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'
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
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"
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
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!"
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.
but the fire alarm sounds
in a neighboring dorm;
under my window
cold, riotous residents
gather in the night.
Now, firetrucks.
Friday, December 04, 2009
My Process:
I sit staring
at my computer screen,
and, counting the errors
I missed sleepless,
regret the additions
to my latest
attempted poetry.
at my computer screen,
and, counting the errors
I missed sleepless,
regret the additions
to my latest
attempted poetry.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
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.
and the sky is gray,
but I'd still rather stay
in December-bitten Alabama,
then get stuck
on a California freeway.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Pollination
The spring wind grinding
two pink irises together:
your vaguely lesbian poetry
free of honeybees.
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
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."
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."
Monday, November 16, 2009
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?
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?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, November 06, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
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
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
Thursday, October 15, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
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
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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
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
Sunday, September 13, 2009
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.
'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.
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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 10, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 07, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Monday, August 03, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
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.
while the house sleeps around me,
and lonely like God.
Dreams disappoint me,
I disrupt their faded charms
to stalk the morning.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Friday, April 10, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Church
The adults stood mouthing lyrics
and hearing the wailing pipe organ
singing the drone of an angry God, I
trembled in the pew, curled
cowering beside my mother's coat,
the congregation's chant lifting
the brazen angels' clinched fists
over guilty hymnals on Sunday morning.
and hearing the wailing pipe organ
singing the drone of an angry God, I
trembled in the pew, curled
cowering beside my mother's coat,
the congregation's chant lifting
the brazen angels' clinched fists
over guilty hymnals on Sunday morning.
Monday, December 22, 2008
On A Monday Morning
The sky melts from blue to
tangerine near the horizon line;
sprinkles of stars
struggle, fading back to night
so they may sleep
on the other side of the globe.
The sun rises and stretches,
throwing majesty at all corners
of the morning, and announcing
its blinding ascent to
Awake with bird chirp-songs.
I absorb the breaking day
in waves as the ground drinks
the dotted dew off the wet grass.
I have not slept in the night,
hungry for the clockwork
potential of an infant tomorrow.
tangerine near the horizon line;
sprinkles of stars
struggle, fading back to night
so they may sleep
on the other side of the globe.
The sun rises and stretches,
throwing majesty at all corners
of the morning, and announcing
its blinding ascent to
Awake with bird chirp-songs.
I absorb the breaking day
in waves as the ground drinks
the dotted dew off the wet grass.
I have not slept in the night,
hungry for the clockwork
potential of an infant tomorrow.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The Whitehorse Winter
I chose Whitehorse because of the blistering cold and hour-miles of seclusion. I pioneered myself a cheap, forgotten miner’s cabin and hermited there for a winter, encouraging myself to write. Often, my eyes wore tired of the pale blind of the empty white page, and I sauntered—caped deep under an itchy flannel blanket—to the porch I kept shoveled and cocooned into the old oak rocking chair there. I tended over my wounded words while I rocked, pretending my steam-breath was perique pipe smoke. By spring, I had mustered a thick beard and not much else. I spent no other winters in Whitehorse.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Leaving Again
I tell her
crackling-stream eyes
and twittering frown
I am leaving again.
She believes me
each time I lie
about finally going.
I have turned her
into my younger brother.
I teased him on purpose.
He asked me to play,
plot our new adventure
excited after I agreed,
then frustrate and sigh at me;
I built clusters of mini-chores
between my yes’s and our playing.
I made him wait,
stuffing the in-between
with dozens of ‘just let me’s
and ‘right before’s, tightening
the tension of his trust.
Now, I tell her
drooping brow and
blank slate cheeks
I am leaving again,
toeing the tight-line
of her frail faith in me
to actually leave her.
crackling-stream eyes
and twittering frown
I am leaving again.
She believes me
each time I lie
about finally going.
I have turned her
into my younger brother.
I teased him on purpose.
He asked me to play,
plot our new adventure
excited after I agreed,
then frustrate and sigh at me;
I built clusters of mini-chores
between my yes’s and our playing.
I made him wait,
stuffing the in-between
with dozens of ‘just let me’s
and ‘right before’s, tightening
the tension of his trust.
Now, I tell her
drooping brow and
blank slate cheeks
I am leaving again,
toeing the tight-line
of her frail faith in me
to actually leave her.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Cartoons
I have turned your name
into a sort of music,
a jingle for a smile shop,
and lost in you merry melodies
I turn into a cartoon
stereotype. Suddenly
your skin is milk-cream
and I am a starving cat,
but there are no saucers
waiting at my midnight door.
After we say goodnight,
banished to the solitary
staleness of my bed,
my eyes spill under the sheets
looking for the stains
of you left in my mattress.
