I was thinking about
gashing my face from
the space between the bottom of my good eye
above my nostril
to the bend of my jaw bone and then asking
you to stitch me,
but I realized the embarrassment of
a thing so like touching myself
would present problems,
silly, unsteadying problems
done anywhere besides
a mirror front alone
and besides,
I'm still not sure it would heal in a way
that would capture
a fingertip's width of
fond memories
still radiating trace amounts of
love's decay.
Practice runs
help
and I can almost
split skin to
needing something stronger
than a band-aid
to hold it together.
Can I come over today?
original works of parts
Pittsburgh Black and Whites
The cold front broke warm over
skyline sharps and thins
and it rained
but not on Flagstaff hill.
skyline sharps and thins
and it rained
but not on Flagstaff hill.
Smoker 8
"She gets me
to that spot where I don't know
if I'm on the verge of being
horny or if I really
need to pee."
A flake of snow lands
on the tip of my nose
in the porch light still warming
up to it's full output
and the buzzing
and condensation freezing
in the muff beneath my mouth
is not what I want to hear
but, you're not much for conversation tonight
and I'm feeling uninspired
poking at the dead and floating embers
still rising from the crater of
so violent
a thing as the melt down
that detached you from our world.
"I'm just saying
I can understand
what you saw there."
A flake of snow lands
on the tip of my nose
in the porch light still warming,
but hours from illuminating,
and buzzing
conversations inside the front door
are asking you when
will you snuff out
the last shreds of that blaze
that took more lives than you had to spare and
get used to the warmth of good company.
to that spot where I don't know
if I'm on the verge of being
horny or if I really
need to pee."
A flake of snow lands
on the tip of my nose
in the porch light still warming
up to it's full output
and the buzzing
and condensation freezing
in the muff beneath my mouth
is not what I want to hear
but, you're not much for conversation tonight
and I'm feeling uninspired
poking at the dead and floating embers
still rising from the crater of
so violent
a thing as the melt down
that detached you from our world.
"I'm just saying
I can understand
what you saw there."
A flake of snow lands
on the tip of my nose
in the porch light still warming,
but hours from illuminating,
and buzzing
conversations inside the front door
are asking you when
will you snuff out
the last shreds of that blaze
that took more lives than you had to spare and
get used to the warmth of good company.
Boundary Theory
It's not that there's only so much pornography,
it's that the vertex graph of the human body
allows only so much
before we need to
clip
some edges.
it's that the vertex graph of the human body
allows only so much
before we need to
clip
some edges.
Flash the Firmware (LP)
Vision Quest
The snarler pop of electric shock
is the end of the track so walk
back to the start and trace the hand
prints of transmission lines scarred
across your skin like footprints in sand.
Claymating and creating
worlds in which Gods could appear,
but chose not to
speak and were spoken to
through licked fingertips and bent paperclips.
The snarler pop of electric shock
laid hands along veins and ripped chords
like free falling water against paddle wheel planes.
Transmission lines scarred across your skin
like footprints in sand.
Why are you sad, sad little outlet
spouting warnings or else without
reason a mouth is a doubt well
speaking never spoken to
through fingertips gripping bent paperclips.
The snarler pop of electric shock
like the sounds of sand slashed
through muscle and holes gashed in flash steam
bursts vessels and scars skin
and stops hearts long enough for transmission
Of a dream standing apart
from reason and why come
and the mouth opens and pours forth
a stream of electric knowledge into a shell
too young to understand a heaven or corporeal cell.
The snarler pop of electric shock
to wake at the bottom of a well.
Looks Like Twins
Beneath the surface, there's room for one
but expression insists a home for two.
I try to pull my insides out, but there's not
mass enough to follow through.
We're holding hands, you crush on me
I write sweet notes to you.
I'm dreaming of taking a knife to your face but
there's not mass enough to follow through.
Forgive and forget and move on with life
though gored by anchor flue.
Fingers ask mind to pluck out lying eyes
and there's not mass enough to follow through.
Pulling ribbons of stomach out through lips
like terrified bird wings move.
Trying to drown the other but there's not
mass enough to follow through.
Looking for a way out in
to spill blood red still blue.
Reverse and reveal what I've known to be true
but the mass enough to dispel the doubt continues to elude.
Trail Brake
Turn heads with turn downs
down turned lips below frowns
You live life on the edge so
why park it on the ledge
I thought you had guts, no glory,
no more drinks, whats the story?
No story no sober
still champion red rover
Still balls to the wall
coaster dry for last call
What's next, why I'm flaking?
Vision quest trail braking
Pedal kiss metal when I get home
chemical hits straight to the dome
Soon as they close up here, its on
and you're welcome to come along,
but don't blink too hard
or pause too long cause
I'll be out, down the straight,
and gone.
Sky Fingers Carved Light
Child of the dream collected
poured into a space protected
torn in parts and whole rejected
still in pools of eyes reflected.
Made planes of hands and pilots
bending like space men in flight
amongst sky giants and around
breath taking geoliths born from
weather storms massive enough
to swallow the Earth
a dozen times over and it would be
something to have seen it
instead of to have heard about
the vistas second hand at the
mess hall at school.
The snarler pop of electric shock
is the end of the track so walk
back to the start and trace the hand
prints of transmission lines scarred
across your skin like footprints in sand.
Claymating and creating
worlds in which Gods could appear,
but chose not to
speak and were spoken to
through licked fingertips and bent paperclips.
The snarler pop of electric shock
laid hands along veins and ripped chords
like free falling water against paddle wheel planes.
Transmission lines scarred across your skin
like footprints in sand.
Why are you sad, sad little outlet
spouting warnings or else without
reason a mouth is a doubt well
speaking never spoken to
through fingertips gripping bent paperclips.
The snarler pop of electric shock
like the sounds of sand slashed
through muscle and holes gashed in flash steam
bursts vessels and scars skin
and stops hearts long enough for transmission
Of a dream standing apart
from reason and why come
and the mouth opens and pours forth
a stream of electric knowledge into a shell
too young to understand a heaven or corporeal cell.
The snarler pop of electric shock
to wake at the bottom of a well.
Looks Like Twins
Beneath the surface, there's room for one
but expression insists a home for two.
I try to pull my insides out, but there's not
mass enough to follow through.
We're holding hands, you crush on me
I write sweet notes to you.
I'm dreaming of taking a knife to your face but
there's not mass enough to follow through.
Forgive and forget and move on with life
though gored by anchor flue.
Fingers ask mind to pluck out lying eyes
and there's not mass enough to follow through.
Pulling ribbons of stomach out through lips
like terrified bird wings move.
Trying to drown the other but there's not
mass enough to follow through.
Looking for a way out in
to spill blood red still blue.
Reverse and reveal what I've known to be true
but the mass enough to dispel the doubt continues to elude.
Trail Brake
Turn heads with turn downs
down turned lips below frowns
You live life on the edge so
why park it on the ledge
I thought you had guts, no glory,
no more drinks, whats the story?
No story no sober
still champion red rover
Still balls to the wall
coaster dry for last call
What's next, why I'm flaking?
Vision quest trail braking
Pedal kiss metal when I get home
chemical hits straight to the dome
Soon as they close up here, its on
and you're welcome to come along,
but don't blink too hard
or pause too long cause
I'll be out, down the straight,
and gone.
Sky Fingers Carved Light
Child of the dream collected
poured into a space protected
torn in parts and whole rejected
still in pools of eyes reflected.
Made planes of hands and pilots
bending like space men in flight
amongst sky giants and around
breath taking geoliths born from
weather storms massive enough
to swallow the Earth
a dozen times over and it would be
something to have seen it
instead of to have heard about
the vistas second hand at the
mess hall at school.
Child of the dream collected
poured into a space protected
torn in parts and whole rejected
still in pools of eyes reflected.
The transport ship went down
after taking direct hits from pirates
storming up from the rear and
mining the lanes with all sorts of
armor piercing jetsam and the threat
remains a primary concern
on the highways between planets
not even the inner system patrolmen
trust the intentions of the pilots
who sent out the mayday and
though they are as bad as the pirates
they're the only ones available
to this particular craft.
Say nothing.
Child of the dream collected
poured into a space protected
torn in parts and whole rejected
still in pools of eyes reflected.
A running dogfight amongst the stars
and planar ring batteries of
gas giants fringing things
dense enough to defy vision and
dark enough to eat detection
took it's toll on a hero
who has done things
legendary to survive annihilation and
grown heavy along the way as
gravity contracts and matter
blows colder and farther apart.
Child of the dream collected
poured into a space protected
torn in parts and whole rejected
still in pools of eyes reflected.
On the edge of shift and
shifting space beneath peace and
pieces of voided space
a tied tie and buttons and
pleats and mug and paper seas and
whorls of printed grain and
creased face, one hand follows another
triangle nosed plane across
parking lot backed window pane and
growing tough and growing up
for a scant few seconds
forget the price they named.
Child of the dream collected
poured into a space protected
torn in parts and whole rejected
still in pools of eyes reflected.
Burning Man
Fingers in the gears and learning what it takes
to understand the architecture
down to where each nail is placed.
I'm starting to wonder in the dusk
at the fringe of childhood's end
if you came with me to overlook hill
would the city lights still count us friends
would carefully laid cable work
keep the bridge aright
or would time take its indiscriminate torch
and leave us ashes by daylight.
Fingers in the gears and learning what it takes
to understand the architecture
down to where each joint is faced.
Though you and I have ridden the sky
like a broad backed beast
you're bailing from the power dive
and the building dam of heat.
Tandem or solo, I want less to care,
but reason keeps ticking like a clock
before a suicide bomb's white flare
you've sense enough not to watch.
Fingers in the gears and learning what it takes
to understand the architecture
down to error's marginal bit of space.
Turning on all senses to detect the rift,
the spread of flame from planned losses
to neighboring homes and hostages.
Somewhere there I see the costs,
and I know something should click
I know the broken ground and stones
should mean the obvious,
but I can't see the cemetery
as more than trophy bones
and I'm tearing on through time and space
albeit alone.
Fingers in the gears and breaking
doing what it takes to bleed and build
upon the foundation of the human race.
Come Unsummed
Stumbled in our rain dropped ways
through clouds and heat and fog
that banked like river moss
on broken logs I come to rest in phase
and breath in the grasses of the back yard.
Ahead of me are the spring time shoots
dressing the rusting fence and you
cat like assume a similar pose on stump
having crossed equally breathless miles
in wilds at least as tough.
My eyes run to read your face
and the places you have been,
you count my history likewise in
the features missing since our gazes touched
upon the opposite sides of the brush.
I don't know the lick or taste of
the fire that drives your heart, but
resting, us both, haunches to the ground,
we see most parts of everything we know
began in the seat of niches found.
Tail Wind
My hand in yours.
My hand in yours.
And the ground coming up.
And the water on the ground.
The water deep enough to drown.
And landing why.
And landing why.
All the talk of the ease of flight.
Weightless soothing dueling lies.
A spooling hatred for lidded eyes.
The weight of Fall
the fall of weightlessness
burns seasons turns all of it
into dreams of things electric
gone past in gut wrenched fits.
My hand in yours.
My hand in yours.
Dreams beating hard at cabin doors.
The ground came up to the sky's shores
and through me you us divided and newborn.
And landing why.
And landing why.
Eyes still held fast unto a sky.
A wheeling sprawling massive call
to reach and break and caterwaul.
Skip Tractor Movement
A certain weight of a thing so less
a rivet blown through eye and flesh.
The midnight die is often cast
to win a future from the past,
but motion is all relative
and around the painted bone
it's the world that spins.
A certain weight of a thing so less
a rivet blown through eye and flesh.
The turn of a chin to a shoulder
in the air habituated to grow colder
and the thickness of the sea
to breath the effort forces in
and takes another look for the sane.
A certain weight of a thing so less
a rivet blown through eye and flesh.
All is sawn apart from what's seen
and the terror tells the heart to dream
to feel the might and take the care
to cross the sights and burn the hair
to look one time and stare again.
A certain weight of a thing so less
a rivet blown through eye and flesh.
The union held of one event
bent in on itself through a hole rent
in rage of science and atom mauled
of sense and hell and lighthouse fall
of quake and guess and gnashing teeth
the rise and creep of the memory thief.
A certain weight of a thing so less
a rivet blown through eye and flesh.
Liberty
A body blew across the land
we waved and flew banners
from hills of sand
we built a stadium
and forged new rods
we danced the days
and blew the gods
we caught the rays
and booked new odds
and somewhere inside that body grew
a taste for me
and a drop of you
and the parade came next
for the fare and the fans
and followed that body across the land
and we waved and more banners
shined in trust
before came the first of
the threads of dust.
Nervous on an Other Level
I've stumbled upon an auditorium full
of women clapping at women talking
and the smirk is not at the idea of
valuation apart from sex or the fact that
anything you can do I can do better, but really
it's at the dour sets of so many mouths
and the multitude of shadowed brows,
the half light of the meeting space,
the 8:30 A.M. painted faces,
the ten dozen sets of angry eyes
doing their best to avoid smiling "hello"s
and, hell, I have my own misgivings
about some ways of guys,
but no, I did not receive the memo
and I'm not looking for a place to sit,
I'm thirty minutes late for my Irish history exam
and this room was supposed to be it.
of women clapping at women talking
and the smirk is not at the idea of
valuation apart from sex or the fact that
anything you can do I can do better, but really
it's at the dour sets of so many mouths
and the multitude of shadowed brows,
the half light of the meeting space,
the 8:30 A.M. painted faces,
the ten dozen sets of angry eyes
doing their best to avoid smiling "hello"s
and, hell, I have my own misgivings
about some ways of guys,
but no, I did not receive the memo
and I'm not looking for a place to sit,
I'm thirty minutes late for my Irish history exam
and this room was supposed to be it.
We Just Went for a Walk
The keys to the front door
are going in my pocket
wrapped tightly in the lanyard of
my school i.d. because I know
the bushy whites of your ears
are triangulating my whereabouts and
the morning air
I agree
smells so much more like
untested dawn tree lines and
the wet backs of black grasses
than it does like a school day.
are going in my pocket
wrapped tightly in the lanyard of
my school i.d. because I know
the bushy whites of your ears
are triangulating my whereabouts and
the morning air
I agree
smells so much more like
untested dawn tree lines and
the wet backs of black grasses
than it does like a school day.
