussion of Mr. B—
as both villain and hero in Pamela,
I am lured into a tangle of memories.

The flashbacks start in objects,
things that reappeared daily.
There's his ubiquitous brown shirt,
which, outside of his drill sgt. hat,
was my favorite piece of his BDUs,
and in slow motion I see myself running
from Jerry Springer or Judge Judy reruns
to hug him, finally home from work, and in the doorway
I rest my head where his chest shifts to stomach,
inhaling deep whiffs of his 5 o'clock cologne,
a mixture of sweat and cigarette smoke:
my father's scent.

And there's cans of beer,
cases of whatever was cheapest
in the cavernous freezer room at the Class Six,
stocked cold in the fridge where I bounce
to grab him one as a favor while he slumps
deep into our hunter-green, leather couch
to watch Cops or Sportscenter, his head perched
on his right hand, his left hand in a bag of pretzels.
Sometimes I would shake the can to surprise him,
and the white beer foam would volcano out
over the tab onto his hands and forearms as he leaned
out of his seat to avoid dripping on the furniture,
ordering me to run for a towel and clean the mess.
Still separated from the class discussion,
I think how angry a friend shaking a soda can
before handing it to me would make me.

With a new wave starting to surge, guilt,
the flashbacks switch to places,
and I'm inside a fourth grade classroom
at Partridge Elementary School at the top
of Epps Street, the street we lived on
and walked up every day to school
when we lived in housing on Ft. Leonard Wood.
I'm sitting at my desk looking forward,
watching Mrs. Casey writing something on the chalk board,
and my dad opens the classroom door half-smiling
and nods at the teacher before crouching behind me,
whispering so he doesn’t disrupt class.
He wants to know when I'm in the geography bee
because he was able to leave morning PT early enough
to come watch me compete.
And I explained to him,
still dressed in his gray sweat suit
with ARMY plaster on the chest
in big, bold black letters,
his shaved head kept warm
under a black wool beanie,
the bee was moved earlier in the day and was over,
I didn't call home when it started
and he had missed seeing his boy
beat out a bunch of fifth and sixth graders
to win the damn thing and earn a spot at districts.
And after I told him this, almost annoyed
having to explain the situation during class,
he smiled at me with a hand on my back
and told me, "Good job!" and he'd see me after work
but had to go home and change for the remainder of his workday.
As he walked quickly out of the room,
I started crying to myself at my desk.

And I'm walking over the standard hardwood floors
in base housing into the back bedroom
he shared with my mother then;
on Saturdays, when he could sleep in after long weeks,
I would wake him up, jump on his bed, lift his eyes open,
so he could make me blueberry pancakes.
I loved his pancakes, but I stop remembering

because I can feel my eyes watering,
the sudden self-consciousness reminds me
I'm sitting in a college class room surrounded
by adults and should not start crying
while discussing Pamela's 'virtue' as her fortune.
I rub the ebbing tears out of my eyes
and look back to the marine in the newspaper,
wondering how Vietnam vets were spat on
after returning home. Maybe it was just
the nation's way of asking for blueberry pancakes.

Diner Dinner (a revision)

Missing the Southwest
dishes that trained my pallet,
I travel my fork

around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I guess at the meat

chucked across my plate
and decide ignoring it
might save my stomach.

Boring side dishes
dissolve me into lessons
well-learned living in

Texas: grilling steaks
out of marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:

I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,

anticipating
painting my mouth with blood, sauce,
and earthy flavor;

tongue rolling slowly
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,

my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
and teaching me tricks

his grandfather knew,
failing to hide ancient pride
behind disinterest.

Breaking my flashback,
a waitress asks if I'm done.
I kindly say, "No,"

securing my plate,
still thick with food I won't eat,
next to my water,

"but you could bring me
a refill and a coffee.
I might stay a while."

Our Afternoons

I count nicks on the spaceship
as you smile, manning controls
outside of the outlet store
while your mother naps at home.

You soar, a brave astronaut
with orders to examine
imagined planets abroad.

I relate to the distance.

Not noticing who's with you
these afternoon vanquishments,
you, son, conquer galaxies,
not wanting of love or sleep.

If you want to ride again,
I will put more quarters in.