I linger awake, hungry to smell
your scalp and sleep-sweat
soft across my pillows,
clutching at even the giggling
ghosts we have planted here
deep inside the box springs.
into a sort of music,
a jingle for a smile shop,
and lost in you merry melodies
I turn into a cartoon
stereotype. Suddenly
your skin is milk-cream
and I am a starving cat,
but there are no saucers
waiting at my midnight door.
After we say goodnight,
banished to the solitary
staleness of my bed,
my eyes spill under the sheets
looking for the stains
of you left in my mattress.
I linger awake, hungry to smell
your scalp and sleep-sweat
soft across my pillows,
clutching at even the giggling
ghosts we have planted here
deep inside the box springs.
Monday, December 08, 2008
The Morning Fence
The snap and lock
or doors outside
muffle through
the morning fence
we built from sleep
and our own closed
bedroom door.
or doors outside
muffle through
the morning fence
we built from sleep
and our own closed
bedroom door.
In my roommate's black
tempur-pedic bean bag chair
we watch Ben Foster playing
Eli, a special kid, on that show.
You sigh and nuzzle closer
to my gray, sweatshirt-covered
chest, readjusting your neck,
trying to get comfortable enough
to pay attention and relax.
Neglecting the screen, I move
to notice the new space
for your head. You bob
with each breath I subdue
like a confused puppy on its side.
I want you to hear my heart
alive in me, drumming along
aloud in my ears, burning
for attention with its eagerness
for your delicate attention.
I am nervous, wondering
if I am breathing too hard,
hoping you hear heartbeats
resounding through me.
I wait
until your breathing slows,
you collapse in a line,
dropping still from head to feet,
relaxing into me to sleep.
I stop watching your head
to find Ben Foster has left
the scene, ending the episode.
tempur-pedic bean bag chair
we watch Ben Foster playing
Eli, a special kid, on that show.
You sigh and nuzzle closer
to my gray, sweatshirt-covered
chest, readjusting your neck,
trying to get comfortable enough
to pay attention and relax.
Neglecting the screen, I move
to notice the new space
for your head. You bob
with each breath I subdue
like a confused puppy on its side.
I want you to hear my heart
alive in me, drumming along
aloud in my ears, burning
for attention with its eagerness
for your delicate attention.
I am nervous, wondering
if I am breathing too hard,
hoping you hear heartbeats
resounding through me.
I wait
until your breathing slows,
you collapse in a line,
dropping still from head to feet,
relaxing into me to sleep.
I stop watching your head
to find Ben Foster has left
the scene, ending the episode.
Friday, December 05, 2008
The ancient carny jargon
spins tired ticket promises
of stuffed prizes for cheap
kids' games, there is a winner
in every family filtering down
the dusky neon blitzes and
torn awnings of the faded midway,
each pregnant with fraudulent hopes
for something classic or genuine,
their wallets bleed to satisfy
the side-show hunger and
candy-apple curiosities.
spins tired ticket promises
of stuffed prizes for cheap
kids' games, there is a winner
in every family filtering down
the dusky neon blitzes and
torn awnings of the faded midway,
each pregnant with fraudulent hopes
for something classic or genuine,
their wallets bleed to satisfy
the side-show hunger and
candy-apple curiosities.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
On a Picture of an Ex
Now, months after, I notice
every corner of your face is a museum
stuffed with sculptures,
mounds of memories
from buried cultures, reborn
with every coy smirk, carving deep
basins into the camera lens.
You flood the photograph
with ancient emotion and
a secret nudge of progress.
It is wrong to think
your plagues are alluring.
The dead litter
your pale lips, kissed and preserved
in the heat of your breath
and the dune-glazed sand
in your stare.
I pack the picture away,
humbled and full of spite,
into a dusty crate of distance,
sending your discoveries
to some fortune-hunting fool,
blessed and ignorant of
the curses in your artifact eyes.
every corner of your face is a museum
stuffed with sculptures,
mounds of memories
from buried cultures, reborn
with every coy smirk, carving deep
basins into the camera lens.
You flood the photograph
with ancient emotion and
a secret nudge of progress.
It is wrong to think
your plagues are alluring.
The dead litter
your pale lips, kissed and preserved
in the heat of your breath
and the dune-glazed sand
in your stare.
I pack the picture away,
humbled and full of spite,
into a dusty crate of distance,
sending your discoveries
to some fortune-hunting fool,
blessed and ignorant of
the curses in your artifact eyes.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sick?
Why won't I call myself sick? I wake up in sweat drenched sheets, filled with a cavernous soreness, my stinging breath stale in the fresh air of morning. I collapse out of bed, subduing patches of floor to walk on while my closed head leads me toward the bathroom for the day's first piss, more uncomfortable than relieving. My throat tingles with a blunt stiffness, flaring indignant when I swallow. My heavy eyes cascade over my bedroom and I soup myself back into bed. I fold myself under a familiar linen shield to sleep with the lie that I am just tired, refusing this sickness.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Dark winds whistle
missiles at my trembling windows
while maelstrom clouds swell,
twining soft, white fluff
into looming sky-shadows.