Herb Rubbed Whole Turkey Bird on a Bed of Carrots and Golden Onions
Doily laced, but finer, like
streamers of clarified butter
over threads of spider wisp caramel and
too heated for the easily melted
pot of the belly and
the furred floor of a well watered mouth alike so
pressed nostrils in full flare
to the oven's vents and
drinking scarves of dinners scents and
raising dares of expectations
like team spirit pennants in the 9th
will, for now, my crowded senses
on edge of seat and anxious feet
have to satisfice.
streamers of clarified butter
over threads of spider wisp caramel and
too heated for the easily melted
pot of the belly and
the furred floor of a well watered mouth alike so
pressed nostrils in full flare
to the oven's vents and
drinking scarves of dinners scents and
raising dares of expectations
like team spirit pennants in the 9th
will, for now, my crowded senses
on edge of seat and anxious feet
have to satisfice.
Never Liked My Own Things
I cannot tell you
how galling it is
to stand in the museum
and one hundred
taxidermist's touching
brushes and needles and bits of hair
to one hundred
frames behind glass
and all of it
watches you
between wandering pillars
in light that fills your pupils
like soup against the lips
of a flask
and each one
calling button eyed
to hobby knives in working hands
mouths of dust
they're in need of a bit
only a bit
if you could
please, if you would just a sliver
of your tongue.
how galling it is
to stand in the museum
and one hundred
taxidermist's touching
brushes and needles and bits of hair
to one hundred
frames behind glass
and all of it
watches you
between wandering pillars
in light that fills your pupils
like soup against the lips
of a flask
and each one
calling button eyed
to hobby knives in working hands
mouths of dust
they're in need of a bit
only a bit
if you could
please, if you would just a sliver
of your tongue.
From the Pulpit
"Don't trust in stocks
or the dollar or the roof
He put over your head.
Don't trust in your senses
or your logic or your reason."
The difficulty comes
when the sweat on his neck
reflects the glint of his rings
and I start to calculate
how many steaks belt his gut
and how many holes
he had to punch in the leather
around his waist just this morning,
but I start to believe
that maybe Jesus is holding
up the loops of his pressed white pants.
"Rational thinking is
the slippery slope-"
So buy a level. The value in
being yelled at once a week
by someone too far away
to strangle
is
"-trust in the power of
the Lord and Him alone.
You can't do it on your own.
Let him guide you. Open-"
With the wallets again?
I was hoping He would move him
to say 'hearts'
this time. Maybe I should
tip better. Funny how
even He insists you should only be allowed
to get what you pay for.
Seems like a pretty
human assertion
"-he can restore your-"
please say dignity
"-trust in the restorative power-"
of a clean pair of socks.
I'm rubbing my toes
against the soles of my shoe tip
and the threads
are simply amazing.
or the dollar or the roof
He put over your head.
Don't trust in your senses
or your logic or your reason."
The difficulty comes
when the sweat on his neck
reflects the glint of his rings
and I start to calculate
how many steaks belt his gut
and how many holes
he had to punch in the leather
around his waist just this morning,
but I start to believe
that maybe Jesus is holding
up the loops of his pressed white pants.
"Rational thinking is
the slippery slope-"
So buy a level. The value in
being yelled at once a week
by someone too far away
to strangle
is
"-trust in the power of
the Lord and Him alone.
You can't do it on your own.
Let him guide you. Open-"
With the wallets again?
I was hoping He would move him
to say 'hearts'
this time. Maybe I should
tip better. Funny how
even He insists you should only be allowed
to get what you pay for.
Seems like a pretty
human assertion
"-he can restore your-"
please say dignity
"-trust in the restorative power-"
of a clean pair of socks.
I'm rubbing my toes
against the soles of my shoe tip
and the threads
are simply amazing.
The Hook
The hook as stands
is measured in quarks
when the thing
as forest
is better measured
less by parts.
is measured in quarks
when the thing
as forest
is better measured
less by parts.
Quick Dinner? Ordered Out.
The fat of the chicken is on the knot of the bag
and fingers should not knife in hand
also be. Late considerations.
and fingers should not knife in hand
also be. Late considerations.
Daybroke
"There's so much more left to do.
Well, I'm not young, but I'm not through."
The song in my heart is
the scuff and sway of my shoes
against the nubs of acorns
in the margins of the sidewalk
and I'm thinking to the time
of my fingertips beating the corners of
diamonds in a chain linked fence
and the rust coming loose has me feeling
my age and its grit reminds me of
the lint lining my pockets,
but the wind is kicking in off the Atlantic
and rushing the door of
my jacket and whipping my skin
free of last nights slag in sparking strokes
and the sun is still low and having
a hard time seeing its potential
and its rays are missing the mark,
but if it could only see it
from where I'm standing,
and my feet have taken me
in their singing absent way
to the black bars lining
the erosion proofed cement bank
of a river, but what is holding my gaze
is not the dappling of a sunrise
on water green enough to pluck in
fistfuls of foul leaves and brown bark,
but the vacancy of the concrete field
I crossed to get here and
the weeds growing hip high
and in that distance stands
no one,
but I could have swore
I heard you call my name.
I could have swore,
but you had your reasons
and I can still feel unrest
touching the corners of my eyes
and the sun is whispering to me
behind broken cloud work
that I'm not the only one
with so much more left to do
and its palm stroke against my cheek
is warm and resists the fall
of my chin to my chest at rivers edge
and as it muscles back the night
I know that today is not a new beginning,
only another opportunity
to make some moves
farther away from where
lofty goals exploded across the deep blue sky
and fell like dead satellites in the night.
Well, I'm not young, but I'm not through."
The song in my heart is
the scuff and sway of my shoes
against the nubs of acorns
in the margins of the sidewalk
and I'm thinking to the time
of my fingertips beating the corners of
diamonds in a chain linked fence
and the rust coming loose has me feeling
my age and its grit reminds me of
the lint lining my pockets,
but the wind is kicking in off the Atlantic
and rushing the door of
my jacket and whipping my skin
free of last nights slag in sparking strokes
and the sun is still low and having
a hard time seeing its potential
and its rays are missing the mark,
but if it could only see it
from where I'm standing,
and my feet have taken me
in their singing absent way
to the black bars lining
the erosion proofed cement bank
of a river, but what is holding my gaze
is not the dappling of a sunrise
on water green enough to pluck in
fistfuls of foul leaves and brown bark,
but the vacancy of the concrete field
I crossed to get here and
the weeds growing hip high
and in that distance stands
no one,
but I could have swore
I heard you call my name.
I could have swore,
but you had your reasons
and I can still feel unrest
touching the corners of my eyes
and the sun is whispering to me
behind broken cloud work
that I'm not the only one
with so much more left to do
and its palm stroke against my cheek
is warm and resists the fall
of my chin to my chest at rivers edge
and as it muscles back the night
I know that today is not a new beginning,
only another opportunity
to make some moves
farther away from where
lofty goals exploded across the deep blue sky
and fell like dead satellites in the night.
The Beggars of Brighton Terrace
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and though it put up a steady fight
with the help of the do it yourselfers
who came and went with hardware store's
Spring clearances
there was no improvement project planned
that could repair old section 8
nestled with the endearing face
of a battered, sunglass shuttered, spouse
beside the white vinyl of the neighborhood church.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and the mail boxes have been replaced
with strong boxes and little red
matchsticks of rubber clad iron bars
peeking out of cars where novelties and signs declaring
silly little things
used to reside and it is difficult to say
if it's because no one strolls during the day
to stop and see them and give a giggle
or if it's because of who strolls during the night.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and bike frames, sans wheels, are rusting to gates.
Music loud enough to mistake it for music blaring
from concert capable stereos by bedside has replaced
the little voices
of hide and seek on Friday evenings and
to peek through the blinds of a window from the East
is to see the slow rise of a tide of white flags
and the children of beggars beating the aluminum
like a kettle drum band on a sinking ship.
and though it put up a steady fight
with the help of the do it yourselfers
who came and went with hardware store's
Spring clearances
there was no improvement project planned
that could repair old section 8
nestled with the endearing face
of a battered, sunglass shuttered, spouse
beside the white vinyl of the neighborhood church.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and the mail boxes have been replaced
with strong boxes and little red
matchsticks of rubber clad iron bars
peeking out of cars where novelties and signs declaring
silly little things
used to reside and it is difficult to say
if it's because no one strolls during the day
to stop and see them and give a giggle
or if it's because of who strolls during the night.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and bike frames, sans wheels, are rusting to gates.
Music loud enough to mistake it for music blaring
from concert capable stereos by bedside has replaced
the little voices
of hide and seek on Friday evenings and
to peek through the blinds of a window from the East
is to see the slow rise of a tide of white flags
and the children of beggars beating the aluminum
like a kettle drum band on a sinking ship.
Like My Own Things
I like my own things
it's not posture or a bluff.
I'm being honest.
I'm being opened
consensual. No fuss.
I've airy words and visuals,
a hardened core minus puff.
I've sex and mastery
of genit parts, nasty
words and the buff,
the bare skin and the barely felt
the obese and the thin,
and while I hate plain puffery
made up words and
unearned grins
I feel I should
accept no blame
for liking my own things.
it's not posture or a bluff.
I'm being honest.
I'm being opened
consensual. No fuss.
I've airy words and visuals,
a hardened core minus puff.
I've sex and mastery
of genit parts, nasty
words and the buff,
the bare skin and the barely felt
the obese and the thin,
and while I hate plain puffery
made up words and
unearned grins
I feel I should
accept no blame
for liking my own things.
I'm Still an Astronaut
It's not that I've gone too far,
it's that I've not gone far enough.
I've touched third base, I've slain the chase,
the prom queen,and her muff.
I've razed the castle and the stakes,
mountain, foothill, and bluff.
I've ridden the dragon and the horse,
the bull by horn and scruff.
I've played the winner and the fool,
the intimate friend and tough.
I've cracked the case and thrown the race
arrived on cue and clutch.
I've had drinks on houses and the roof,
eaten single and Dutch.
I've touched a heart and grabbed an ass,
played in the mud, snow, and slush.
I've kissed the gold and smelted bronze,
polished off chrome and bread crust.
I've fasted and been caught out red,
said prayers while jawing and fluffed.
I've bought the farm and slowed the roll,
seen the light and fresh dusk.
I've glassed the town and the ground,
felt the heat, and loved the crush.
I've turned a corner and a trick,
bounced back and lined up flush.
I've hit the head, the nail, and eye,
the hole, the wall, and dust.
I've spurned the rise, the hearth, and home,
snapped rodent necks in the brush.
I've seen the fairy and three gods,
gone straight to raise the lush.
I've smelled the musk, broken the glass,
and bowed to the high and the rush.
I've taken vows and tipped the cows,
worked the circus and rut.
I've blown the engine, cracked the pan,
and gone full sail without a gust,
but even though I've done all that
it doesn't feel like much
and as far as I've come, as far as I'll go,
it'll always be Mars or bust.
it's that I've not gone far enough.
I've touched third base, I've slain the chase,
the prom queen,and her muff.
I've razed the castle and the stakes,
mountain, foothill, and bluff.
I've ridden the dragon and the horse,
the bull by horn and scruff.
I've played the winner and the fool,
the intimate friend and tough.
I've cracked the case and thrown the race
arrived on cue and clutch.
I've had drinks on houses and the roof,
eaten single and Dutch.
I've touched a heart and grabbed an ass,
played in the mud, snow, and slush.
I've kissed the gold and smelted bronze,
polished off chrome and bread crust.
I've fasted and been caught out red,
said prayers while jawing and fluffed.
I've bought the farm and slowed the roll,
seen the light and fresh dusk.
I've glassed the town and the ground,
felt the heat, and loved the crush.
I've turned a corner and a trick,
bounced back and lined up flush.
I've hit the head, the nail, and eye,
the hole, the wall, and dust.
I've spurned the rise, the hearth, and home,
snapped rodent necks in the brush.
I've seen the fairy and three gods,
gone straight to raise the lush.
I've smelled the musk, broken the glass,
and bowed to the high and the rush.
I've taken vows and tipped the cows,
worked the circus and rut.
I've blown the engine, cracked the pan,
and gone full sail without a gust,
but even though I've done all that
it doesn't feel like much
and as far as I've come, as far as I'll go,
it'll always be Mars or bust.
To an Older Sister
I tried to paint roses over a fight we had
and make it literary and profound.
On a third draft I realized I should
say "I'm sorry" and leave it at that.
Then I realized you probably didn't give a shit
because it happened two decades ago,
but I still remember the stab in the palm of my hand
when I thought it would only hit your cheek
and it caught in its sweep,
above your frustrated words
at my irrational resistance,
the angles and bars
and delicacies
of your
glasses.
I'm sorry.
and make it literary and profound.
On a third draft I realized I should
say "I'm sorry" and leave it at that.
Then I realized you probably didn't give a shit
because it happened two decades ago,
but I still remember the stab in the palm of my hand
when I thought it would only hit your cheek
and it caught in its sweep,
above your frustrated words
at my irrational resistance,
the angles and bars
and delicacies
of your
glasses.
I'm sorry.
Too Much Will Never Enough
Taking it in drafts
that would choke fables
and allusions dead where stood
and standing
and
and
I can and can't understand
wherefore art thou
oh Romeo's dribbles
of poison vialed
tabled for a later that
came and henceforth to be or
not be to known as a quantity
statistically speaking it defies
existence, but the tea cup, the tea cup
sitting at the table at the party
at the end of a universe is
lossy as aspirations go when
attempts to resolve a reality
a certain partiality to
a faith based on parts
of chrome and plated parsed
of slippage and slant and
of a flavor we
save for pinched minutes because
because
because
if and only if
the circumstance is arise
we buck convenient and
weather storm to dive
and flippant and flippant
and florid after success
and full
or
or
try and separate the me
from the you and we
become a sort and sorted and
and
and
where for art thou turns
obelike? lisped missed esses
litmus tested for life
and you come apart
in the morning
having passed
an examination of
margins uncreased
by neither fingertip
nor memory
and satisfaction
and survival
of an and added adlibdinal
wishing for words
for a never that was
and is too much
of an enough
to experience once.
that would choke fables
and allusions dead where stood
and standing
and
and
I can and can't understand
wherefore art thou
oh Romeo's dribbles
of poison vialed
tabled for a later that
came and henceforth to be or
not be to known as a quantity
statistically speaking it defies
existence, but the tea cup, the tea cup
sitting at the table at the party
at the end of a universe is
lossy as aspirations go when
attempts to resolve a reality
a certain partiality to
a faith based on parts
of chrome and plated parsed
of slippage and slant and
of a flavor we
save for pinched minutes because
because
because
if and only if
the circumstance is arise
we buck convenient and
weather storm to dive
and flippant and flippant
and florid after success
and full
or
or
try and separate the me
from the you and we
become a sort and sorted and
and
and
where for art thou turns
obelike? lisped missed esses
litmus tested for life
and you come apart
in the morning
having passed
an examination of
margins uncreased
by neither fingertip
nor memory
and satisfaction
and survival
of an and added adlibdinal
wishing for words
for a never that was
and is too much
of an enough
to experience once.