Strolling (another revision)

She strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground
and peeking above scarf-folds,
the flagged ends dangling down
past her knees. She strolls alone,

the city night a familiar hallway,
and imagines people living in the abandoned
apartment buildings and townhouses she passes,
giving each one a character, a family
sitting together in portraits
she mentally hangs in mosaic
along the walls of the night: star-strung and black.

She strolls alone and new blocks
become new wings as she builds
a slow-growing mansion for her
slow-growing gallery. She strolls alone,

the sound of her shoes scrapping across the sidewalk
reminding her ex-boyfriends' back rubs
soothing her to sleep; she thinks of her night-mansion
and imagines bedrooms.

She strolls alone, draughting at red lights
and crosswalks, each passing car
a sudden waterfall crash.
When she stops and intersections are busy,
the traffic is thick
and a conveyor belt of tumults,
a refrain of orchestral hits sweeping past her
only inches away. She strolls alone,

breathing deep into her scarf while the chill
of the opposing breeze waters her eyes;
her night-mansion now on the coast,
a hurricane blowing against it,
she imagines rushing to her high windows,
closing them, shutting out the storm,
scrambling down the long halls
empty of pedestrians.

She strolls alone, fists cinched in pockets,
the thin slopes of her shoulders jabbing
sharp into the cold stillness swallowing
the around-her. She strolls alone.

after securing the schooner's failing mast-sail
against the spiking sea-blast of several sea-gales
Skipper demanded he buy the boy a drink,

so amidst the pub's Sunday crowd
Skipper gathered the crew around
and gave the motley bunch a bit of advice,

bending his knees with a crackle and dread
the old man was heard to have basically said:
"there's still death in this boy yet!"

"find him a whore with a fake last name
and if he needs help, aid in the strain,
but let it be known he saved our lives last night!"

"so while he's out taking a piss
let us gather together, the night is his,
and cheer a poor soul that God don't seem to want!"

"for if we be but better men
and not so learned to mortal sin
we might very well be angels now!"

"but thanks to the kid
we were saved from the skiff
and still may serve Poseidon!"

Sunday. 2:56 AM. 12/06/09.

I try to sleep,
but the fire alarm sounds
in a neighboring dorm;
under my window

cold, riotous residents
gather in the night.
Now, firetrucks.

My Process:

I sit staring
at my computer screen,
and, counting the errors
I missed sleepless,
regret the additions
to my latest
attempted poetry.

Alabama Dreamin' On Such A Winter's Day

All the leaves are brown,
and the sky is gray,
but I'd still rather stay
in December-bitten Alabama,
then get stuck
on a California freeway.

a watermelon, broken,
black seeds wet in the dirt;
the shock of a bloody nose,
rust stains settling on your shirt.

Pollination

The spring wind grinding
two pink irises together:
your vaguely lesbian poetry
free of honeybees.

On Illinois Back Roads

Driving near dusk in cornfields
outside Effingham last fall

picket fences dangle in the breeze:

the space between an infant's teeth.

Strolling (a revision)

She strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground
and peeking above scarf-folds
hiding her face like a lace veil.
Only, her lace is flannel,
and the flagged ends of the scarf
dangle down past her knees.
She strolls alone,
the city night a familiar hallway,
and imagines a new family portrait
for each building, all hanging in mosaic
along the walls: star-strung and black;
new blocks becoming new wings,
she builds a slow-growing mansion
for her slow-growing gallery. She strolls alone,
the sound of her legs scratching across the sidewalk
reminding her of an army of boyfriends' back rubs
soothing her to sleep; thinking of her night-mansion
she imagines bedrooms. She strolls alone,
draughting at red lights and cross walks,
each passing car a sudden waterfall crash.
When she stops and intersections are busy,
the traffic is thick and a conveyor belt of tumults,
a refrain of orchestral hits sweeping past her,
inches away. She strolls alone,
breathing deep into her scarf
while her eyes water
against the chill of the opposing breeze;
her night-mansion now on the coast,
a hurricane blowing against it,
she imagines rushing to her high windows,
closing them, shutting out the storm,
scrambling down the long halls
empty of pedestrians
and the relationship of mutual ignorance
she shares with them. She strolls alone
arms cinched in pockets,
the thin slopes of her shoulders jabbing
sharp into the empty stillness swallowing
the around-her.