I stare out from the rattling
view, the bleak storm maturing
outside. I am half asleep, spralwed
across an age-stained leather loveseat,
the lights off inside the dead house.
Inside, natural purples crawl up the walls,
the storm tints and sparks the room,
craming a devious, secret strength in the house.
missiles at my trembling windows
while maelstrom clouds swell,
twining soft, white fluff
into looming sky-shadows.
I stare out from the rattling
view, the bleak storm maturing
outside. I am half asleep, spralwed
across an age-stained leather loveseat,
the lights off inside the dead house.
Inside, natural purples crawl up the walls,
the storm tints and sparks the room,
craming a devious, secret strength in the house.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
If You Are Falling
If you are falling, howl,
splinter the sterile silence
jailing us, your sturdy bones
will not survive this impact.
Howl, and I will gather
oceans of my numb blood,
drowning your blunt decent
and washing the initial slip.
So howl, and I will fold
the drop deep in my marrow,
enduring resounding leaks
only when I need scaring.
splinter the sterile silence
jailing us, your sturdy bones
will not survive this impact.
Howl, and I will gather
oceans of my numb blood,
drowning your blunt decent
and washing the initial slip.
So howl, and I will fold
the drop deep in my marrow,
enduring resounding leaks
only when I need scaring.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Dear Friends--
Friends;
We are the new rock'n'roll. We are the sonic energy of a bored generation. We are kittens with claws. We are the morning star in an uncertain dawn. So, let us march toward something. Something grand, something true, something genuine. But, and this will be the most important quality, something from ourselves. Let us write love letters to the universe. Let us say something, anything, about our lingering here. Let us smile. Let us cry. Let us tell stories.
Happy writing,
-CPH
We are the new rock'n'roll. We are the sonic energy of a bored generation. We are kittens with claws. We are the morning star in an uncertain dawn. So, let us march toward something. Something grand, something true, something genuine. But, and this will be the most important quality, something from ourselves. Let us write love letters to the universe. Let us say something, anything, about our lingering here. Let us smile. Let us cry. Let us tell stories.
Happy writing,
-CPH
I am a carousel of stars
spiraling without a sky,
elastic graces of breathing
binding me in shocking gasps
together toward the clean
comfort of an evolving tomorrow.
I am a stream of ripples
pulsing without a shore,
alive with the gift of you
and pushing past feting nows
through to the innocent
ignorance of an evolving tomorrow.
spiraling without a sky,
elastic graces of breathing
binding me in shocking gasps
together toward the clean
comfort of an evolving tomorrow.
I am a stream of ripples
pulsing without a shore,
alive with the gift of you
and pushing past feting nows
through to the innocent
ignorance of an evolving tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Three Secrets
***
Did I ever tell you it's always the cheap suits that make me the most remitted? I will find myself spending a weekend in meetings full of attractive associates, all adorned in fine-fitting forms of business-appropriate perfection. Meanwhile, I sit fidgeting, wishing I'd spent more money on shoes and had better fitting pants, wishing they could see the cuffs of my shirt outside of the sleeves of my jacket. I tremble, my stomach spins into stabs of self-doubt and I want out and away. I slip privately into a crisp fall afternoon where the sharp chill mandates another body to cuddle and keep warm. I daydream about overcast skies and low temperatures while blabbering bits of well-dress information spill over me. I dream of leaving to bowl alone or watch a movie, pretending that I listen, sitting fully erect with a shotty pride in what I am wearing, in who I am. I have to. They have all the other advantages.
*
Did I ever tell you once, stepping onto the porch to grab the chunky Sunday edition of the morning paper, I found a murdered tabby cat hanging limp from my brass door handle? The cat's wispy white fur matted against its rust-stained skin in places, and the dangling paws wobbled hollow in the breeze. The horror and general shock of the moment stunted the easy morning, and the scene lingered, twisting in me. My eyes welled and reddened with the threat of tears for a tardy and desperate catharsis, but I remembered I didn't have a cat. The murdered tabby simply wasn't mine. I remembered I had never had a cat at that house. Nor a dog. And the morning started moving again.
*
Did I ever tell you I buried a sack of Brazilian voodoo bones in the backyard? The pearl inlay was fake, but the magic seeped into the soil somehow. On that day the grass blurred and hissed, and the rose bush your aunt loved so much withered and bloomed in loop for a full week after. I buried the bones because I was afraid, after stealing them, that the proper owners would want them back, find me with them, and shrink my skull, leaving it as a morbid souvenir for brave tourists. Somehow I thought the ground might hide the bones like it does corpses. But these were Brazilian voodoo bones, and those tricky spirits die hard in this soulless American soil.
