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.
original works of parts
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.
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