Diner Dinner

Missing the Southwest
customs that trained my pallet,
I travel my fork

around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I form meat hypotheses

staring at my plate
and decide ignoring "meat"
might save my stomach.

Bored with side dishes,
I dissolve into lessons
well-learned living in

Texas: grilling steaks
in marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:

I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,

anticipating
my teeth melting deep and slow
in earthy flavor;

tongue stuck collapsing
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,

my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
between tossing tips

his grandfather knew,
and failing to hide his pride
feigning disinterest.

Ripped back into now,
a waitress asks if I'm done.
I kindly say, "No,"

securing my plate,
still thick with food I won't eat,
next to my water,

"but you could bring me
a refill and a coffee.
I might stay a while."

A moment; a newspaper abandoned, folded
on the floor in a classroom, headlines
readable: a veteran sits smiling in
Class A's and "honored with reception."
Something about his suit summons your shame.

He, a marine, your father, an army engineer,
identical only in service. Still, you smell
the five o'clock cologne of sweat and
cigarette smoke. You bounce to the fridge
grabbing him a beer. Men earn beer
with work. They earn dinner
and football and sleep and still fry pancakes
for their sons early on Saturday mornings.
Men earn soldier with blood, father
with dicks, and Dad with showing
up late to watch his son in a grade school
geography bee son forgot to mention
had been moved earlier in the morning.

You notice this smiling marine and do not ask
yourself: how your father had time to love
you. You will understand the sacrifice
of family when you build your own. You
ask yourself: why you were embarrassed
when you told him:
(knelt behind your desk in class,
quiet, sure not to disrupt,
breathing heavy in a gray sweat-suit,
ARMY plastered on the chest,
head shaved and safe under a black beanie)
he had missed the bee.
The time changed.

Sitting, head down in the classroom
he help pays to put you in,
you wonder: how were you embarrassed of that Man?
You wonder, ashamed, staring through tears
at the newspaper print of the marine:
how did they spit on veterans after Vietnam?
A moment; you wonder: have you earned I love you?

Record Store Disciples

Once, I thought I saw God in a music shop.
He rummaged hungry through old records,
surveying the tracks, dragging His finger
where the needle runs the groove.
After an album passed inspection
He announced the artist and each song
on either side aloud to the store.
Held hostage by his voice, I anticipated
the ensuing selections, ignoring
what He had piled to purchase.
Where I a more meticulous man
I might have noted what God was in to;
I might have glimpsed some secret
hidden from the understanding of man
in the musing of His holy headphones, only now
revealed, God allowing Himself
the indulgence of human-music.
(I imagine now, after the fact,
God digs Neil Young; the beard gives him away.)
But I didn't notice the titles
in His buy-stack. I just stood
transfixed on His lips, waiting
for more matriculation from His mouth.
God, in a music shop, shocked me:
The Bible rewrote itself in front of me,
history now a merry-go-round swirling around
the stationary center of the moment;
His words new revelations
for a set of record store disciples.
Understanding gradually the gravity,
fumbling a copy of Master of Puppets,
my eyes watered and I was suddenly self conscious-
a man crying next to his lady
on a romantic comedy date night.
Moments like that require fog, and a tonal score:
the store swayed under His booming,
the floor hollowed and cracked, we disciples
recognizing lightness and power in our legs
while the ceiling opened in our imaginations,
heaven, sturdy as a stepmother, waiting above,
growing a dance party disco in the clouds.
We all stared at His beard-white mouth pronouncing;
family, community, believers, audience.
Turns out, though, it wasn't actually God.
A fellow disciple explained later
it was just a homeless man draped in tin-foil
with flows of snow-white hair who wandered
in off the streets plucking every Marvin Gaye
album off the shelves he could find.
He renamed each one after a different author:
Here, My Dear became Judy Blume.
Now, I laugh about tearing up,
lucky I didn't see God; if given the chance
I like to think I would have found out
what He listens to: I would have read the stack.

laying sprawled in sun-shapes
off the window on my dirty sheets,
a reconcilable form of relaxation,
I name myself "Lesser Than"
still imagining your horizons,
your hips, and the cliffs in your eyes.
I'm sure your face, a desert
where lotion and the hands
of former lovers have smoothed the rocks
swallowing the sands of youth there,
smiles someplace as warm as this
bed with me near sleep across it.