***
Did I ever tell you it's always the cheap suits that make me the most remitted? I will find myself spending a weekend in meetings full of attractive associates, all adorned in fine-fitting forms of business-appropriate perfection. Meanwhile, I sit fidgeting, wishing I'd spent more money on shoes and had better fitting pants, wishing they could see the cuffs of my shirt outside of the sleeves of my jacket. I tremble, my stomach spins into stabs of self-doubt and I want out and away. I slip privately into a crisp fall afternoon where the sharp chill mandates another body to cuddle and keep warm. I daydream about overcast skies and low temperatures while blabbering bits of well-dress information spill over me. I dream of leaving to bowl alone or watch a movie, pretending that I listen, sitting fully erect with a shotty pride in what I am wearing, in who I am. I have to. They have all the other advantages.
*
Did I ever tell you once, stepping onto the porch to grab the chunky Sunday edition of the morning paper, I found a murdered tabby cat hanging limp from my brass door handle? The cat's wispy white fur matted against its rust-stained skin in places, and the dangling paws wobbled hollow in the breeze. The horror and general shock of the moment stunted the easy morning, and the scene lingered, twisting in me. My eyes welled and reddened with the threat of tears for a tardy and desperate catharsis, but I remembered I didn't have a cat. The murdered tabby simply wasn't mine. I remembered I had never had a cat at that house. Nor a dog. And the morning started moving again.
*
Did I ever tell you I buried a sack of Brazilian voodoo bones in the backyard? The pearl inlay was fake, but the magic seeped into the soil somehow. On that day the grass blurred and hissed, and the rose bush your aunt loved so much withered and bloomed in loop for a full week after. I buried the bones because I was afraid, after stealing them, that the proper owners would want them back, find me with them, and shrink my skull, leaving it as a morbid souvenir for brave tourists. Somehow I thought the ground might hide the bones like it does corpses. But these were Brazilian voodoo bones, and those tricky spirits die hard in this soulless American soil.
***
The Brazilian Voodoo Bones
Did I every tell you I buried a sack of Brazilian voodoo bones in the backyard? The pearl inlay was fake, but the magic seeped into the soil somehow. The day I did it all the grass blurred and hissed and the rose bush your aunt loved so much withered and bloomed in loop for a full week after. I buried the bones because I was afraid, after stealing them, that the proper owners would want them back, find me with them, and shrink my skull, leaving it as a morbid souvenir for brave tourists. Somehow I thought the ground might hide the bones like it does corpses. But these were Brazilian voodoo bones, remember, and those tricky spirits die hard in this soulless American soil.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Cheap Suits
It's always the cheap suits that make me the most remitted. I will find myself spending a weekend in meetings full of attractive associates, all adorned in fine-fitting forms of business-appropriate perfection. Meanwhile, I sit awkwardly wishing I'd spent more money on shoes and had better fitting pants, wishing they could see the cuffs of my shirt outside of the sleeves of my jacket. I get nervous, anxious, my stomach spinning into stabs of self doubt and I want out and away. I slip privately into a crisp fall afternoon where the sharp chill mandates another body to cuddle and keep warm. I daydream about overcast skies and low temperatures while blabbering bits of well-dress information are spilled over me. I dream of leaving to bowl alone or watch a movie, but look as if I am listening, sitting fully erect with a pretended pride in what I am wearing, in who I am. I have to. They have all the other advantages.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Tabby Cat
Did I ever tell you once, stepping onto the porch to grab the chunky Sunday edition of the morning paper, I found a murdered tabby cat hanging limp from my brass door handle? The cat's wispy white fur matted against its rust-stained skin in places, and the dangling paws wobbled hollow in the breeze. The horror and general shock of the moment stunted the easy morning, and the scene lingered, twisting in me. My eyes welled and reddened with the threat of tears for a tardy and desperate catharsis, but I remembered I didn't have a cat. The murdered tabby simply wasn't mine. I remembered I had never had a cat at that house. Nor a dog. And the morning started moving again.
Cary Grant
A manufactured charm,
genuine enough to cradle
hostage audiences over
two hour romances, soared
over the closeted real man.
But velvet rouge lips and
dandelion hair compelled you
like magnets on the screen,
laughing for Deborah Kerr
or fucking Grace Kelly.
The part in your polished hair
perfected aside the image;
a half-cocked grin relaxed
onto the boyish face of
a silly-handsome Scotsman
sitting spitefully crosslegged
in a tuxedo, your hard chin
daring the world not to be enamored.
So, as I kiss cellophane
goodbyes to Archibald Leach,
I wish that I could be you,
the ironic pounding of that
shared wish playing us to black.
genuine enough to cradle
hostage audiences over
two hour romances, soared
over the closeted real man.
But velvet rouge lips and
dandelion hair compelled you
like magnets on the screen,
laughing for Deborah Kerr
or fucking Grace Kelly.