Grave Robber Rides Again
There was an excitement
that tucked itself away
beneath fingernails
and came free on the crown
of tooth and tongue
and stuck in the ridges of molars
at dinner's table, pouring itself
down a throat to a heart still fluttering
alongside grains of black earth
and grass leaf
to settle amongst
the last tremors
of a cymbal crash
of accomplishment
torn from unyielding media
at the point of a spade
and the sweat of a brow.
that tucked itself away
beneath fingernails
and came free on the crown
of tooth and tongue
and stuck in the ridges of molars
at dinner's table, pouring itself
down a throat to a heart still fluttering
alongside grains of black earth
and grass leaf
to settle amongst
the last tremors
of a cymbal crash
of accomplishment
torn from unyielding media
at the point of a spade
and the sweat of a brow.
Ten Penny Lion
"and in an ending I don't think I'd mind being
the man in the top hot with a drink on a corner
and a code mortar microphone and a whole world
to gratefully see seething."
To void that ending and to that end we come
to clasp hands and cross thumbs cause I'm
looking to be a bread winner and I'm
willing to start at crumbs and the path
of broad shouldered madness starts at the
beat of the bread factory's drums
so the point is what they hoped could be
and what I knew I could manifest was
not the bloody nosed virgin draped in
the company vest and so with fistfuls of pennies
I walked on and maybe for the best knowing that
somewhere upstairs insanity crossed wires with
the concept of self respect
and with a renewed tenacity I bit the fabric
of legitimacy until it ripped and within it sat
the carcasses of actions unrealized and I think that
in an ending so abysmally cliched
as a street preacher soothe saying
so that his bills can be paid
by spare change coaxed free by an
inconvenient rant and saliva chinned rave
the satisfaction of a life well lived
would continue to evade and instead of settling for
something akin to a kids coloring book
I realized what died was a passion
for the mastery of the hook
the line and sinker that twists expectations at the plate
and without further adieu I invite you
to check your children at the gate,
because a three ring show is open for guests
and I'll pack them in until they die in the press
to see the headless hobo and the legless ballet queen
the 13 murdering midgets and the glut with the zipper seam.
It's all inside and I can't promise you the sublime,
but if you'll settle for the mind and
all it's rot gut wonders,
the half digested divine,
and a bucket of some of hell's plunders,
I'll keep it beneath the striped tent
beside the freak show on the street
outside earshot of your home and
your factory floor show front seat,
but if you do feel like dropping by and
seek to know the nature of your beast and
don't want to pony up for the total mental buy in
remember it'll only run you ten cents
(it's practically free) and ten seconds
of your time to peel your eyes and see
the stupendous, magnificent,
to its end death defiant,
perfectly innocent, inoffensive
and misfit, paper fold, still unsold
man eating toothless lion.
the man in the top hot with a drink on a corner
and a code mortar microphone and a whole world
to gratefully see seething."
To void that ending and to that end we come
to clasp hands and cross thumbs cause I'm
looking to be a bread winner and I'm
willing to start at crumbs and the path
of broad shouldered madness starts at the
beat of the bread factory's drums
so the point is what they hoped could be
and what I knew I could manifest was
not the bloody nosed virgin draped in
the company vest and so with fistfuls of pennies
I walked on and maybe for the best knowing that
somewhere upstairs insanity crossed wires with
the concept of self respect
and with a renewed tenacity I bit the fabric
of legitimacy until it ripped and within it sat
the carcasses of actions unrealized and I think that
in an ending so abysmally cliched
as a street preacher soothe saying
so that his bills can be paid
by spare change coaxed free by an
inconvenient rant and saliva chinned rave
the satisfaction of a life well lived
would continue to evade and instead of settling for
something akin to a kids coloring book
I realized what died was a passion
for the mastery of the hook
the line and sinker that twists expectations at the plate
and without further adieu I invite you
to check your children at the gate,
because a three ring show is open for guests
and I'll pack them in until they die in the press
to see the headless hobo and the legless ballet queen
the 13 murdering midgets and the glut with the zipper seam.
It's all inside and I can't promise you the sublime,
but if you'll settle for the mind and
all it's rot gut wonders,
the half digested divine,
and a bucket of some of hell's plunders,
I'll keep it beneath the striped tent
beside the freak show on the street
outside earshot of your home and
your factory floor show front seat,
but if you do feel like dropping by and
seek to know the nature of your beast and
don't want to pony up for the total mental buy in
remember it'll only run you ten cents
(it's practically free) and ten seconds
of your time to peel your eyes and see
the stupendous, magnificent,
to its end death defiant,
perfectly innocent, inoffensive
and misfit, paper fold, still unsold
man eating toothless lion.
Chicken Bones, Dice, and One Hog's Tooth
The t.v. tells me someone's checking out every six point five,
but I'm just trying to hold on to a reason to stay alive.
Trying to decide if this ten twenty nine will get me home,
or if I apply it to four forties and wander streets alone.
In this zone all you've got is what stands stark before your eyes.
Chasing dreams is the original drug that diverts from living lives.
Beneath your shirt and shoes you're old and your reel is unknown,
but the reality is obscurity comes wherever commonality goes.
Mouth to mouth you're talked around and down, but never up.
Not every hand is groomed clean enough to touch a golden cup.
It fucks you up to know this fact, but not enough to rage
and part of you is fucked enough to love your papered cage.
But it's not really a thing about you (vicariously me)
and maybe you've done it before, but I have yet to see
the value in the things too small to offset the greater ills,
but the hope is maybe college kids are busy working on a pill.
but I'm just trying to hold on to a reason to stay alive.
Trying to decide if this ten twenty nine will get me home,
or if I apply it to four forties and wander streets alone.
In this zone all you've got is what stands stark before your eyes.
Chasing dreams is the original drug that diverts from living lives.
Beneath your shirt and shoes you're old and your reel is unknown,
but the reality is obscurity comes wherever commonality goes.
Mouth to mouth you're talked around and down, but never up.
Not every hand is groomed clean enough to touch a golden cup.
It fucks you up to know this fact, but not enough to rage
and part of you is fucked enough to love your papered cage.
But it's not really a thing about you (vicariously me)
and maybe you've done it before, but I have yet to see
the value in the things too small to offset the greater ills,
but the hope is maybe college kids are busy working on a pill.
Change See Change
we were standing on the platform and my teeth were solid set
dead against any opportunity for man and woman threats
and connections between people and the offers to be made
and the individual qualities that develop different shades
and levels of music played and the music isn't a song
I'm hearing, screaming is the broken dial and radio still on.
the cubicles aren't in our offices, their riding shoulder width
and all of us aren't beings, more telephone poles in the mist.
the anxiety that churns my ego and plays the fisted bully to my id
is coming down the tracks and I know that something's going to give
and we're holding hands, and you're pretty eyes do mean well,
but I also know the smile is just tape on the face of a shell
that's telling me we're splintering in the grip and somehow still
believe the thing we have is nothing like a thing you someday will
and every smiling face and every passing eye in space
is one more suggestion of your better time and better place
and I'm staring down the barrel at the cherry and smoke's curl
and I'm feeling their all symptoms of a new and greater world.
dead against any opportunity for man and woman threats
and connections between people and the offers to be made
and the individual qualities that develop different shades
and levels of music played and the music isn't a song
I'm hearing, screaming is the broken dial and radio still on.
the cubicles aren't in our offices, their riding shoulder width
and all of us aren't beings, more telephone poles in the mist.
the anxiety that churns my ego and plays the fisted bully to my id
is coming down the tracks and I know that something's going to give
and we're holding hands, and you're pretty eyes do mean well,
but I also know the smile is just tape on the face of a shell
that's telling me we're splintering in the grip and somehow still
believe the thing we have is nothing like a thing you someday will
and every smiling face and every passing eye in space
is one more suggestion of your better time and better place
and I'm staring down the barrel at the cherry and smoke's curl
and I'm feeling their all symptoms of a new and greater world.
Bush and Obama's War
More than anything else
when I read about the death
and deaths
happening in worlds
I have been shut away from I
am aching to throw myself
on the pyre and blaze
however momentarily
and perhaps bring
a tear to someones eye
knowing full well
that I
killed as many of those motherfuckers
as the balanced and well tuned sights
of my mechanical
and beautiful and reliable lover
would allow me to touch
out of a delicious and acquired taste
for otherwise unknowable flesh
and the peace of an afterlife
reserved for the softly caressing knowledge that
something I did
mattered to a thing
and a people
greater and abstract and still greater and fingering
the lives of everyone not
there...
...and that affectation
was all and immediately
and willfully
the result of a cause adopted
of my own heavily orchestrated accord.
To wear a scar.
To bear a scar unworn.
Let us not mince words
as intentions are so easily
minced.
A tear shed has little value
without its context
and its oh so very valuable
and more often foolish
impetus.
when I read about the death
and deaths
happening in worlds
I have been shut away from I
am aching to throw myself
on the pyre and blaze
however momentarily
and perhaps bring
a tear to someones eye
knowing full well
that I
killed as many of those motherfuckers
as the balanced and well tuned sights
of my mechanical
and beautiful and reliable lover
would allow me to touch
out of a delicious and acquired taste
for otherwise unknowable flesh
and the peace of an afterlife
reserved for the softly caressing knowledge that
something I did
mattered to a thing
and a people
greater and abstract and still greater and fingering
the lives of everyone not
there...
...and that affectation
was all and immediately
and willfully
the result of a cause adopted
of my own heavily orchestrated accord.
To wear a scar.
To bear a scar unworn.
Let us not mince words
as intentions are so easily
minced.
A tear shed has little value
without its context
and its oh so very valuable
and more often foolish
impetus.
We Love Our Drunk
A fourth handle
tops off the trash bin
and I'm sorry for
the afternoon air
and school aged children
I will have to abide
to make another trip
to the pharmacist
in the same clothing
that bore me to bed.
tops off the trash bin
and I'm sorry for
the afternoon air
and school aged children
I will have to abide
to make another trip
to the pharmacist
in the same clothing
that bore me to bed.
Concretia
I have to admit that
I have not written much in the vein of experiences
I have had, but
I have thought a lot about the bicycle
I had that I crashed into the knees of my mother that
I had little thought about after the chills
I had from the speed of the ground
I had covered and before
thrusting my sneakers into pliant pebble work
at the mouth of the driveway and
the turn of the handlebars
from my grip when they
gored her like
an outstretched arm
into a pregnant and dilated womb and
I can say
with an honest tear
in my memory where
she cried and I stood more
and less
confused about the affair
that the concrete that
scored my left knee
hurt more than the
idea that she could
be equally and mentally
scarred by my young and
blustery callousness.
I have not written much in the vein of experiences
I have had, but
I have thought a lot about the bicycle
I had that I crashed into the knees of my mother that
I had little thought about after the chills
I had from the speed of the ground
I had covered and before
thrusting my sneakers into pliant pebble work
at the mouth of the driveway and
the turn of the handlebars
from my grip when they
gored her like
an outstretched arm
into a pregnant and dilated womb and
I can say
with an honest tear
in my memory where
she cried and I stood more
and less
confused about the affair
that the concrete that
scored my left knee
hurt more than the
idea that she could
be equally and mentally
scarred by my young and
blustery callousness.
Smoker 7
100 centimeters is a reach
and 200 centimeters
is eating with my eyes,
but I'm lighting them
one end to another
like a box
of one night stands
I had in college
dreams
of becoming
a burdened individual
and- breathing.
and 200 centimeters
is eating with my eyes,
but I'm lighting them
one end to another
like a box
of one night stands
I had in college
dreams
of becoming
a burdened individual
and- breathing.
Flow Coma
I thought today would be a great day
to cut myself loose into a stream of consciousness
like a man who aspired to occupy
the illustrious and esteemed position
of a barge captain (I still do)
because it really is one of the most
honorable things a man could aspire to do
since it is virtually impossible
to sink a barge
by fucking up at the wheel
and essential to shipping,
commerce, and the market,
though also absolutely
the least likely
by a fantastic margin
to lend itself to tales
spun of valor,
but instead I decided
to make something that held
as much spark and funk
in its title
as in its content.
to cut myself loose into a stream of consciousness
like a man who aspired to occupy
the illustrious and esteemed position
of a barge captain (I still do)
because it really is one of the most
honorable things a man could aspire to do
since it is virtually impossible
to sink a barge
by fucking up at the wheel
and essential to shipping,
commerce, and the market,
though also absolutely
the least likely
by a fantastic margin
to lend itself to tales
spun of valor,
but instead I decided
to make something that held
as much spark and funk
in its title
as in its content.
Sudsy
I was thinking about
how great it would be
to have your hips
pressed to my own
cocked backward on
legs for days
and you reaching around
for your beer
that I didn't pass to you,
but we're at the dive
expressly to get drunk
and we're not gay
together
so I'm content
to occupy my mouth
with the lips
of my glass and my eyes
with the bartender's
tip garnering
blouse.
how great it would be
to have your hips
pressed to my own
cocked backward on
legs for days
and you reaching around
for your beer
that I didn't pass to you,
but we're at the dive
expressly to get drunk
and we're not gay
together
so I'm content
to occupy my mouth
with the lips
of my glass and my eyes
with the bartender's
tip garnering
blouse.
FPS Camper
You are the worst kind of booger.
Hard enough to cause constant discomfort.
Soft enough to ignore if one truly focuses on the effort,
and pliant enough to elude all, but the most determined attempts
to rid the world of your clinging
and mushy insistence
that you have a legitimate reason
to occupy the spaces that you do.
Hard enough to cause constant discomfort.
Soft enough to ignore if one truly focuses on the effort,
and pliant enough to elude all, but the most determined attempts
to rid the world of your clinging
and mushy insistence
that you have a legitimate reason
to occupy the spaces that you do.