strolling

she strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground,

hovering above knitted scarf folds
dangled down past her knees,
she strolls alone,

(the city night a familiar hallway
morphing tenants' portraits with each block)

legs scratching at sidewalk cement,
she stops, draughting at red
lights and cross walks

(the traffic a conveyor belt
of whitewater crash orchestral hits)

she strolls alone
arms cinched in pocets,
no purse around her shoulder,

the thin slopes sharp into the empty
swallowing the around-her.

the singing black birds
melt thick snow-dusts with flash songs-
stirring deaf watchers.

Dogs

When does a dog, struck by a speeding car
border over into suffering, dying,
and finally encore into roadkill?
There must be stages, segments in the
process of wandering the highway
lanes lost or left behind.

When does the green collar stop signalling
home-broken and start reminding
rubberneckers of the special sting of dog
tragedy in people? Thank god for closed eyes,
the entrails are easier to pass then.

But when was the dog only injured,
only still searching, only owned?
There must be a decomposing
logic to the decomposing;
even death must makes sense in scenes.

the Übermensch, now a cockhold,
lay sulking in a three day drunk
singing old Elton John songs, fat
with the comfort of calories, sobbing.

(Mona Lisa must be laughing; the same
berserk stare in Goya's Saturn's eyes,
gorily devouring a man top down,
plastered in her waxing cackle-gaze.)

With bile usurpation in his throat,
the Übermensch trundles to his side, gazing
out the Cambridge blue beck of the window,
all Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and cookie dough.

Misogynist Love Song

“Because there is very little honor left in American life, there is a certain built-in tendency to destroy masculinity in American men.” – Norman Mailer

I. Context

1.
Out of the corpse-mud,
the feting soup of rank flesh,
flashes of dogwood.

2.
Ivan, a rebel,
arguing drunk with brothers,
explains away God.

3.
Wolfmen curse the moon,
baying lunacy towards their
dirty Diana.

4.
Mashed against the door,
her face throbs beneath my hand,
cheeks bruising in palm.

5.
Moss grown and jagged,
the boulder of Sisyphus
descends from apex.

II. Romance

1.
Mr. Rochester,
blind lust hands your heart warm blood,
but Jane flies distant

2.
Black nips friendly smoke;
(epic lines tied to dead chords)
Black breathes night's music.

3.
Drifter: shanked, bleeding.
Hemingway's manly courage
preserving the Good.

4.
Dancing too close, we
two-step off beat without pause
over dirt dance floors.

5.
Virtue rewarded:
Pamela, half-raped virgin,
weds her assailant.

6.
Nursing the cooing
bastard, we grate past soft grins
like we gave a fuck.

7.
James Stewart lassoed
the moon for a Christmas bitch,
drowning ambition.

III. Reflection

1.
Two arid flirters,
hearts deep inside tumble weeds,
tangle in sand-dust.

2.
High now, my lichen
fists thirst for your lush neckline,
writhing in gravel.

3.
Hulk Hogan's gold cross
torn from his neck, kids mourn their
hero's defacement.

4.
Bertha Mason falls
guilty from a burning roof:
demonic, lovely.

5.
Numb fraternity
stoked around maypole ribbons
and blooming dogwoods

For Norman Mailer

Finally, you are stabbed
and an honest silence

stuffs the room full.
I am as much a bastard

as you are a bitch.
I am sorry.

I call the police
in the rusting seconds after,

there is no reason to deny
this horrible affirmation;

this manly affirmation.

What?
These fog eyes?
These mist eyes?
These steel curtains
falling slowly, drifting
through to sleep?
What?
This thick rest
resting on my brow?
This hovering end?
This dying ember?
What?
This mute attempt?
This flailing burst
toward conquered
time and hostility?
This crooked back?
This tilted head?
What?
What?

on cool sober nights

i have friends who dont sleep anymore and on cool sober nights when the rain seems as steady as biology their thin ankles remember my umbrella hands and how i snake them into soothing massages against the nightmares of cough syrup drunks and mouth memories of fuzzy pills stuck on the backs of their tongues before they dissolve or swallow down and i am a relief to their crumpled eyes but only for as long as i allow myself to dote on them ignoring the real twists in my busy days playing a good friend and storing favors like money when i need it or rides when i am lazy but they dont know i dont have a raincoat or dont think about that when they call me during the nightstorms to rescue them from their monsters so usually i stumble up to their rooms (always upstairs) soaked from the double dark clouds on cool sober nights for sleepless friends

Sonnet.

in bed after
eating popcorn
and drinking
orange soda,

your breath
tastes like warm,
soft pretzels dipped
in melted cheese;

our open mouths
breathing,
your wet lips
sliding down

my wet lips,
kissing.