The part in your polished hair
perfected aside the image;
a half-cocked grin relaxed
onto the boyish face of
a silly-handsome Scotsman
sitting spitefully crosslegged
in a tuxedo, your hard chin
daring the world not to be enamored.
So, as I kiss cellophane
goodbyes to Archibald Leach,
I wish that I could be you,
the ironic pounding of that
shared wish playing us to black.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Blood Red Barn
Pa built a blood red
barn far out in the north woods
away from the house
and worked on it every night
for two and a half summers.
We watched him build up the frame,
and fill it in with cheap wood.
He did it alone,
never once asking for help
from any of us.
While he worked his eyes were mean;
we didn't ask what it was
but watched it take shape
and figured it was a barn.
When he painted it,
we knew not to go out there.
That's where he'd do the killings.
barn far out in the north woods
away from the house
and worked on it every night
for two and a half summers.
We watched him build up the frame,
and fill it in with cheap wood.
He did it alone,
never once asking for help
from any of us.
While he worked his eyes were mean;
we didn't ask what it was
but watched it take shape
and figured it was a barn.
When he painted it,
we knew not to go out there.
That's where he'd do the killings.
Explaining Myself
I called the dogwood,
shedding in the autumn wind,
a blizzard; she laughed.
Looking at the tree
and seeing snow again, I
tried to explain it:
"The flowers burst out
into the flustering breeze
like a tidal snow.
First, the white pedals
bound in the air, playing with
the soft, impish gusts.
Then they shower down
after the wind releases them,
painting the ground white.
The pedal dusting sticks,
fooling me into thinking
that it is winter."
After I explained,
she understood and agreed.
We laughed together.
shedding in the autumn wind,
a blizzard; she laughed.
Looking at the tree
and seeing snow again, I
tried to explain it:
"The flowers burst out
into the flustering breeze
like a tidal snow.
First, the white pedals
bound in the air, playing with
the soft, impish gusts.
Then they shower down
after the wind releases them,
painting the ground white.
The pedal dusting sticks,
fooling me into thinking
that it is winter."
After I explained,
she understood and agreed.
We laughed together.
Fingernails
My fingernails bruise and grow
In jagged summits and snarls.
But I will cut then even,
Smoothing away their threat.
In jagged summits and snarls
are wild, woolly madmen
that, too, smooth away their threats
with deceptive coats of style.
Are those wild, woolly madmen
any different than me, grooming,
with deceptive coats of style,
this archaic, ragged body?
Any difference in my grooming
now is simply a coincidence with
this archaic and ragged body;
Noticing has made me self-conscious.
Now, simply, a coincidence:
I cut them uneven.
Noticing makes me self-conscious,
but my fingernails still bruise and grow.
In jagged summits and snarls.
But I will cut then even,
Smoothing away their threat.
In jagged summits and snarls
are wild, woolly madmen
that, too, smooth away their threats
with deceptive coats of style.
Are those wild, woolly madmen
any different than me, grooming,
with deceptive coats of style,
this archaic, ragged body?
Any difference in my grooming
now is simply a coincidence with
this archaic and ragged body;
Noticing has made me self-conscious.
Now, simply, a coincidence:
I cut them uneven.
Noticing makes me self-conscious,
but my fingernails still bruise and grow.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
Friday Night
My stomach sings regret
as I wander around
the dorm excited
for a party
I did not want to attend.
My ride is late
and I wait
with all the
anxiousness of virginity in
an uncomfortably familiar lobby
going through the motions
of the weekend party ritual:
Friday night is a breakbeat
introduction to a club banger,
manufacturing anticipation
to heights that
will not be fulfilled in dusky
crowded rooms that swim in darkness
and sin until the kind pause
of sleep and drunk induced alzheimer's
washes them away.
As usual, the dancers will eventually
forget their steps
and we will find ourselves
in Saturday morning,
stung with the stale
sweat and wasted toil of our attempts.
But, finally, at the party,
this Friday night waits for me
in the lonely corners
of a loud room where
I smirk at blurs of girls
I'm not attracted to
but would sleep with.
This Friday night screams
for empty sex and
a dashing tongue
in the weary mouth
of the work-week.
I falter from the plan,
the party eventually
takes me and dances with me
and I unexpectedly fall
into a good time.
A woman keeps my
attention and rips away
my sanctimonious pretensions;
she is intelligent, well-spoken,
and hotter than Halle Berry.
We rock and tangle in rhythm
where I find her soft lips
on more than one occasion.
And to think I didn't
want to come.
This Friday night has tricked me,
and yet we both have won.
So, galloping, I find lifted
spirits and begin to fly
on the now sturdy wings
of the weekend, beckoning
Icarus and giggling with
my new 'friend'
about his failures.
Now, we work with rod-iron
and steel, so keep
that weak wax away
from our Friday night.
And after we recognize
that the dancers are
all tired having failed
in their doomed mission
to pen an epic encounter,
we stumble into a descending groove
in the breakdown of the song.