Something Breaks Upon the Moss
-after The Postal Service's "Brand New Colony" "Clark Gable"
-in the vein of múm
The life I wanted
in every word
cut loose from your lips
broke on the moss faced side
of stones taken and painted
to dress the front of a house
I lived with
instead of within
and while the marker snapped
and someone called action
while my mouth gaped
mid yawn
in the scene where we were
supposed to have kissed
my only thought was of
the uncut grass and the broken
bits of peach tree twigs amongst
the shriveled and unplucked offerings
and for the life of me, I do not know
why I invited you over
in the first place,
but we're here
and that is enough to make
for an October
better than last year's.
-in the vein of múm
The life I wanted
in every word
cut loose from your lips
broke on the moss faced side
of stones taken and painted
to dress the front of a house
I lived with
instead of within
and while the marker snapped
and someone called action
while my mouth gaped
mid yawn
in the scene where we were
supposed to have kissed
my only thought was of
the uncut grass and the broken
bits of peach tree twigs amongst
the shriveled and unplucked offerings
and for the life of me, I do not know
why I invited you over
in the first place,
but we're here
and that is enough to make
for an October
better than last year's.
We Baked In Lieu of
I can't remember the last time I used
a measuring cup.
There's a stick of butter in there somewhere.
We'll get fat
together.
Fat and
happy.
a measuring cup.
There's a stick of butter in there somewhere.
We'll get fat
together.
Fat and
happy.
Co-Worker
I swear to fucking Jesus Christ in heaven,
if your voice was not a carbon copy
of a character from the Peanuts Christmas special
I would punch you dead in the face
and split your crooked front teeth
with my fist
like an eager shopper
running through
the hanging plastic slats
behind the doors of a meat market.
I would tell you of the resemblance, but I know you'd be disappointed
in a reference to a thing you would consider somehow cerebral,
and mostly I don't tell you because I would be disappointed
in your whiff on a comparison so blindingly uncanny
and the hurling of further quantities of cement
on your already fortified stupidity.
if your voice was not a carbon copy
of a character from the Peanuts Christmas special
I would punch you dead in the face
and split your crooked front teeth
with my fist
like an eager shopper
running through
the hanging plastic slats
behind the doors of a meat market.
I would tell you of the resemblance, but I know you'd be disappointed
in a reference to a thing you would consider somehow cerebral,
and mostly I don't tell you because I would be disappointed
in your whiff on a comparison so blindingly uncanny
and the hurling of further quantities of cement
on your already fortified stupidity.
Crusher
"It's never the case
that a blowjob can make
up for being
a genuine person"
is what I should have said
twenty one minutes ago
and I am so sorry
I tickled your 5 o'clock shadow
despite your generous
and largely unzipped cleavage
afterward.
I won't be calling you.
Cheers?
that a blowjob can make
up for being
a genuine person"
is what I should have said
twenty one minutes ago
and I am so sorry
I tickled your 5 o'clock shadow
despite your generous
and largely unzipped cleavage
afterward.
I won't be calling you.
Cheers?
Morning Mirror After Alcohol Binge
I do not know
why my fingers smell like onions today.
I have not
cooked or cut anything in the kitchen today.
In fact, I am
reviewing the evenings events today.
Nothing stands
outside of the ordinary.
But I do wonder
if all of the skin I am peeling into the bathroom sink today
Means I am
genetically predisposed to cancers.
Hopefully
the internet will explain my onion digits and
I'll chew my fingernails out of boredom instead of worry today.
why my fingers smell like onions today.
I have not
cooked or cut anything in the kitchen today.
In fact, I am
reviewing the evenings events today.
Nothing stands
outside of the ordinary.
But I do wonder
if all of the skin I am peeling into the bathroom sink today
Means I am
genetically predisposed to cancers.
Hopefully
the internet will explain my onion digits and
I'll chew my fingernails out of boredom instead of worry today.
Questions
I'm looking down at my sleeves
and for the life of me
I cannot figure out
where the other two inches
of gray hoodie went
that used to be between my wrists
and the floating elastic bands
or why there would ever be
blood in a urinal
at an airport
and why
the cat won't give me
the time of day
and why Sundays are nowhere near
as gay
as Saturdays.
and for the life of me
I cannot figure out
where the other two inches
of gray hoodie went
that used to be between my wrists
and the floating elastic bands
or why there would ever be
blood in a urinal
at an airport
and why
the cat won't give me
the time of day
and why Sundays are nowhere near
as gay
as Saturdays.
The Children 2
And I'm listening to the firelight pop of
ice cubes and figuring
I should probably not
urinate in my loafers as
an amazing prank on the future me who
I know for a fact
is way too uptight
to see the humor in anything
and the snaps and cracks of these
gutsy and robust and square things
that are never there
when you really, really, need them
are stamping time cards
and I am becoming acutely aware of
moments passed without
dozens of small
and awful
lovely
distractions.
ice cubes and figuring
I should probably not
urinate in my loafers as
an amazing prank on the future me who
I know for a fact
is way too uptight
to see the humor in anything
and the snaps and cracks of these
gutsy and robust and square things
that are never there
when you really, really, need them
are stamping time cards
and I am becoming acutely aware of
moments passed without
dozens of small
and awful
lovely
distractions.
Vaudevillainy
Can it really be
that the understanding of
the meaning behind the song and dance and
the torrent of gesture and the peeling mouths
to squared teeth are signatories
to a playbill born of
unfortunate and
still-changed
broad lit truths?
that the understanding of
the meaning behind the song and dance and
the torrent of gesture and the peeling mouths
to squared teeth are signatories
to a playbill born of
unfortunate and
still-changed
broad lit truths?
Western Son
The wind kicks my coat wide
like shutters before a saloon's entryway.
There's enough sand in my eyebrows
to make a snake's belly itch & I spit hard.
Half to clear the grit
from the space between my lips.
Half to clear my disgust
at the pale & shallow earth that lies ahead of me.
like shutters before a saloon's entryway.
There's enough sand in my eyebrows
to make a snake's belly itch & I spit hard.
Half to clear the grit
from the space between my lips.
Half to clear my disgust
at the pale & shallow earth that lies ahead of me.
Smoker 6 (for my best mate, Jack)
They dismantled the carousel
with the cheese grater platform
and rusting willow bent arms.
They replaced it with a rubberized purple thing
shaped like a cross and mounted on springs.
It doesn't turn about. It is no safer.
I cranked it clockwise till my sneakers slipped
in the flat and sharp and splintered wood chips
and let it go. It cracked the neck clear off my empty beer bottle
in a shower of green bits and noise you would have yelled at me for.
I sit on the purple idiot proof machine and
the spins close in regardless. I'm lying on the ground
and I can barely see, in my fish eye, the tips of the trees
edging the soccer fields where you used to get lost while I spun myself senseless.
The clouds are gentle as they rotate about my field of view and my cheek prickles
in the breeze and I remember the feel of your fur
when I carried you home after long romps in the park
in your breathless, enthusiastic, and twilight years.
Fear of Flying
You mentioned how the world felt
ten pounds lighter
and the sun shone brighter
and whether you were right or
your soul was bursting through
at the cracks like a loose flame
from your human furnace
before failed containment
turned you into a wasteland
I saw through the grates
of your dimming and thinning eyes
the part of you that starved away
and shed its countering weight.
ten pounds lighter
and the sun shone brighter
and whether you were right or
your soul was bursting through
at the cracks like a loose flame
from your human furnace
before failed containment
turned you into a wasteland
I saw through the grates
of your dimming and thinning eyes
the part of you that starved away
and shed its countering weight.
Ace of Spades
We're playing cards
in the spokes of hand me downs
with flat tires
and chittering chattering
grit tightened chains
rusted, but still good
enough to propel us
better than the talking soles of shoes
worn thin and happy and thinner.
We're split ends where
the wax paper skins
have given way
and we're loud and louder than
the sticks we prick in chinks of link
fence work.
Louder still than the rattle tap of corrugated
steel bordering the wreck yards
and collectors and as we
pedal long through dark and darkness
fixed in place
with tape and style and more verve
than chipping paint can belie
we shine harder
than moonlight.
in the spokes of hand me downs
with flat tires
and chittering chattering
grit tightened chains
rusted, but still good
enough to propel us
better than the talking soles of shoes
worn thin and happy and thinner.
We're split ends where
the wax paper skins
have given way
and we're loud and louder than
the sticks we prick in chinks of link
fence work.
Louder still than the rattle tap of corrugated
steel bordering the wreck yards
and collectors and as we
pedal long through dark and darkness
fixed in place
with tape and style and more verve
than chipping paint can belie
we shine harder
than moonlight.
Formula Drift
I'm licking my teeth
and the expanse of carpet
between us
is skipping by leaps and bounds
around the mulberry bush
where the monkey chastens the weasel
and our hands, joined on the stem
of smokeware
are like a left and right
half of some kind of
vector diagram's
attempt to explain Pointilism
through a tie in to
the Large Hadron Collider
and the laughter
slapping the back of my head
like a baby's ass to a giggle track
on an early evening show begging
for a profitable demographic
isn't the bubble
burble
pop
and sizzle of pearls of wisdom
to a frying pan of woes
as much as it is
a salamander clinging molecule to molecule
nerve to vibrating yard of fat cased and stupeffectedly tense
nerve
to the sole of my foot and the knowing
that if i ever put that foot down
it will be very
very
messy
and I'd rather it happened
away from your recording eye.
and the expanse of carpet
between us
is skipping by leaps and bounds
around the mulberry bush
where the monkey chastens the weasel
and our hands, joined on the stem
of smokeware
are like a left and right
half of some kind of
vector diagram's
attempt to explain Pointilism
through a tie in to
the Large Hadron Collider
and the laughter
slapping the back of my head
like a baby's ass to a giggle track
on an early evening show begging
for a profitable demographic
isn't the bubble
burble
pop
and sizzle of pearls of wisdom
to a frying pan of woes
as much as it is
a salamander clinging molecule to molecule
nerve to vibrating yard of fat cased and stupeffectedly tense
nerve
to the sole of my foot and the knowing
that if i ever put that foot down
it will be very
very
messy
and I'd rather it happened
away from your recording eye.
Before the Outing
My boots are resting easy
on a thin layer of rot and fragrance
and soft bodied brown whispers of apple cores
at the foot of the bowing water logged planks of the front porch.
The orange and red and
crinkle edged leaves the trees shed
are still crunchy despite a weeks worth of rain
that fell two nights ago and from where I stand they are mosaic.
My hands are naked and cold
in the crowded pouches of my vest as
I watch the little souls of my breaths thin in air
that retains its dusk despite terry cloths and coffee and good hash.
Considering slipping my fingers
into the thick down of gloves gifted I am
reminded of my father's words from older days
about how the best way to kill a mosquito is to wait for it to land.
I leave my prickling iced hands
where they are and the thought of him
warms me as much as the day I realized too much
oil can foul a mechanism's function much worse than no oil at all.
My son's bedroom lamp is
still unlit and Enfield upon my shoulder
I begin the sweet and airy walk without him knowing
my disappointment is not with him, but with the end of a season.
on a thin layer of rot and fragrance
and soft bodied brown whispers of apple cores
at the foot of the bowing water logged planks of the front porch.
The orange and red and
crinkle edged leaves the trees shed
are still crunchy despite a weeks worth of rain
that fell two nights ago and from where I stand they are mosaic.
My hands are naked and cold
in the crowded pouches of my vest as
I watch the little souls of my breaths thin in air
that retains its dusk despite terry cloths and coffee and good hash.
Considering slipping my fingers
into the thick down of gloves gifted I am
reminded of my father's words from older days
about how the best way to kill a mosquito is to wait for it to land.
I leave my prickling iced hands
where they are and the thought of him
warms me as much as the day I realized too much
oil can foul a mechanism's function much worse than no oil at all.
My son's bedroom lamp is
still unlit and Enfield upon my shoulder
I begin the sweet and airy walk without him knowing
my disappointment is not with him, but with the end of a season.
Dead Air
Energy drinks to stay awake
and do nothing until sunrise
aside from laying skin cells
into the seat of a desk chair
with 1970s ergonomics in mind
so that I can spend the day
with my eyes closed
roaming an apartment building
occupied by friends
I haven't seen in years
while they pour pitchers of beer
from bathroom sinks and
play the games we had in common
before we had separate lives
so that I don't have to
talk to myself
surrounded by daytime strangers
The idea was good
the execution was sound,
but 10:30 a.m.
still makes the rounds
and razor blade in my right hand
unsteadied by sleepless nights
I'm stripping light gauge wire
to fly an antenna kite
with the end strung to a receiver
I found at a sale of antiques
to help me make sense of white noise,
but mostly to hear purpose speak.
and do nothing until sunrise
aside from laying skin cells
into the seat of a desk chair
with 1970s ergonomics in mind
so that I can spend the day
with my eyes closed
roaming an apartment building
occupied by friends
I haven't seen in years
while they pour pitchers of beer
from bathroom sinks and
play the games we had in common
before we had separate lives
so that I don't have to
talk to myself
surrounded by daytime strangers
The idea was good
the execution was sound,
but 10:30 a.m.
still makes the rounds
and razor blade in my right hand
unsteadied by sleepless nights
I'm stripping light gauge wire
to fly an antenna kite
with the end strung to a receiver
I found at a sale of antiques
to help me make sense of white noise,
but mostly to hear purpose speak.
Upstairs Neighbor
"You hear her laugh when she sees you
and you don't know
what she's laughing about, but you laugh with her,"
and she nods off muttering agreement
with herself while we pick apart
boiled chicken
and her chin falls with her fork
and the thought dangles mid air
like the carcass of a Mayfly
stuck to the end of a time curled slip
of melon juiced fly paper
swung pendulum like beneath a ceiling fan
doing its best impression
of a dinner plate's drunken oscillations
twirled atop a three ringer's dowel
above our heads
that maybe the show
of wide stretched mouth
and bleached fronts set amongst a sea of dark southern creases
has more to do with the upstairs neighbor's pathology
than any one of a variety of humors
ascribed to wearers of periwinkle
sun hats and lime tinted scarves.
and you don't know
what she's laughing about, but you laugh with her,"
and she nods off muttering agreement
with herself while we pick apart
boiled chicken
and her chin falls with her fork
and the thought dangles mid air
like the carcass of a Mayfly
stuck to the end of a time curled slip
of melon juiced fly paper
swung pendulum like beneath a ceiling fan
doing its best impression
of a dinner plate's drunken oscillations
twirled atop a three ringer's dowel
above our heads
that maybe the show
of wide stretched mouth
and bleached fronts set amongst a sea of dark southern creases
has more to do with the upstairs neighbor's pathology
than any one of a variety of humors
ascribed to wearers of periwinkle
sun hats and lime tinted scarves.