Your Poem

I will write
you a poem
when the nights
stop dawning cold
without you here
in my halved bed.

computer-glaze buzzes,
empty pages blinking blank,
swallowed yawns from typists.

swallowed coputer-glaze pages,
empty yawn buzzes,
blank blinking from typists.

typists swallowed blinking buzzes,
blank empty pages,
yawn from computer-glaze.

buzzes from typists,
blinking pages yawn blank,
swallowed empty computer-glaze.

buzzes empty blinking,
computer-glaze blank,
from swallowed pages typists yawn.

swallowed buzzes empty blank,
typist computer-glaze pages,
yawn from blinking.

I.
grind-growls of a leaf blower
yeilding to the hisses of busses
or soft cellular conversations

II.
old automatic doors jarring
open to the rumble-hum grind
of a gasoline lawn mower

III.
cut grass sprinkling onto sidewalks
where busy black shower shoes grind
pebbles into concrete dust

IV.
pregnant belly swells bouncing
in wobbling walking-rythmns
and the whispy grind of thighs

Shosanna at the End

Dying, Shosanna thinks,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
thinking Death and living
and air are the permanent things

Bleeding on the floor,
Shosanna counts: her dragging breaths,
daydreams under seagull songs,
the yellow shores stored in childhood,

thinking Death and living
and air and memories
are the permanent things
Shosanna thinks, Dying,

'Mother rubbed our rough backs
smooth with lotion, our patent skin
glowing in the failing daylight'
thinking Death and living

and air and memories
Bleeding on the floor,
Shosanna counts: her purging breath,
the panic-gasps of drowning.

The Nightly Mentioning

when I mention: sitting alone
in a night-dark closet dragging
my eyes down thin florescent slits
peaking around door edges

when I mention: meditative sleep
rapt with fledgling dreams stitched
rough against waking-world flashes

when I mention: thumbprint stained faces
in sepia photographs piled on the floor
as bait for wandering dream-ghosts

when I mention: drawn shades
dangling in muggy-thick window glass

when I mention: headaches and dizzy swirls
from nightlong open eyes saved from blinking

when I mention: cracks in floor tiles
scurrying away in peripherals but remaining
cracks in floor tiles in full focus

When I mention: these things,
I hear you, curled in a blue mink blanket, laughing at black and
white movies; the memories
of sharp nights tucked under your down pillows and happy head.

Eye Contact

The moments trickle from ignorance; we are the wonder-smell of old books.
Spiked trifles of potential vine down my back,
planting me firmly in the now.

In the friction and distance between,
our minds dance behind veiled feathers.
We are filthy spectators with money

to spend on a good show. The theatre of maybe
built brick-wise by both of us eventually
will dominate headlines. Today,

the shows stay small despite the dedicated casts.
The moments dart under conversations
like frightened cats from the threat of thunder.

I don't care where these glances deliver us
as long as you won't ask me to drive.
But know we are a hushed river

whose water whispers motion into the mud
beneath it. I'll fight your moonlight-slit eyes
with my wooden dagger for a bit longer. Someday I'll surrender.

Vines wilt.
Rivers run.
Shows end.

Without Fire

I paste myself against a coastal horizon
amongst the trailing swirls of pink and orange.

Over my shoulder a cloud morphs from a rabbit
to a shell-less snail springing over the falling sun.

I am without fire and alone. There is nothing
in the sand alongside condolences and sea-slate.

I notice the moon is late to its purpling canopy
while wavelets whisper the final slices of sun

towards the shore. There are yet no bottles,
nor messages, nor stars. I am without fire.