The pulsing beat of everything
we had wanted is gone while
the sounds slides away to Saturday,
showcasing what we have found.
but I'm no longer worried or morose.
I tell my ride to go on home
because I'm leaving with
this brand new friend
to a hyacinth house full
of pleased lions where
we can sleep until afternoon
after tumbling like burning banshees
in the pyre of unexpected weekend sex
and still say to each other "Good Morning."
as I wander around
the dorm excited
for a party
I did not want to attend.
My ride is late
and I wait
with all the
anxiousness of virginity in
an uncomfortably familiar lobby
going through the motions
of the weekend party ritual:
Friday night is a breakbeat
introduction to a club banger,
manufacturing anticipation
to heights that
will not be fulfilled in dusky
crowded rooms that swim in darkness
and sin until the kind pause
of sleep and drunk induced alzheimer's
washes them away.
As usual, the dancers will eventually
forget their steps
and we will find ourselves
in Saturday morning,
stung with the stale
sweat and wasted toil of our attempts.
But, finally, at the party,
this Friday night waits for me
in the lonely corners
of a loud room where
I smirk at blurs of girls
I'm not attracted to
but would sleep with.
This Friday night screams
for empty sex and
a dashing tongue
in the weary mouth
of the work-week.
I falter from the plan,
the party eventually
takes me and dances with me
and I unexpectedly fall
into a good time.
A woman keeps my
attention and rips away
my sanctimonious pretensions;
she is intelligent, well-spoken,
and hotter than Halle Berry.
We rock and tangle in rhythm
where I find her soft lips
on more than one occasion.
And to think I didn't
want to come.
This Friday night has tricked me,
and yet we both have won.
So, galloping, I find lifted
spirits and begin to fly
on the now sturdy wings
of the weekend, beckoning
Icarus and giggling with
my new 'friend'
about his failures.
Now, we work with rod-iron
and steel, so keep
that weak wax away
from our Friday night.
And after we recognize
that the dancers are
all tired having failed
in their doomed mission
to pen an epic encounter,
we stumble into a descending groove
in the breakdown of the song.
The pulsing beat of everything
we had wanted is gone while
the sounds slides away to Saturday,
showcasing what we have found.
but I'm no longer worried or morose.
I tell my ride to go on home
because I'm leaving with
this brand new friend
to a hyacinth house full
of pleased lions where
we can sleep until afternoon
after tumbling like burning banshees
in the pyre of unexpected weekend sex
and still say to each other "Good Morning."
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Favors
I wanted to ask
the professor if
he'd stay after class
with Elizabeth.
We needed to talk,
together, about
that night, where we'd walk
to, and the amount.
I couldn't pay, but
I had kept quiet.
He owed me, above
all else, and knew it.
I made a deal with
him; she was a gift.
the professor if
he'd stay after class
with Elizabeth.
We needed to talk,
together, about
that night, where we'd walk
to, and the amount.
I couldn't pay, but
I had kept quiet.
He owed me, above
all else, and knew it.
I made a deal with
him; she was a gift.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Not Shaving
I refused the razor today,
neglecting a shave
so I might remind myself
I am a man.
The stubble masculinity
proceeds me, announcing
my roughness and
willingness to tumble;
I'll fight and nibble
the grit and gristle there,
in my near-beard.
And as its witness,
you will recognize
the beard's wisdom,
its grizzly bear gruff
and guttural, hungry growls,
grilling themselves solid
in the grind.
The manly freedom shards,
hanging from my face
as I age and grow,
into the smoothed
skin of youth.
I refused the razor today,
neglecting a shave
so I might remind myself
I am a man.
neglecting a shave
so I might remind myself
I am a man.
The stubble masculinity
proceeds me, announcing
my roughness and
willingness to tumble;
I'll fight and nibble
the grit and gristle there,
in my near-beard.
And as its witness,
you will recognize
the beard's wisdom,
its grizzly bear gruff
and guttural, hungry growls,
grilling themselves solid
in the grind.
The manly freedom shards,
hanging from my face
as I age and grow,
into the smoothed
skin of youth.
I refused the razor today,
neglecting a shave
so I might remind myself
I am a man.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Bed Time
My eyes ache
like dirty blankets,
smothering my face
with gently hung
scratching and wavering
surges of hush.
I am rolled
into a drifting sleep
in the soiled bed
of my dirty clothes;
upright, my mattress
is firm as a gravestone
giving the posture
of a tax man.
I feign life
in the flashing tumbles
of consciousness,
strobing between periods of
teased dreams and descending
stillness.
I rub the roughness red
into my sclera,
hoping to flip
the draining pillow
of the moment to its
shocking cold underneath.
It is no use,
I admit to myself
that I am
slumber-fodder
and drift nobly on,
defeated.
like dirty blankets,
smothering my face
with gently hung
scratching and wavering
surges of hush.