The Scarf Your Mother Knit
The red and black patched knit scarf
came out of the box marked Autumn today.
Wrapped tightly round my nose and mouth
the wind could not bite my
still pinchably cute smile
if you could've seen it
from across the platform at the McDonald St "el".
The lushly woven thing still smells
like the finished wood floors of the old apartment
and the fire places in the mansions upwind
on the other side of the parkway.
The wind shows its teeth again and tries its best
to pluck every hair from my eyebrows,
but I don't mind it.
The scarf and I
we know that somewhere
a flame is bounding up and down
along a length of speckled wood,
saying the right words
in the pop and snap of warm lips
to an audience of
your resting eyes.
came out of the box marked Autumn today.
Wrapped tightly round my nose and mouth
the wind could not bite my
still pinchably cute smile
if you could've seen it
from across the platform at the McDonald St "el".
The lushly woven thing still smells
like the finished wood floors of the old apartment
and the fire places in the mansions upwind
on the other side of the parkway.
The wind shows its teeth again and tries its best
to pluck every hair from my eyebrows,
but I don't mind it.
The scarf and I
we know that somewhere
a flame is bounding up and down
along a length of speckled wood,
saying the right words
in the pop and snap of warm lips
to an audience of
your resting eyes.
Creeper
Can an ear be blamed
for tilting into a
half heard conversation?
Can a thigh be blamed
for making note of a
carelessly applied swatch of skin?
Can a shoulder be blamed
for not giving a
centimeter upon contact?
Can an eye be blamed
for maintaining a
line of sight despite
a crescent of dark
tights clinging for life and limb
to a ripe butt cheek
atop a toned and
sandaled
and
manicured
foot?
I'm just trying to ride the subway.
Excuse me.
for tilting into a
half heard conversation?
Can a thigh be blamed
for making note of a
carelessly applied swatch of skin?
Can a shoulder be blamed
for not giving a
centimeter upon contact?
Can an eye be blamed
for maintaining a
line of sight despite
a crescent of dark
tights clinging for life and limb
to a ripe butt cheek
atop a toned and
sandaled
and
manicured
foot?
I'm just trying to ride the subway.
Excuse me.
Housemate 2
One foot planted in the white vinyl cushion
of squeaky kitchen stool. The other pushing
the contact papered collapsible excuse
for a table against the wall. Spilling juice
and plated toast flip free and napkins flutter
to the floor like panties and you mutter
about having to be at work in ten minutes
and I would listen, but I've still got a fifth to finish,
vacation to kill, and air guitar to shred
and don't worry about your carpet while you're gone,
I'll piss in your closet instead.
of squeaky kitchen stool. The other pushing
the contact papered collapsible excuse
for a table against the wall. Spilling juice
and plated toast flip free and napkins flutter
to the floor like panties and you mutter
about having to be at work in ten minutes
and I would listen, but I've still got a fifth to finish,
vacation to kill, and air guitar to shred
and don't worry about your carpet while you're gone,
I'll piss in your closet instead.
It Didn't Work Out and it Wasn't Okay
Sunlight. So much God damned unbroken sunlight. A man stumbled free from an intensive care unit. And no one lifted a pinky. To bring him back. And he tore the gauze. The weeping fleshy brown gauze. From his fist. Sized bedsores. And he rolled the water thickened cloth up as if to return. To an age when folding towels. Was a difficult and delicate thing. And from the sun soaked median he flung his. Brown and filmy and stained tongues. Across power lines. Like a maladjusted child. In the throes of an unsupervised. Garish and dilating Halloween.
The side walk is fading. Into the time bleached grout holding. Cut rate labor laid brick work together. Where a driver dozed. Off and plowed with an enthusiasm shared by a Retriever bursting bubbles. Through the fence work. And through the fetid film of day. Another bird bath capped with snout-less tusk-less elephants and filled. with faded cigarette butts. Invites me in for a momentary and refreshing dip. Amongst the black ants shining like reptile skin. Though the rays of burning vintage. Illuminate little else with more conviction than a yellowing cum stain.
Vibrations of headphones. In this much coffee stained toilet paper. Are muffed tighter. And take an ear careful enough to feel a needle prick. Like a hammer blow. Through an orbital bone. The claw foot clearing the cavity. These telephone poles and dead dogs and phone numbers on paper sullied. With equal parts running toner. And flame retardant. And blotchy with staples rusted and fingers bled and torn open. Suck satisfaction away. In the closed hand of the man who walked this sand paved sidewalk before. And vomited for the taste. Of genuine grief.
The stoplight sways dangling from a point. Where thick black wires meet. Like a circus tent. Lit to flame. When the freak show was cancelled. If it were to fall and shatter. Where the asphalt hot enough to blister. The inside of a pink cheek. Crossed and dared autos draped in sunbaked wallpaper. To kiss. It would crush a man. To hash on a skillet. The sunlight. So much God damned sunlight. Swallows and swallows. Harder. And the dust filmed faces. Of corner shops blink in the swelter. Like orphans of a guerrilla conflict borne. Over generations.
The urge rises like half. Chewed saltines. And paper mache licked from fingertips. A mental gaffe. In understanding. What it is that can kill you. But the stink of the sunlight that plasters. And glues. And nails the minutes. Into the sweating and open pores. In the pouches. Of tender skin. Beneath the lids of your eyes. Is already clinging to the roof. Of your mouth. And what moisture left. In the space between your skin and bones. Is already touching. The loose and reused band-aid. Of a Summer lingering. At the bottom of a Ball jar spittoon.
The side walk is fading. Into the time bleached grout holding. Cut rate labor laid brick work together. Where a driver dozed. Off and plowed with an enthusiasm shared by a Retriever bursting bubbles. Through the fence work. And through the fetid film of day. Another bird bath capped with snout-less tusk-less elephants and filled. with faded cigarette butts. Invites me in for a momentary and refreshing dip. Amongst the black ants shining like reptile skin. Though the rays of burning vintage. Illuminate little else with more conviction than a yellowing cum stain.
Vibrations of headphones. In this much coffee stained toilet paper. Are muffed tighter. And take an ear careful enough to feel a needle prick. Like a hammer blow. Through an orbital bone. The claw foot clearing the cavity. These telephone poles and dead dogs and phone numbers on paper sullied. With equal parts running toner. And flame retardant. And blotchy with staples rusted and fingers bled and torn open. Suck satisfaction away. In the closed hand of the man who walked this sand paved sidewalk before. And vomited for the taste. Of genuine grief.
The stoplight sways dangling from a point. Where thick black wires meet. Like a circus tent. Lit to flame. When the freak show was cancelled. If it were to fall and shatter. Where the asphalt hot enough to blister. The inside of a pink cheek. Crossed and dared autos draped in sunbaked wallpaper. To kiss. It would crush a man. To hash on a skillet. The sunlight. So much God damned sunlight. Swallows and swallows. Harder. And the dust filmed faces. Of corner shops blink in the swelter. Like orphans of a guerrilla conflict borne. Over generations.
The urge rises like half. Chewed saltines. And paper mache licked from fingertips. A mental gaffe. In understanding. What it is that can kill you. But the stink of the sunlight that plasters. And glues. And nails the minutes. Into the sweating and open pores. In the pouches. Of tender skin. Beneath the lids of your eyes. Is already clinging to the roof. Of your mouth. And what moisture left. In the space between your skin and bones. Is already touching. The loose and reused band-aid. Of a Summer lingering. At the bottom of a Ball jar spittoon.
Together We Lost the Magic, but Still Kicked Ass
You called my phone in the kitchen
and played the ring back
on loudspeaker, purse and phone aloft
in hands waving to the beat and I
MCed the lyrics to
a Public Enemy street banger,
passing the coolers and
pulling the tall boys from the open
refrigerator door, and
everyone knew that we
weren't dating anymore and
everyone knew that we
were still two of a kind
and content to be
laughing Buddhas in a sea of
tense and expectation.
Ambition Touches the Sleeper and the Sleeper Wakes and Cries for Manufactured Memories
Awkward and daring
as the seconds spent
staring down
the stroke afflicted
side of a face in
casual conversation.
Adult and immature
as the twenty minutes
ticked by in a shower
stall attempting
to fuck standing up
in a space built for one.
Partial and stumbling
and forgettable
in a stalled stroke of
genius smacking
of temporary solutions
to problems never owned,
but known well enough
to believe relevance
could be adopted
instead of
born through flesh rent.
We were high
on our horses then,
well before
we could have known
the width of the wild
and the bleeding splits
at the corners of the mouth
that remind the head of life
beyond thirsting for
a wildly successful death.
as the seconds spent
staring down
the stroke afflicted
side of a face in
casual conversation.
Adult and immature
as the twenty minutes
ticked by in a shower
stall attempting
to fuck standing up
in a space built for one.
Partial and stumbling
and forgettable
in a stalled stroke of
genius smacking
of temporary solutions
to problems never owned,
but known well enough
to believe relevance
could be adopted
instead of
born through flesh rent.
We were high
on our horses then,
well before
we could have known
the width of the wild
and the bleeding splits
at the corners of the mouth
that remind the head of life
beyond thirsting for
a wildly successful death.
Creationism
Fingers at the keys
at the wrong time of day
and taken by
a housefly
too close for focus
snacking on the mistakes
that are not complete abortions
drifting out of reach and not
out of mind.
My eyes darted from one
mess of still developing lim
bs to another and wanted t
o cover all of the glistening
canoes of their smashed in
heads with a fine and squa
re picnic blanket to keep t
he fly and his inevitable fri
ends far from here and now.
In the space of the air
pressed against my ear lobe
before darting beyond the reach
of fingers too busy with keys
to bother with winged fleas,
a whisper grew
and turned into
a question I would like to pass to
C.D. Wright sometime after we've
put our tea cups together.
The question being
if
it's fair to reduce a life
into a series of well stated axioms
and a matched pair
of despised socks
or
if its fairer
to leave that sort of thing
and its attendant particulate peculiarity
of problematic fourth and final movements
for the professional
clergymen.
at the wrong time of day
and taken by
a housefly
too close for focus
snacking on the mistakes
that are not complete abortions
drifting out of reach and not
out of mind.
My eyes darted from one
mess of still developing lim
bs to another and wanted t
o cover all of the glistening
canoes of their smashed in
heads with a fine and squa
re picnic blanket to keep t
he fly and his inevitable fri
ends far from here and now.
In the space of the air
pressed against my ear lobe
before darting beyond the reach
of fingers too busy with keys
to bother with winged fleas,
a whisper grew
and turned into
a question I would like to pass to
C.D. Wright sometime after we've
put our tea cups together.
The question being
if
it's fair to reduce a life
into a series of well stated axioms
and a matched pair
of despised socks
or
if its fairer
to leave that sort of thing
and its attendant particulate peculiarity
of problematic fourth and final movements
for the professional
clergymen.
Question Marks
Dear Mr. D,
While our time together
has been quite productive,
I believe as you go on
to live your life and leave
the past simmering
on your stove until it spills to button eyed flames
and takes the house
that hate built
to its fractured slab
in a heap of spent tongues and embers
and unrepentant hugs
you should make an effort to see
your scars as less
than cellular artifacting
errors generated by interface violations
perpetrated with incompatible objects
and see them as more
like question marks
printed to skin and tissue
and your future outcomes
as answers.
Good luck to you.
Dr. B.
While our time together
has been quite productive,
I believe as you go on
to live your life and leave
the past simmering
on your stove until it spills to button eyed flames
and takes the house
that hate built
to its fractured slab
in a heap of spent tongues and embers
and unrepentant hugs
you should make an effort to see
your scars as less
than cellular artifacting
errors generated by interface violations
perpetrated with incompatible objects
and see them as more
like question marks
printed to skin and tissue
and your future outcomes
as answers.
Good luck to you.
Dr. B.
Smoker 4
I brought you flowers
borrowed from the bank,
but mostly from the generous
unwatched landscaping flanking
its 6pm closed doors
on the walk to your place
and I shouldn't have
done shots
of crystal clear gin
before heading out
to meet you for a late lunch,
and I wouldn't have
except for the fact
that I know how
pissed you'd be if
I didn't at least try
to show you I cared enough
not to show up
smelling like defeat.
borrowed from the bank,
but mostly from the generous
unwatched landscaping flanking
its 6pm closed doors
on the walk to your place
and I shouldn't have
done shots
of crystal clear gin
before heading out
to meet you for a late lunch,
and I wouldn't have
except for the fact
that I know how
pissed you'd be if
I didn't at least try
to show you I cared enough
not to show up
smelling like defeat.
Coffee
I had a conversation with the boiler today. She is offended by the heater. I told them both to chill out. None of us laughed so I doused the light and shut the door and took my cold cup of coffee elsewhere. Where spider webs did not comprise. The cheap seats.
At the back door. Mexicans on the lawn. Doing work. I would do. And I am paying them because I was already subscribed. And the only things I back out of are awkward. Instances of conversation. They're edging by the paving stones. Talking amongst themselves.
The clothes lines are undisturbed behind them. Plastic clothes pins sun faded. Springs rusted. The only thing hanging out there are the children I never had. In private. I'm willing to admit the fact. Of the matter of our separation is not up for open discussion. Ever.
To the stairs I do not climb I am a bit of a laughing stock. In the call and response trash. Talking floor boards are just about the worst company a man could ask. For honest opinions. I return to the slats at the front window. The blinds. They were on sale.
The cat used to sleep in the sun by my feet. Rubbing in the carpet. Slipper free. Pawing at a stain from a previous marriage. And home owner. I simply have to ask. If Mexicans do carpets. But I know what I should really do is take my cup of coffee elsewhere.
Space Pirates
We should all be so fortunate as
to have our number one concerns in life
summarily railroaded into irrelevance
by the impending threat
of being boarded
by space pirates.
to have our number one concerns in life
summarily railroaded into irrelevance
by the impending threat
of being boarded
by space pirates.
Landing
Feet dangling
in the poorly lit airshaft
that doubled for a courtyard,
and eyes tracing the broken helices
of fire escapes that lead down
to what amounted to
a disaster waiting to happen,
we agreed that Typeface
was a bad name for
our kid (if we ever had one),
but Doruma
could still work
if it was a boy.
And Saturday rolled
marble clean as Friday
and it felt like something beautiful
to agree on an idea
that wasn't sex.
in the poorly lit airshaft
that doubled for a courtyard,
and eyes tracing the broken helices
of fire escapes that lead down
to what amounted to
a disaster waiting to happen,
we agreed that Typeface
was a bad name for
our kid (if we ever had one),
but Doruma
could still work
if it was a boy.