I stare across our oak breakfast table
and you are a close-up of eyelids dangling
over the morning's paper. We sleep
in separate oceans anticipating mornings,
the waves have pushed us into rigid currents.
We do not talk, there is nothing new to mention.
You eat your rye toast and I count the crunches,
noticing my reflection in my cup of cheap
black coffee. I keep hopes for a better lunch.

From behind a folded map
you mention brier patches,
which I have never seen.

I counted holidays by her blushing cheeks,
she hid her shopping stories in her skin.
Illuminating her patchwork veins with every lie,
I could always know the truth by her rouge twinkle.

II

I count nicks on the spaceship
as you smile, rattling
outside of the grocery
while your mother naps at home.
You are a brave astronaut
with orders to examine
imagined planets abroad.
I relate to the distance.
I doubt you count who's with you
these afternoon vanquishments
as you conquer galaxies,
not wanting of love or sleep.
If you want to ride again,
I will put more quarters in.

A Woman

The tree has crumbled in my hands,
The sap has blackened and flaked on my arms,
The tree has hallowed my breast -
Caverned,
The branches have been amputated.

Tree you were,
Mossed you are,
You are a snag with water above you.
An adult - so buried - you are,
And all this is folly to the worms.

She screamed at me,
"You're a no-hope kid."
I thought I would want
her blueberry wrists but
secrets seem beautiful
as a stranger.

Puddles settle black
into slick gravel patches
and pothole dimples.

Orange streetlights halo
scattered blocks of dark houses
with deep desert tints.

Awake

I'm staring at dawn,
while the house sleeps around me,
and lonely like God.

Dreams disappoint me,
I disrupt their faded charms
to stalk the morning.

Outside

The trade winds at our backs,
we burnt our money, dancing
in the ashes. A new beginning
with no destiny, freedom
finally owned and lingered in.
River rapids would find us,
and the vapid southwest breeze
would remind us of our mothers
baking memories in an oven
with their sweet steam-makeup.
We conceded family and possessions
for even the threat of adventure.
I shall never forgive my identity,
it was a gift I had not wanted.
Now, tramping through God's beard,
drunk in the passion of nature,
we are only essence. Lucky to die
in the exploration, building
a sturdy sole along the way.
Let the straw grass lament our passing
so it might seem worth the outburst.
With these clothes as our only shields,
the sun and the moon might devour
our purity. Though hopelessly shallow,
we would eulogize every puddle
as we construct landscape memories.
Finally, we breathe honest air,
the same breath unseen trees share.
The good graces of being would shine
down on our questing for its irresponsibility,
but remind us of the liberty in survival.
We will raise our autumn flags
in the fortress of winter. Dark
spring mornings will birth us into summer.
The sky employs us to continue
the trek. Completion is the peace we find,
reveling in our bodies, the universe
feels less bitter when home is a daydream
and the horizon is our compass.

Paydirt Pagans

The paydirt pagans
crawl towards Sundays and summer,
drawn to the hot air.

I stay home these days
chasing the hours with sleep,
laughing through dream-grins.

They want to heal me,
lay hands on my lost body.
I ignore their heat.

Summer '09

I'm all Diet Coke and Wu Tang,
Pop corn and the smell of summer-cut grass.
In daylight kisses I feel I'm home,
And I snuggle warm into the lap
of these stretching weeks of dusk and dawn.
I cycle through dance beats and alarms,
learning to fall and the soreness of acomplishment.
Someday I'll feel employed by the trips
I've not taken and will trust my tired wheels.
Now, I'll just yawn into what fur I've collected,
ignoring the fleas and shivers,
looking for a friend to scream synthesized with
in these ruthless mornings before I fall asleep.

Parties

Social circles cruise
past the lonely left-behinds,
at least they saw fun.

If I Sleep

If I sleep
I breathe ancient dust
onto crystal targets
mounted on my lips.
The dust drips from its soul-cell
coating my chin and throat
then attacking all movement,
shattering streams of light,
raining them to the floor,
learching the room towards total night.

If I sleep
I drown in visceral hourglasses,
counting chromatic kisses
sabotaged in suffocated adventures.

If I could only wake,
rip open the windows,
kicking through the panes if needed,
I could clean this weighted room,
swimming back to some unstuck melody,
free from breathing my dream-dust.

But if I sleep,
I stay asleep until the breathing is done.