I am rolled
into a drifting sleep
in the soiled bed
of my dirty clothes;
upright, my mattress
is firm as a gravestone
giving the posture
of a tax man.
I feign life
in the flashing tumbles
of consciousness,
strobing between periods of
teased dreams and descending
stillness.
I rub the roughness red
into my sclera,
hoping to flip
the draining pillow
of the moment to its
shocking cold underneath.
It is no use,
I admit to myself
that I am
slumber-fodder
and drift nobly on,
defeated.
On Spoiling a Crush
flattering fascinations
were never enough
to cover the bluff
of your infatuation,
so
your crystal snow flakes
fall fragrantly to the concrete
of our reality,
shattering into shards
of smell that stab
my memory into submission.
the transmission of peace
is interrupted for another
frenzy; again i am descending.
i blow kisses to god
for protection and mute
the jagged doubts
that self-protection
spins as safety webs
ensuring the quivering
insect of inspection
is not devoured
by the black spider
of the moment;
i am in the moment.
i bluster like an oyster
snapped from its shell,
there is no peace
in this tumult-ocean
and i am waved and
raked across the coral
that circumstance has
scarred into the seabed.
let me sleep and dream
of a softer nightmare;
my attention bleeds
to scab but i am
a ruby river of next,
next,
next.
and you.
you.
you bully your
tank-framed images
into line.
and i am powerless
to retreat, to climb,
or to swim at all.
i wavier and laugh
myself into fits.
again, i am descending.
and i blame you with
the reward of my spasm.
were never enough
to cover the bluff
of your infatuation,
so
your crystal snow flakes
fall fragrantly to the concrete
of our reality,
shattering into shards
of smell that stab
my memory into submission.
the transmission of peace
is interrupted for another
frenzy; again i am descending.
i blow kisses to god
for protection and mute
the jagged doubts
that self-protection
spins as safety webs
ensuring the quivering
insect of inspection
is not devoured
by the black spider
of the moment;
i am in the moment.
i bluster like an oyster
snapped from its shell,
there is no peace
in this tumult-ocean
and i am waved and
raked across the coral
that circumstance has
scarred into the seabed.
let me sleep and dream
of a softer nightmare;
my attention bleeds
to scab but i am
a ruby river of next,
next,
next.
and you.
you.
you bully your
tank-framed images
into line.
and i am powerless
to retreat, to climb,
or to swim at all.
i wavier and laugh
myself into fits.
again, i am descending.
and i blame you with
the reward of my spasm.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The Failure of the Prophet
i'm nervous.
before i even jump on stage
and pretend these wooden
planks are a word of
my own creation,
i feel my stomach's treason
bubbling and knotting
all my confidence,
kinking the hose to
my pure self expression.
and all the attention
adds heat to the already
burning, smoldering pile
of chard ash that is
my artistic ambition,
i had a vision
but this spot light
has melted it.
and while i prance,
singing praises to romance,
self-discovery,
hilarity,
and the shame of being broken;
i'll lament never hitting
the quick of those
original intentions,
the burden of the applause
is the proof that
i have failed.
i never meant to entertain,
i had only wanted to educate.
before i even jump on stage
and pretend these wooden
planks are a word of
my own creation,
i feel my stomach's treason
bubbling and knotting
all my confidence,
kinking the hose to
my pure self expression.
and all the attention
adds heat to the already
burning, smoldering pile
of chard ash that is
my artistic ambition,
i had a vision
but this spot light
has melted it.
and while i prance,
singing praises to romance,
self-discovery,
hilarity,
and the shame of being broken;
i'll lament never hitting
the quick of those
original intentions,
the burden of the applause
is the proof that
i have failed.
i never meant to entertain,
i had only wanted to educate.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
as Paco de Lucia
When the strings agree
and writhe, feverishly
plucked in the torrid
tune of the moment,
I wince in the pure
pleasure of my control.
These calloused hands
strike and scratch the
medal, pushing and
pulsing across the bridge,
as graceful and sexed as
the sultry dancers listening.
I shake my head in time,
violently dotting where
the song demands skill
and I oblige; again
seamlessly, again perfect,
again wincing until
there is a breath in the
song. And beauty intrudes
where intensity has quivered.
Tears will lick my eyes,
never falling. But the sympathy
is there. My hands feel the pain.
My fingers flash-flick and finish,
the finality of the silence
haunting the room in the instant
before the applause. The journey
is done and the story told.
My hands bow. I nod humbly and smile.
and writhe, feverishly
plucked in the torrid
tune of the moment,
I wince in the pure
pleasure of my control.
These calloused hands
strike and scratch the
medal, pushing and
pulsing across the bridge,
as graceful and sexed as
the sultry dancers listening.