And Saturday rolled
marble clean as Friday
and it felt like something beautiful
to agree on an idea
that wasn't sex.
New York Red. New York Blue
This whole time
what I've been looking for
is you
in all of your
naked & laughing taken-ness.
what I've been looking for
is you
in all of your
naked & laughing taken-ness.
Winners
I didn't write about my experience
growing up as an African American
in a neighborhood that is poor
by literary standards.
I didn't write about the holocaust
and face cracked ancestors
who managed a modicum
of dignity regardless.
I didn't write about religious
disconnects between myself
and the members of generations
I held in reverence.
I didn't write about the street
life in the early morning hours
that bookend an edgy existence
worthy of photography projects.
I didn't write about strained relationships
threatening to permanently divorce
me from ignorant parentage
that kept trying.
I didn't write about the swoon
of love in the months bridging
spring and summer
and torrents of personal growth.
I didn't write about history
resurrected and relived daily
like wounds both painful
and pleasantly familiar.
I didn't write about the promise
of self esteem bolstered
and at once deflated
in sidelong, womanizing, glances.
I didn't write about fields of flowers
and homosexuality and
the parallels between
food and one night stands.
I wrote about the fragility of a pane of
bloodshot sky resting on the fingertips of trees
on a Thursday afternoon.
An honorable mention.
growing up as an African American
in a neighborhood that is poor
by literary standards.
I didn't write about the holocaust
and face cracked ancestors
who managed a modicum
of dignity regardless.
I didn't write about religious
disconnects between myself
and the members of generations
I held in reverence.
I didn't write about the street
life in the early morning hours
that bookend an edgy existence
worthy of photography projects.
I didn't write about strained relationships
threatening to permanently divorce
me from ignorant parentage
that kept trying.
I didn't write about the swoon
of love in the months bridging
spring and summer
and torrents of personal growth.
I didn't write about history
resurrected and relived daily
like wounds both painful
and pleasantly familiar.
I didn't write about the promise
of self esteem bolstered
and at once deflated
in sidelong, womanizing, glances.
I didn't write about fields of flowers
and homosexuality and
the parallels between
food and one night stands.
I wrote about the fragility of a pane of
bloodshot sky resting on the fingertips of trees
on a Thursday afternoon.
An honorable mention.
The Cool Cats Go Naked
I stand agitated before my dust specked
closet mirror,
turning the band of elastic sewn into the
bottom of a sweater,
for reasons that escape
anyone who isn't
a sweatshop accountant
or sweating in the lamp light
of a department store
fashion line design studio
based out of Kentucky,
and I wanted to be upset about
the errant loops and snapped hairs of polyester
where the shoulder seam
meets the body seam,
but your relaxed reflection is watching me
dress myself in the mirror
from the living room
not quite full of morning sun
and of the two of us,
I don't want to be the one throwing tantrums
on a Thursday
before the coffee has
even gotten a chance to percolate.
After long minutes
of looking for a right angle
to view a poor excuse for a sweater
that falls around me like an off colored squash
in a child's crayon illustration of the first Thanksgiving
I have to admit,
while taking it off,
"you actually did me a favor."
closet mirror,
turning the band of elastic sewn into the
bottom of a sweater,
for reasons that escape
anyone who isn't
a sweatshop accountant
or sweating in the lamp light
of a department store
fashion line design studio
based out of Kentucky,
and I wanted to be upset about
the errant loops and snapped hairs of polyester
where the shoulder seam
meets the body seam,
but your relaxed reflection is watching me
dress myself in the mirror
from the living room
not quite full of morning sun
and of the two of us,
I don't want to be the one throwing tantrums
on a Thursday
before the coffee has
even gotten a chance to percolate.
After long minutes
of looking for a right angle
to view a poor excuse for a sweater
that falls around me like an off colored squash
in a child's crayon illustration of the first Thanksgiving
I have to admit,
while taking it off,
"you actually did me a favor."
Waking Up Today was Not Optional
Missed my calling
by a few thousand years
to be a sword for hire.
I searched on Craigslist for mercenary
and received three hundred hits
seeking business executives.
Picked up a copy of
Soldier of Fortune from a magazine rack
at the corner store.
Although it featured
the loveliest tactical gear
pornography,
it contained as much useful information
as Miss America's head
if she were wearing a
red Rambo bandanna.
Some texts claim that there's a killer
in every last one of us animals
while the interviewees make sweeping poetic statements
about wolves and sheep and villages
colored by the water eyed awe of
the interviewers.
I woke up for ten minutes in Intro to Philosophy
before I concluded
by his own estimations
I would have scalped Nietzsche
and ate his tongue
and happily missed his point.
Psychologically unfit
for uniformed duty
and the retail sales floor.
I suppose,
in our modern day
of prisons and civilization
and rules that say:
"you can't stand here after 7 PM,
because those who
cringe at the edge of darkness
are running things,"
another day standing in line at the bodega,
eyes wandering the magazine rack
for fake tits and muscle cars,
is as close as I'll get
to reaping the benefit
of whats left
of my daily eroded
toothy will
to take the world in my hands
and drown it.
by a few thousand years
to be a sword for hire.
I searched on Craigslist for mercenary
and received three hundred hits
seeking business executives.
Picked up a copy of
Soldier of Fortune from a magazine rack
at the corner store.
Although it featured
the loveliest tactical gear
pornography,
it contained as much useful information
as Miss America's head
if she were wearing a
red Rambo bandanna.
Some texts claim that there's a killer
in every last one of us animals
while the interviewees make sweeping poetic statements
about wolves and sheep and villages
colored by the water eyed awe of
the interviewers.
I woke up for ten minutes in Intro to Philosophy
before I concluded
by his own estimations
I would have scalped Nietzsche
and ate his tongue
and happily missed his point.
Psychologically unfit
for uniformed duty
and the retail sales floor.
I suppose,
in our modern day
of prisons and civilization
and rules that say:
"you can't stand here after 7 PM,
because those who
cringe at the edge of darkness
are running things,"
another day standing in line at the bodega,
eyes wandering the magazine rack
for fake tits and muscle cars,
is as close as I'll get
to reaping the benefit
of whats left
of my daily eroded
toothy will
to take the world in my hands
and drown it.
Smoker 3
Every time the door alarm goes off
and another customer pretends
to be deaf and you look at me
behind the register
and I look at you
at the security desk
and we both know
the shitty demagnetizer is at fault,
but we frown at each other anyway
for having the easy job out of the two
I wonder why we never discuss it,
leaning against the wall by the book drop bin
making efforts not to drag in unison.
and another customer pretends
to be deaf and you look at me
behind the register
and I look at you
at the security desk
and we both know
the shitty demagnetizer is at fault,
but we frown at each other anyway
for having the easy job out of the two
I wonder why we never discuss it,
leaning against the wall by the book drop bin
making efforts not to drag in unison.
Will Not Wrap
Sometimes my thoughts are
a shitty Christmas present
I bought for a friend of a friend
because I had to so I
didn't look like that clueless asshole
(who always shows up when there're free drinks)
and it was the only god damn thing left in the store
and it had a surface requiring
Mercator's genius
to get the mother fucker
neatly wrapped
(into a poem)
and at the end of the day and the roll of tape it does not go
and I stay my ass at home.
a shitty Christmas present
I bought for a friend of a friend
because I had to so I
didn't look like that clueless asshole
(who always shows up when there're free drinks)
and it was the only god damn thing left in the store
and it had a surface requiring
Mercator's genius
to get the mother fucker
neatly wrapped
(into a poem)
and at the end of the day and the roll of tape it does not go
and I stay my ass at home.
Safety Scissor Rebellion
"Son, what were you thinking? You're under age, you've got at least an ounce in that napsack of yours, and you blew oh fifteen."
"Well sir, I think I'll paint you the entire masterpiece. I was a deviant from quite early on in the scene. In Pre-School I was a pretty good grocery store thief. Grade "K" I flashed my cock at our straight laced rival team. In second grade I beat up Neal to see if I could. I smacked up Louise in Third grade for calling me "a gay." For candy money I took dares to drink milk mixed with mud. In Fourth I loved detention more than going out to play. Sixth grade was suspension for drawing pornographic toons. And then once more for drawing political satires. The second time got me the cord, though I preferred the broom. He stopped me before the bus, hand wrapped up with orange wire. Eighth grade I was teased everyday for being too dark brown. By high school I was afraid to sneeze anywhere near home and Bible thumped as hard as I could with a Christian crown, and memorized friend's credit cards for porn to watch alone. I never paid much attention to things they taught in school. In chemistry I spent my time breaking up the glass ware and drawing machines to murder the kids they thought were cool. Applied to college mainly to get the hell out of there. Arrived with so much pent up rage and direction-less hate. Almost started a brawl at the Greyhound bus terminal. If you saw me then you'd know I was burning from the gate. I didn't plan to be alive at the end of it all. Unfortunately, not halfway through, I ran out of rage and decided to maybe get to know myself instead. Bouts of rebellion are still flowing, but now somewhat caged. Let me go explore and I promise I'll end up in bed. Maybe not at a decent hour or close to sober. Maybe not with all the clothes I set off with that day and maybe without any bills, or my check card holder, but I'll have lived and known more of me, that's something to say."
"Son, as much as I'd like to let you off the hook tonight, how do I know you've learned a damn thing from stupidity?"
"Stupid is a strong word, but try to put it in this light: I can't learn cuffed and freedom is like air to me. Given the option I may not always do what is right, but I will never know myself until you set me free..."
The Children 1
The children are about, though it's late in the eve.
They rustle loose bits about, seething like curious bees
in a marching band that plays a single note on key
and whose idea of order is something shouted at me.
No pencil, no pen, no computer keyboard is free
from tiny spread fingers, each with their own gravity.
I shout them out and they return. A tide upon the sea.
"It's too far late. I have to work. I will count to three,
and strap the brat who thinks he does not need to flee."
Quiet descends in my office and I am, for a moment, pleased
before I realize not one left. They lie in wait like a winter tree.
In the corners. Behind the desk. I still can hear them breathe.
And part of me is quite enraged, the other is quite relieved.
They rustle loose bits about, seething like curious bees
in a marching band that plays a single note on key
and whose idea of order is something shouted at me.
No pencil, no pen, no computer keyboard is free
from tiny spread fingers, each with their own gravity.
I shout them out and they return. A tide upon the sea.
"It's too far late. I have to work. I will count to three,
and strap the brat who thinks he does not need to flee."
Quiet descends in my office and I am, for a moment, pleased
before I realize not one left. They lie in wait like a winter tree.
In the corners. Behind the desk. I still can hear them breathe.
And part of me is quite enraged, the other is quite relieved.
Housemate
Even if I could help myself
arguing every inch of the case
for why I should be allowed
to wear boxers
and nothing else
on the weekends,
because every day
I wear pants and a belt
is another day I've compromised my soul
and diluted what faith I have left in
mankind's ability
to coexist with nature
while looking for that little extra
centimeter of a twitch of your lip
that tells me you're upset
because I beat you
to the seat on the good half of the couch
with the armrest that still had
threads on it
while you were busy
getting dressed
and nothing else,
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
plucking your drawers
from the dresser and
shuffling their positions
like playing cards
before you get home
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
eating the rest of the 24
ounce chocolate bar
while you sleep like a rock
so you won't have to
look at it in the morning
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
buzzing and hissing
like a tea kettle brewing guffaws
on top of the flames
of your florid cheeked
closed fisted, lemon lipped, rage
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
collecting get well cards
on the cork board in my cube
because I faked dysentery
on your birthday
to get that coincident day off
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
standing at the corner
of 8th and Sagenaw,
checking my empty messaging inbox
on my cellphone after you wave
goodnight and head for
the cab you called when we finished
splitting a beer and cocktail tab
waiting for that little extra
backward glance
through the night light
obscured rear window
that tells me you might have
held my hand
if this was a date
I don't think I would.
arguing every inch of the case
for why I should be allowed
to wear boxers
and nothing else
on the weekends,
because every day
I wear pants and a belt
is another day I've compromised my soul
and diluted what faith I have left in
mankind's ability
to coexist with nature
while looking for that little extra
centimeter of a twitch of your lip
that tells me you're upset
because I beat you
to the seat on the good half of the couch
with the armrest that still had
threads on it
while you were busy
getting dressed
and nothing else,
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
plucking your drawers
from the dresser and
shuffling their positions
like playing cards
before you get home
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
eating the rest of the 24
ounce chocolate bar
while you sleep like a rock
so you won't have to
look at it in the morning
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
buzzing and hissing
like a tea kettle brewing guffaws
on top of the flames
of your florid cheeked
closed fisted, lemon lipped, rage
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
collecting get well cards
on the cork board in my cube
because I faked dysentery
on your birthday
to get that coincident day off
I don't think I would.
Even if I could help myself
standing at the corner
of 8th and Sagenaw,
checking my empty messaging inbox
on my cellphone after you wave
goodnight and head for
the cab you called when we finished
splitting a beer and cocktail tab
waiting for that little extra
backward glance
through the night light
obscured rear window
that tells me you might have
held my hand
if this was a date
I don't think I would.
Cruise Machine
Hitting the street the soles of the feet
pick apart the sweet spots of dry cement
between the after rain. Swoops and dekes
make jealous birds. Crossing the firmament
with speed and precision and "on a dime"
agility they wished they could muster from,
by comparison, clumsy wing beats. A sin
wave heart beat keeps pumping, low strung
clean and efficient and like fingers turning
the pages of a collaborative novel the scene
skips right along in stride. Time's burning
passes unnoticed and breaths turn to dreams
of days not yet here and the drumming steps
kept in four four become super fluid molecules
in a vacuum chamber. Velocity and mass cleft
into meaningless bits of math and broken rules
and the runner tunes like no thing seen before
on Earth or streaked across Heaven's open face.
A machine joined to a conscious and infinite core
who's only purpose is to cruise time and space.
pick apart the sweet spots of dry cement
between the after rain. Swoops and dekes
make jealous birds. Crossing the firmament
with speed and precision and "on a dime"
agility they wished they could muster from,
by comparison, clumsy wing beats. A sin
wave heart beat keeps pumping, low strung
clean and efficient and like fingers turning
the pages of a collaborative novel the scene
skips right along in stride. Time's burning
passes unnoticed and breaths turn to dreams
of days not yet here and the drumming steps
kept in four four become super fluid molecules
in a vacuum chamber. Velocity and mass cleft
into meaningless bits of math and broken rules
and the runner tunes like no thing seen before
on Earth or streaked across Heaven's open face.