Old Man's Song

"Only the death in my eyes,"
the gray man assured,
mounted in his hickory rocking-chair,
"can keep the breeze of life
from blowing in me. And that's why
I keep them closed."

He let his mouth close
around his last words and began
to blindly hum a guttural hymn
I did not recognize. The man
rose his arms into the room
with flamenco patience
shifting his ragged weight
forward in the chair. Worried, I
sat opened mouth with my eyes
shinning across the room
toward him. The hickory rocking-chair
lurched forward, tilting the hungry frame
of the man out onto his bent legs.

The man then rose his voice
as he did his arms, first
into his high neck then
into his alarm-mouth,
wailing, with his lungs
behind him, some holy song.

And I started clapping along,
staring, nearly drooling,
at my hands which had
naturally slid into the rhythm
without my noticing when.

And he sang for what seemed like hours.

Watching the Clock

I stalked the clock
following the falling
seconds, rubbing my hands

back-and-forth on the desk,
trying to drag them
with the rhythm of the day.

My dry hands scraped
the surface of the cheap desk,
raking the sound of desert rock-sand.

Rubbing the desk I found
my own time and sweat trails
swirled under my progress.

The scraping turned to
sloshing while I routed
my oasal puddles. The clock
evaporated from purpose.

Driving Someplace New

Your chest shook
in your flannel shirt;
you were a rattle,

jabbering on about the car,
the traffic, and weather.
I did not care

if it was overcast
or if we were stranded
in the rush hour standstill.

We left early enough
not to worry about mirages.
I could have bathed

myself in your saucer eyes,
glinting over me driving
and the landscape blurring

behind us. You smiled,
full of happy secrets
and plans. I only knew

because you held my hand,
squeezing with every heavy
sigh after hours of miles.

Again, again.

The clicking keys crash
into plastic pecks dotting
each keystroke decision.
Am I writing again?
I must be.
Don't hush me.
Let these fingers frisson
across whatever manifesto
they happen across.
Let them burn the albatross
from the sky and fling love
letters between the thighs
of every panting maiden.
Hands, surprise me.
Brain, infatuate me.
Let's send this empty space
into space and reflect
on the journey. Let's fly,
soar, and score in whatever
arenas we invent. There will be time
for form later. Let's just write now.

Let’s Go Out Tonight

I need flashing lights
and the 1980’s playing
in my ears. I need dancing
and a bass line pulsing deep
like twilight traffic on a Friday night
with the coast in view. Make me
a white sports car so we cruise
to synthesizer screens and count
the shades of cocaine neon distracting us.

Dizzy me into a slow burning morning
and another layer of stubble
rings on the tree of my face
counting my good nights.

I want camera flashes
and still memories
and to linger on the trip there
in swagger-tilted attitude.

Let’s go out tonight.

The Cake

For her first visit from Florida
she baked me a vanilla cake
smeared in chocolate icing,
Two layers of white sponge delicious
divided by a blessing of creme
with red-blotch organs
where sprinkles were baked inside
the monochrome fun-fetti surprise.
The thick brown icing palleted
delicate vanilla swirls, surrounding
a ripe-red heart in the middle.
The heart was ours, she said,
each slice seared from the cake
carrying a piece of the love
bringing her here and baked into it.

The Miniature Monster

The miniature yorkie downstairs
drives jagged yelps through the floor,
forcing disfiguring nerve-chill wrenches
up my sleeping spine. I fly jersey sheet

war-flags, my tossling an act of aggression.
Fortified in my disheveled bed, I stragitize:

I could stomp thunder down into its room
through these dying, paper-crust floors
like an angry god, bellowing
my case below, cursing the dog's cries.

I sheepishly decide, slugging onto my back,
this plan is reactionary at best.
There is no sense of satisfying vengeance
for the casualty of another night.
And I would have to leave my coven base-bed.

With more sonorious rounds firing
from that putrid, tiny mouth downstairs,
I explore alternate campaigns,
bellycrawling through the impossibility of sleep.

Some Haiku

I stole the ripcord,
baby. I’ll regret watching
you tumble away.

Panicked breezes flush
cherry blossoms on my cheeks
these winter mornings.

Craft another lie
with bent truths and half smiles.
You've made it an art.