I shake my head in time,
violently dotting where
the song demands skill
and I oblige; again
seamlessly, again perfect,
again wincing until
there is a breath in the
song. And beauty intrudes
where intensity has quivered.
Tears will lick my eyes,
never falling. But the sympathy
is there. My hands feel the pain.
My fingers flash-flick and finish,
the finality of the silence
haunting the room in the instant
before the applause. The journey
is done and the story told.
My hands bow. I nod humbly and smile.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Alarm World
We live in such an alarm world,
set sirens for sleep and living,
and the nature in us has died
along with the ability to feel.
We stoically rustle against set budgets
of time and money and people, pacing
through memorized steps, dancing nowhere,
and stick parasitically to the lame rhythm.
We slouch and cough and die, all
in the same cycle set synchronised
with digital faces and micro-divisions,
draining away that inherent god in us.
We live in such an alarm world,
buzzed to birth then work then death,
wallowing in the set contentions of
this rigid and worn waking-day world.
set sirens for sleep and living,
and the nature in us has died
along with the ability to feel.
We stoically rustle against set budgets
of time and money and people, pacing
through memorized steps, dancing nowhere,
and stick parasitically to the lame rhythm.
We slouch and cough and die, all
in the same cycle set synchronised
with digital faces and micro-divisions,
draining away that inherent god in us.
We live in such an alarm world,
buzzed to birth then work then death,
wallowing in the set contentions of
this rigid and worn waking-day world.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Freshman
Our freshman year we would wake up together, pushing each other out of sleep and bed, and stumble to la clase de espanol, hardly on time and in our stale pajamas. We would find lunch after, doing the homework while eating, then crawl back to her bed with our stomachs full and, smothered in jersey sheets and feather pillows, sweating onto each other's chest, would fuck well into the afternoon, falling asleep until dinner and our late astronomy lab. These were our Tuesdays.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
"you should go
down the street
to mr. reed and
find his cane
again.
find his cane
so he can stand
his drunk ass up
and try to walk.
take him to the
station so he
can buy himself
a beer. find his
cane and if he
needs a dollar
for a beer give
him a dollar.
don't say nothing.
go down the street
and help mr. reed.
find his cane
again."
to mr. reed and
find his cane
again.
find his cane
so he can stand
his drunk ass up
and try to walk.
take him to the
station so he
can buy himself
a beer. find his
cane and if he
needs a dollar
for a beer give
him a dollar.
don't say nothing.
go down the street
and help mr. reed.
find his cane
again."
Why We Should Leave
Now there is nothing here for us.
There was once kings and queens for
us. Smiles on trees for
us. Notes and kisses for
us. Hands and winks for
us. Candy and films for
us. Books and poems for
us. Nights and nights for
us. Sweat and moans for
us. Gifts and words for
us. Hours and wails for
us. Fights and grins for
us. Frowns and blood for
us. Scowls and crowns for
us. Winks and drinks for
us. Drunks and drugs for
us. Knives and hugs for
us. But the feisty angles have left
us, and this shallow, empty void becomes
us, and we need something. Anything.
But now there is nothing here for us.
Now there is nothing here for us.
There was once kings and queens for
us. Smiles on trees for
us. Notes and kisses for
us. Hands and winks for
us. Candy and films for
us. Books and poems for
us. Nights and nights for
us. Sweat and moans for
us. Gifts and words for
us. Hours and wails for
us. Fights and grins for
us. Frowns and blood for
us. Scowls and crowns for
us. Winks and drinks for
us. Drunks and drugs for
us. Knives and hugs for
us. But the feisty angles have left
us, and this shallow, empty void becomes
us, and we need something. Anything.
But now there is nothing here for us.
Now there is nothing here for us.
if i could sing
i wish i could sing.
i would sing constantly,
i would not stop spinning
in my whirl-wind cocoon of tune,
infinity provided in my perfect pitch.
i would never stop singing.
in every breath would beat a new note, and
in every breath would unfurl a new melody, and
instantly: infinity in my perfect pitch.
i will never stop singing.
i will become a cocooned chorus, a constant gospel,
in every breath a whirling sonnet sung
infinitely melodic and note-perfect in orgasmic pitch.
i would make my name a song.
i would sing constantly,
i would not stop spinning
in my whirl-wind cocoon of tune,
infinity provided in my perfect pitch.
i would never stop singing.
in every breath would beat a new note, and
in every breath would unfurl a new melody, and
instantly: infinity in my perfect pitch.
i will never stop singing.
i will become a cocooned chorus, a constant gospel,
in every breath a whirling sonnet sung
infinitely melodic and note-perfect in orgasmic pitch.
i would make my name a song.
If You Want to Run
If you want to run I'll buy a gun and learn all of your favorite songs. I'll wear an old western shirt, find my boots and my jeans, and we'll jump in my El Camino and find a desert road to drive down until we both choke on the idea of our deaths while finding nature and whatever reason there maybe for us to be here anyway.
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