A machine joined to a conscious and infinite core
who's only purpose is to cruise time and space.
Last Eligible Donor
When I was six, I said I would marry you. You grimaced. We were bible camp buddies. I came across you again in a rest stop chicken joint. On my way to bigger and better things. In theory. Your eyes were cigarette butts in plastic ash-trays. When I kissed your cheek it didn’t burn my lips. The fire of Jesus Christ must have moved on. Like everyone else. We didn’t fall far enough, did we? Sweet upon detection. Repulsive upon discovery. And now that one disparaged lifetime has crawled into another and we sit, cinders of ourselves in a time stamped trailer. Minus half of the necessary wheels. Backs of our hands weathered as sun scorched rebar. And you with a heart diseased. And I wholly compatible. My keys come off of the tabletop and into my palm with an ease that cuts the corners of our eyes. Number fifty one. Two piece. Small fry. Small pop. “I’ll see you around.”
Children's Stories
Remember Harold, and let your imagination take you
to the limits of what everyone thought you could do
and then beyond.
Remember Where the Sidewalk Ends, and see the absurdity
in everyday things that we look at and hear and believe
we know inside out.
Remember Hatchet, and the indomitable power of will
that resides within us all that can see us through
the worst times.
Remember Sounder, and the peace that lies in waiting
for every man at the end of the road, and every dog
beneath a cool porch.
Remember the Mouse and his cookie and the value
of a friend who possesses endless reckless enthusiasm
and sympathy.
Remember all the children's books you've ever read and
you'll probably get through life alright.
Remember they are regression lines drawn across complex lives
and you'll save yourself at least a month's worth of
wistful, star eyed, sleepless nights.
to the limits of what everyone thought you could do
and then beyond.
Remember Where the Sidewalk Ends, and see the absurdity
in everyday things that we look at and hear and believe
we know inside out.
Remember Hatchet, and the indomitable power of will
that resides within us all that can see us through
the worst times.
Remember Sounder, and the peace that lies in waiting
for every man at the end of the road, and every dog
beneath a cool porch.
Remember the Mouse and his cookie and the value
of a friend who possesses endless reckless enthusiasm
and sympathy.
Remember all the children's books you've ever read and
you'll probably get through life alright.
Remember they are regression lines drawn across complex lives
and you'll save yourself at least a month's worth of
wistful, star eyed, sleepless nights.
My Therapist and I Write a Song for My Dad
I saw my therapist today.
We wrote a song about you.
It took hours, but he cared
enough about making a little
extra, so he let me stay past
the usual time to put my ideas
into a format that was more than
the usual outpouring of established emotional clichés, euphemisms, and horse shit motifs.
It didn't work.
I still want your eyes
crushed in my hands
and my tongue
sucking the
salt from
the black
sockets
of your
skull.
We wrote a song about you.
It took hours, but he cared
enough about making a little
extra, so he let me stay past
the usual time to put my ideas
into a format that was more than
the usual outpouring of established emotional clichés, euphemisms, and horse shit motifs.
It didn't work.
I still want your eyes
crushed in my hands
and my tongue
sucking the
salt from
the black
sockets
of your
skull.
Smoker 2
Everyone grows older and forgetful,
but still I will always
remember how I hated
to watch you peel
and pop
the blisters on
your toes from your
stints at the gym, loving
every minute of the feel of revulsion
and you laughing.
but still I will always
remember how I hated
to watch you peel
and pop
the blisters on
your toes from your
stints at the gym, loving
every minute of the feel of revulsion
and you laughing.
Upon Arrival
The plastic wrapped cheese and bread slices were weightless
in my pack while I walked through the green stubble
that threatened the front walk. I should have brought
fruit. They were mottled like the cloud cover
today, so I didn't. Maybe I can pick something from
the gutters that haven't been cleaned in two years.
"Impossible is nothing against the most improbable."
Your words not mine. "You are what you eat."
Point "A" to point "B".
Only now it’s just me. A point "A" with nowhere to go.
I thought I would well in the months following my departure.
I’ve been told I am simply out of touch,
that it would hit me later,
and it didn’t.
I stood in front of the old haunt
where we built a red edged closeness.
And it stared back,
half eaten by wild grass, caked thick
in pollen and tree bits. The thought occurred,
watching it weep rust, sagging in the center of this God damned downpour,
that there will never be another grin speckled trip
to Colorado’s foothills.
in my pack while I walked through the green stubble
that threatened the front walk. I should have brought
fruit. They were mottled like the cloud cover
today, so I didn't. Maybe I can pick something from
the gutters that haven't been cleaned in two years.
"Impossible is nothing against the most improbable."
Your words not mine. "You are what you eat."
Point "A" to point "B".
Only now it’s just me. A point "A" with nowhere to go.
I thought I would well in the months following my departure.
I’ve been told I am simply out of touch,
that it would hit me later,
and it didn’t.
I stood in front of the old haunt
where we built a red edged closeness.
And it stared back,
half eaten by wild grass, caked thick
in pollen and tree bits. The thought occurred,
watching it weep rust, sagging in the center of this God damned downpour,
that there will never be another grin speckled trip
to Colorado’s foothills.
The Feet that Stir the Leaves
I want something important
to come out of my mouth
every time I sit down.
I scattered pages off of my desk.
I tore lines
and lines
and lines
out of notebooks with thin, stringy binding,
that has aged cheaply.
I rubbed and stroked and coaxed
words out of my head with frustrated
hard palms crushing my temples
like a scene out of a mobster flick.
And the products are still
no better than what I might stroke
from a dog's dick.
I walk and circle the block twice
then three
and I realize the thing that I saw in my dream
is receding with every inch of time surrendered.
I want something important
to come out of my mouth
every time I sit down.
I want to know that there is
an idea there worth scribbling.
An idea that is worth more
than the same idea
I had five years ago.
Or was it six. The five settling in
for comfort
in its roundness in the mouth
where more pointed things
more difficult things
once lived.
Sitting legs tucked
and untucked
and sidelong
and wide
and feet up
and feet down,
however oriented
the blood does not keep
within the housing that needs it most.
Out of doors again
and I walked, feet dragging,
then tripping, then dragging,
and walked to find
a certain something
I lost before the sun came
to heckle the waste
and the wasted.
I stumbled to a halt
two dozen feet up the street
and sat to a stoop
that was not my home
because I heard and I knew
the footsteps
that stirred the leaves behind me
were the same
and I was not
dreaming.
Every time I sit down
and open my mouth
I know him above and beyond all doubt.
And can capture so little of the feel.
to come out of my mouth
every time I sit down.
I scattered pages off of my desk.
I tore lines
and lines
and lines
out of notebooks with thin, stringy binding,
that has aged cheaply.
I rubbed and stroked and coaxed
words out of my head with frustrated
hard palms crushing my temples
like a scene out of a mobster flick.
And the products are still
no better than what I might stroke
from a dog's dick.
I walk and circle the block twice
then three
and I realize the thing that I saw in my dream
is receding with every inch of time surrendered.
I want something important
to come out of my mouth
every time I sit down.
I want to know that there is
an idea there worth scribbling.
An idea that is worth more
than the same idea
I had five years ago.
Or was it six. The five settling in
for comfort
in its roundness in the mouth
where more pointed things
more difficult things
once lived.
Sitting legs tucked
and untucked
and sidelong
and wide
and feet up
and feet down,
however oriented
the blood does not keep
within the housing that needs it most.
Out of doors again
and I walked, feet dragging,
then tripping, then dragging,
and walked to find
a certain something
I lost before the sun came
to heckle the waste
and the wasted.
I stumbled to a halt
two dozen feet up the street
and sat to a stoop
that was not my home
because I heard and I knew
the footsteps
that stirred the leaves behind me
were the same
and I was not
dreaming.
Every time I sit down
and open my mouth
I know him above and beyond all doubt.
And can capture so little of the feel.
We Walk Around a Lake and You Hold My Index Finger
Below the green stained glass
of malformed tree tops.
Astride genuine remorse
and sour reminiscences.
Between the barking of my torn
laces (stepped on
for the last time).
Between rays of sunshine,
tilting with the fury of traveling
80 million miles and, only now
arriving, to no praise,
your steps flare upon each
paved stone before us.
Your words run round
my tottering, cat tempered, muse
with sure hands
just as your hair
subdues the sun's lance
and I, spittle lipped,
take a breath and another
in the space you left
on the fractured concrete path beside you.
of malformed tree tops.
Astride genuine remorse
and sour reminiscences.
Between the barking of my torn
laces (stepped on
for the last time).
Between rays of sunshine,
tilting with the fury of traveling
80 million miles and, only now
arriving, to no praise,
your steps flare upon each
paved stone before us.
Your words run round
my tottering, cat tempered, muse
with sure hands
just as your hair
subdues the sun's lance
and I, spittle lipped,
take a breath and another
in the space you left
on the fractured concrete path beside you.
Pacman Prepared Me For Life Better Than Jesus
Mind your own business.
There are no bad neighborhoods,
only opportunistic loiterers.
Sometimes the best route
means taking a dark shortcut.
You can never eat too much
if you stay active.
Life will corner the man
with his eyes glued
to the prize.
Turn the other cheek
and the rest of your body
and run like hell.
All that glitters
is probably a trap;
pursue with care.
Second chances are earned
with consistent performance.
The best revenge
is sprung from behind.
The assholes in life are
probably friends with each other.
What you do with a drug
determines its reputation.
Riches will only come
with fastidious saving.
Instinct alone will
probably get you killed.
The journey is usually the best reward,
but don't use all of your quarters
or you won't have enough
to dry your clothes.
There are no bad neighborhoods,
only opportunistic loiterers.
Sometimes the best route
means taking a dark shortcut.
You can never eat too much
if you stay active.
Life will corner the man
with his eyes glued
to the prize.
Turn the other cheek
and the rest of your body
and run like hell.
All that glitters
is probably a trap;
pursue with care.
Second chances are earned
with consistent performance.
The best revenge
is sprung from behind.
The assholes in life are
probably friends with each other.
What you do with a drug
determines its reputation.
Riches will only come
with fastidious saving.
Instinct alone will
probably get you killed.
The journey is usually the best reward,
but don't use all of your quarters
or you won't have enough
to dry your clothes.
Country Living
You can keep your country
and your dewy blades of evening grass,
your twinkling porch lamp spider webs,
your noonday napping cats and dirt paths.
You can keep your safety
and your mail men in safari shorts,
your frozen, ready to serve, apple pies,
your fireside ciders, sherry's and ports.
You can keep your orchards
and your four mile walk to the grocer's,
your twenty minute drive for a drop of gas,
your Sunday shuttered liquor stores.
You can keep your church
and your senselessly looping streets,
your door to door fundraising children,
your tidy lawns and meet and greets.
You can keep your notions
and your dreams of a little prairie house,
but I am finished living with retirees
and the rest of the bible belt south.
and your dewy blades of evening grass,
your twinkling porch lamp spider webs,
your noonday napping cats and dirt paths.
You can keep your safety
and your mail men in safari shorts,
your frozen, ready to serve, apple pies,
your fireside ciders, sherry's and ports.
You can keep your orchards
and your four mile walk to the grocer's,
your twenty minute drive for a drop of gas,
your Sunday shuttered liquor stores.
You can keep your church
and your senselessly looping streets,
your door to door fundraising children,
your tidy lawns and meet and greets.
You can keep your notions
and your dreams of a little prairie house,
but I am finished living with retirees
and the rest of the bible belt south.
Smoker 1
If you had a choice
and your choices were
to litter your day
with sprinkles of
light headed smiles
loose conversation
and ten minutes of
every handful of hours
to watch the clouds go by
knowing that I
won't live to see
myself forget
the sprayed swaths
of light and shadow lace
draped across building
faces towering cathedric
over me or the feel
of the afternoon breeze
barreling down
the slanted paving
of the side alley
lounge
and shouldering left
and right the pebbly city stink
burping through
iron gratings
long enough
to snatch a mid day yawn
in peace
or-
I know what I would pick.
and your choices were
to litter your day
with sprinkles of
light headed smiles
loose conversation
and ten minutes of
every handful of hours
to watch the clouds go by
knowing that I
won't live to see
myself forget
the sprayed swaths
of light and shadow lace
draped across building
faces towering cathedric
over me or the feel
of the afternoon breeze
barreling down
the slanted paving
of the side alley
lounge
and shouldering left
and right the pebbly city stink
burping through
iron gratings
long enough
to snatch a mid day yawn
in peace
or-
I know what I would pick.
C. D. Wright and Vagueness
Vagueness of situation can prove problematic in poetry written by anyone, be they new at the art or a seasoned professional. Though vagueness can be problematic it can also be integral to the structure and power of a poem. No matter how detail oriented the poem is in its construction there is always room for interpretation of its details, whether they are lifted directly from life situations or born on the fringe of the fantastic. Negative space, vagueness, can do positive work in a poem in its generation of interpretive flexibility in its frameworks, voice, narrative coherence, metaphor, thematic presence, and atmosphere. In C. D. Wright’s “More Blues and the Abstract Truth,” the reader is given a poem with a very loose narrative structure, a looseness that produces a pervasive vagueness of situation that serves the poem in a positive way. The looseness, the vagueness of situational sign posts, shifts the weight of the poem, the points at which meaning seeking readers can pull information from, to its other elements like metaphor, theme, authentic detail, and syntax.
“More Blues and the Abstract Truth” is littered with authentic detail. The details are as variable as they are poignant; from the paperboy who “comes to collect / with a pit bull” (3), to “the rot / under the floormat” (14), to the confessional honesty of the speaker’s “frequent bleeding / the tender nipples” (13), to the zucchini that somehow “keep[s] on the sill” “even at the end of June” (8). These concrete images ground the poem and paint a keen image of the world the speaker inhabits. Dressing the authentic details is the sparing use of, for their subject matter, engaging metaphors. The speaker intertwines authentic detail with visceral imagery in her thoughts on her gynecologist, “another gouging mechanic,” (17) and then later plays with the language of religion through syntax to generate another metaphor rich in meaning, “the word / has broken… with the wine. And the loaf. / And the excellent glass of the body” (32). The richness of the second instance of metaphor comes from the body of knowledge indigenous to the reader that is activated with the loaded words emphasized by the syntactical irregularities she uses to introduce the metaphorical idea of filling the body with religion as though it were a wine glass. The end of the poem in particular is brimming with authentic details presented as frenetic ideas of a racing mind through parataxis. The speaker asks the grandmother in the poem how a body can “go on drying / the flatware” (27), “fix rainbow trout” (28), and “grout the tile” (28). The grandmother replies with similar syntax that performs the opposite function: “Even. If. The. Sky. Is. Falling. / My. Peace. Rose. Is. In. Bloom” (38). Because of the loose narrative structure the reader does not know if the speaker is at the grandmother’s house, or on the phone with her, or why the speaker is speaking to her grandmother, or if the speaker is ill or well, or if the speaker is dreaming the entire sequence, or if the grandmother is even alive or if the entire exchange is a memory. The dearth of information forces the reader to focus on what is presented: the authentic detail, metaphor, and syntax. From this shifted focus the thematic content of the poem becomes clear and is set off by the title of the poem. Though the speaker’s mind is full, evidenced by the plethora of detail, and yet disquieted, evidenced by the two metaphors that referenced physical and devotional discomfort and the unusual syntax of the speaker’s voice, the speaker is finding support in the voice of her grandmother, real or imagined.
Vagueness of situation can be detrimental to any poet and any poem if not carefully managed. A haphazardly incomplete canvas does not a painting make. Because C. D. Wright’s poem “More Blues and the Abstract Truth” dabbles in the boundary between concrete detail and loose narrative it must strike a balance between what is present on the page and what is not. For “More Blues and the Abstract Truth” C. D. Wright chooses to cut away much of the narrative aside from bits of dialog because what shores the poem against the potential tide of incoherence is its strong and familiar theme, its use of visceral metaphor, authentic detail, and surprising but effective syntactical devices. To have included more narrative structure would have been to beat the reader over the head with the poems content. Too many brush strokes ruin the painting and what C. D. Wright gives the reader to work with is just adequate to see the beauty in its craft and not an ounce more.
“More Blues and the Abstract Truth” is littered with authentic detail. The details are as variable as they are poignant; from the paperboy who “comes to collect / with a pit bull” (3), to “the rot / under the floormat” (14), to the confessional honesty of the speaker’s “frequent bleeding / the tender nipples” (13), to the zucchini that somehow “keep[s] on the sill” “even at the end of June” (8). These concrete images ground the poem and paint a keen image of the world the speaker inhabits. Dressing the authentic details is the sparing use of, for their subject matter, engaging metaphors. The speaker intertwines authentic detail with visceral imagery in her thoughts on her gynecologist, “another gouging mechanic,” (17) and then later plays with the language of religion through syntax to generate another metaphor rich in meaning, “the word / has broken… with the wine. And the loaf. / And the excellent glass of the body” (32). The richness of the second instance of metaphor comes from the body of knowledge indigenous to the reader that is activated with the loaded words emphasized by the syntactical irregularities she uses to introduce the metaphorical idea of filling the body with religion as though it were a wine glass. The end of the poem in particular is brimming with authentic details presented as frenetic ideas of a racing mind through parataxis. The speaker asks the grandmother in the poem how a body can “go on drying / the flatware” (27), “fix rainbow trout” (28), and “grout the tile” (28). The grandmother replies with similar syntax that performs the opposite function: “Even. If. The. Sky. Is. Falling. / My. Peace. Rose. Is. In. Bloom” (38). Because of the loose narrative structure the reader does not know if the speaker is at the grandmother’s house, or on the phone with her, or why the speaker is speaking to her grandmother, or if the speaker is ill or well, or if the speaker is dreaming the entire sequence, or if the grandmother is even alive or if the entire exchange is a memory. The dearth of information forces the reader to focus on what is presented: the authentic detail, metaphor, and syntax. From this shifted focus the thematic content of the poem becomes clear and is set off by the title of the poem. Though the speaker’s mind is full, evidenced by the plethora of detail, and yet disquieted, evidenced by the two metaphors that referenced physical and devotional discomfort and the unusual syntax of the speaker’s voice, the speaker is finding support in the voice of her grandmother, real or imagined.
Vagueness of situation can be detrimental to any poet and any poem if not carefully managed. A haphazardly incomplete canvas does not a painting make. Because C. D. Wright’s poem “More Blues and the Abstract Truth” dabbles in the boundary between concrete detail and loose narrative it must strike a balance between what is present on the page and what is not. For “More Blues and the Abstract Truth” C. D. Wright chooses to cut away much of the narrative aside from bits of dialog because what shores the poem against the potential tide of incoherence is its strong and familiar theme, its use of visceral metaphor, authentic detail, and surprising but effective syntactical devices. To have included more narrative structure would have been to beat the reader over the head with the poems content. Too many brush strokes ruin the painting and what C. D. Wright gives the reader to work with is just adequate to see the beauty in its craft and not an ounce more.
Adventure Quest in Sunlight A Major
The children are playing in the wood
with dinosaur trees
and flickers of Cardinals, Jays,
and Peckers busying themselves,
between eddies of bushwhacking
stick wielding
ninja fights.
An orange and, at one time, white Tabby
ducks a flight of acorns
from dusky palms and hides beneath
the fronds and eaves of a
fortress fit for a most princely
demon of prehistory.
Stubbing toes and elbows
on the game trail as they
tag and spit and bellow
and laugh
to the river's edge
and sit and drink
more blue sky
than dreamt
possible
the day before,
they build plans
for attempting the moat
barring their way to
a portion of science that is,
honest to God,
alchemic and metallic
and heady with
enough discovery
to make Prometheus wish
he poked around a few moments more
before settling on fire,
but it's seven o'clock in the afternoon
and the evening is plucking the clouds
thin quilled feathers, a broad shouldered
mother with butcher's fingers
and doe lipped dexterity,
even as they flee
with the days westward exhalations.
The trees begin satisfying
their bellies
with the last scraps
of daylight and
the operation is postponed
out of necessity, and
the chorus feast,
in its nibbling chirping bites,
reminds them all
of the soft spots in their
little exhausted store houses
for the sweet rice and red beans
soon to occupy the table
back home.
with dinosaur trees
and flickers of Cardinals, Jays,
and Peckers busying themselves,
between eddies of bushwhacking
stick wielding
ninja fights.
An orange and, at one time, white Tabby
ducks a flight of acorns
from dusky palms and hides beneath
the fronds and eaves of a
fortress fit for a most princely
demon of prehistory.
Stubbing toes and elbows
on the game trail as they
tag and spit and bellow
and laugh
to the river's edge
and sit and drink
more blue sky
than dreamt
possible
the day before,
they build plans
for attempting the moat
barring their way to
a portion of science that is,
honest to God,
alchemic and metallic
and heady with
enough discovery
to make Prometheus wish
he poked around a few moments more
before settling on fire,
but it's seven o'clock in the afternoon
and the evening is plucking the clouds
thin quilled feathers, a broad shouldered
mother with butcher's fingers
and doe lipped dexterity,
even as they flee
with the days westward exhalations.
The trees begin satisfying
their bellies
with the last scraps
of daylight and
the operation is postponed
out of necessity, and
the chorus feast,
in its nibbling chirping bites,
reminds them all
of the soft spots in their
little exhausted store houses
for the sweet rice and red beans
soon to occupy the table
back home.
Somewhere Between Unhappy Endings
Laying by the streams muddy folds,
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
I hum and the moon quiets its gaze, rolls over
beneath its tattered blanket of vapors,
and the weightlessness of wanting not returns to me
like the breaths I hold
every time I feel you breath in beside me.
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
I hum and the moon quiets its gaze, rolls over
beneath its tattered blanket of vapors,
and the weightlessness of wanting not returns to me
like the breaths I hold
every time I feel you breath in beside me.
Somewhere Between
Lying by the streams muddy folds,
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
From my sodden bed amongst the reeds
I stand, companion to yet
another night quietly grasping for cloture,
wrists outstretched, clean and pale,
and faintly, faintly, scarred.
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
From my sodden bed amongst the reeds
I stand, companion to yet
another night quietly grasping for cloture,
wrists outstretched, clean and pale,
and faintly, faintly, scarred.
Montepellier Will Not Fix His Fence (and it bothers me)
A lime and raspberry daiquiri fell out of my dream last night and hid itself in the cot I kept rolled up. For guests. Thirst was the second thing on my mind. The first was addressing the issue of Montepellier's hound who, for the sixth time this week, was at my ankles. In through the out door and now in my garden of spilled clothing round my feet.
The early morning hours are mine to spend, but I rarely buy for one. I share my frustration with my heel against the hounds paw and he whimpers away to a dimmer corner. Waiting for signs of sleep. To itch my skin and curl the hairs of my shins again. I lean and stretch the way I remember Jane Fonda on BetaMax. Before I understood the appeal of shimmer tights.
Cartilage cracking is really only the pop of bubbles within the tissue. The world wide web has also assured me that arthritis cannot be so generated. But endorphins can. The rush of warmth through the compressing spine is probably nothing compared to the flush on her cheeks when she popped the thin plastic around the candy tin's lip.
I could bet money that she would blush as tremendously crushing a pocket vole, nest and all, in her creame complexioned fist. Body temperate saliva wakes me. Slapping against the thick painted drawing cooked into the shirt front. I excuse myself the indiscretion for the sake of the guests. They offer blank and darkness dilated pupils instead of allowance.
Classical music is not really classical. They've insisted in the past, but I am in a rare mood for conversation and the hound is snoring machine like. I turn the radio dial to static. Before turning it on. If every person could listen to every song they liked at once it would be unpleasant. For everyone who preferred talk radio.
Snoring ceases and my toes curl happily in my off white garden. The neighbor has retrieved his mongrel and the cot, well soaked within, is making a fine chair for someone. On its outs. A shift in the air before my face tells me the door has come free of its jamb. And maybe I can defray my hosting duties to the reedy and ill mannered new arrival.
The early morning hours are mine to spend, but I rarely buy for one. I share my frustration with my heel against the hounds paw and he whimpers away to a dimmer corner. Waiting for signs of sleep. To itch my skin and curl the hairs of my shins again. I lean and stretch the way I remember Jane Fonda on BetaMax. Before I understood the appeal of shimmer tights.
Cartilage cracking is really only the pop of bubbles within the tissue. The world wide web has also assured me that arthritis cannot be so generated. But endorphins can. The rush of warmth through the compressing spine is probably nothing compared to the flush on her cheeks when she popped the thin plastic around the candy tin's lip.
I could bet money that she would blush as tremendously crushing a pocket vole, nest and all, in her creame complexioned fist. Body temperate saliva wakes me. Slapping against the thick painted drawing cooked into the shirt front. I excuse myself the indiscretion for the sake of the guests. They offer blank and darkness dilated pupils instead of allowance.
Classical music is not really classical. They've insisted in the past, but I am in a rare mood for conversation and the hound is snoring machine like. I turn the radio dial to static. Before turning it on. If every person could listen to every song they liked at once it would be unpleasant. For everyone who preferred talk radio.
Snoring ceases and my toes curl happily in my off white garden. The neighbor has retrieved his mongrel and the cot, well soaked within, is making a fine chair for someone. On its outs. A shift in the air before my face tells me the door has come free of its jamb. And maybe I can defray my hosting duties to the reedy and ill mannered new arrival.
Ruled an Accidental Death
Twined in the thriving plates and needle points of Spring, it peeks, and burrows, through the whispering ankle deep ripples like a shed, paled, yellowed, snake skin. Four months passed, ponderous as willow trees on an afternoon stroll, dappled rays of guilt glinting on their leaves. Winking and weighty. Gently, he placed her sunburst candy purse, still full with spare hose, lipsticks, eye pencils, amidst the glittering and stunted black stalks, rigored and dead as the legs of a poisoned field cricket colony.
A square of ash flakes and dissolves against his naked wrist. He casts about as a fox for hounds unmustered. Fingers touch and wipe clean the fresh droplet of the pigment spilled and dried and peeling free of the Spring painted beneath.
The stemware rested, a crescent of invisible blade, against the pile of the thin burgundy rug. Her toy kanine descended, curious, to the spreading, mingling, stains and in a few moments slit her pink little nose from tip to, cleft, snuffling, upper lip. A third, confused, whimper brings naught but the unamused and taciturn stare of the gray hour hand, while minutes twitched by the fireplace’s brick work like nerve throttled heartbeats before known and suspect footsteps.
A square of ash flakes and dissolves against his naked wrist. He casts about as a fox for hounds unmustered. Fingers touch and wipe clean the fresh droplet of the pigment spilled and dried and peeling free of the Spring painted beneath.
The stemware rested, a crescent of invisible blade, against the pile of the thin burgundy rug. Her toy kanine descended, curious, to the spreading, mingling, stains and in a few moments slit her pink little nose from tip to, cleft, snuffling, upper lip. A third, confused, whimper brings naught but the unamused and taciturn stare of the gray hour hand, while minutes twitched by the fireplace’s brick work like nerve throttled heartbeats before known and suspect footsteps.
Batting Average
Laughter snares listeners and
forty minutes into
the Sunday sermon and
distracted by
the sweat on the pastor's
graying face while he retread
his rocky marriage to bait
classroom participation, and
the choir member who
passed out screaming about
God's love, and
the thought that the only
self help
book I would ever need was
the bible and
the three thousand
self help books written to
clarify
its straightforward pages,
I found myself
to an edge
able to contain a snickering
tightening at the corners of
my eyes and an
erection in my lap as
I remembered
Theresa's birthday party
in tenth grade when
the power went out and,
instead of flashlight tag,
we all played
grabass.
God's mysterious ways
revived the choir singer and by
His grace
she was able to walk
to a wheelchair.
They called
an ambulance and
called for members of
the flock
who were also EMTs
just in case.
forty minutes into
the Sunday sermon and
distracted by
the sweat on the pastor's
graying face while he retread
his rocky marriage to bait
classroom participation, and
the choir member who
passed out screaming about
God's love, and
the thought that the only
self help
book I would ever need was
the bible and
the three thousand
self help books written to
clarify
its straightforward pages,
I found myself
to an edge
able to contain a snickering
tightening at the corners of
my eyes and an
erection in my lap as
I remembered
Theresa's birthday party
in tenth grade when
the power went out and,
instead of flashlight tag,
we all played
grabass.
God's mysterious ways
revived the choir singer and by
His grace
she was able to walk
to a wheelchair.
They called
an ambulance and
called for members of
the flock
who were also EMTs
just in case.
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