There is a time in the morning
where it feels impossible
to ever do anything you'll be proud of again.

I am having a rubber stamp made with the time.

I will stamp everything I feel unworthy of,
starting with my sofa
and cat.

I will stamp the position
within an ownership society
that even allows for me
to call something "my."

I will stamp my blueberries,
one by one, and the tooth
I was going to eat them with.

I want a list, Goddammit,
of revolutionary thinkers
who spat in their beds
for the twist of the Earth,
for what profit a man
to gain a worldview,
what prophet the man
if the soul is a birch?

I give myself x-odd number of days,
a vitamin regimen, a bulletin board,
the puerile MacGyvering
of motion machines.

And machines to keep
the machines running.
And machines to keep
the machines running.
And machines to keep
the machines

One question no one is addressing
is what role authorial ownership plays
in your daughter's
unexplained night sweats.

I will stamp yellow,
and singing,
and sight,
and whosoever even
gets far enough out of bed
to get to the really nebulous stuff.
It’s hard enough to maintain
unpunctured gaze
with the violet-haired woman
on the bus.

It is this author's belief
that the very endeavor
to make sense of anything
is in fact disingenuous,
in that it comes
from the privileged position
of not being on fire.

I am stamping my genitals.
I am stamping my blood.
I am stamping all the books,
terrible and otherwise.
I would suck my thumb
if I thought it would help.

I would curl in a ball
in a laundry basket
wearing my mother's shoes,
my father's hat and winter coat,
if I thought that it would help,
and I would refuse to speak
a word, to anyone, for days.

I would listen to a new and troubling
crop of bands, and paint my hair all black—
I knew a girl who did this.
She set herself on fire last year
and now I can only remember
a single fit of tears from before,
and my unholy response.

I know that she has a separate story.
I know it’s not fair—
in the great, big, nonchalant, everything sense—
to think of her as a subplot in mine,
but I guess it's only natural.

I guess I don't believe in God, but when
I hypnotize myself—with drugs
or only sleep—I begin to talk about
how much He must hate me.
Let's call this fact "1."
And all the other facts that there are
will be "2."
I am building a machine to keep
the sadness away, but
the trouble with machines
is that they only know their input.
IF HUNGER, THEN EAT.
IF SADNESS, IF ANGER
THEN SLEEP AND SLEEP AND SLEEP.

The fact of the matter is, I declare,
that what I want to say
is talk is just performance—
a gesture meant
to confirm the existence of—
and don't get me started
on typing or touch.

I am not sure
what to do with a poem,
or any such totalizing
scheme—
mathematics exist
so that spears can be built, and

my arms are lengths
of nervous meat.
They do not spiral
hermeneutically up,
but form useful geometries
for the eating of soups.

My bones are long rocks.
They are hoisted and curled,
and not by magic!
or shimmering cherubim!
and not even anything
that's any such hot shit
if you want to know the truth.
Have you ever even seen a rainbow?
They're only as beautiful
as boxes of markers.

What a man believes
is less important than what he eats,
and his daily exercise routine
—if I am a good student,
or well-fed or involved,
I must be bad at feeling,
and I take my wish
to feel and be felt very seriously,
though every wish is at odds
with another.

Today, I wish for warm feet,
a walk to the corner,
a store on the corner,
wealth and renown and
eventual and complicated bliss
to be found in someone's
soft hand.

All these people with
very normal girlfriends,
very normal aspirations,
pictures of themselves
awake in the daytime,
could only have drawn
a critique for so long.
It's indicative of a "period"
—as in "comma blue."

And to live is only
to find new periods,
and name the periods
during walks to the corner.

To fear is to know
that something’s gonna go one
of two ways. A wise man
said this, or a woman,
or a screen-printed plaque
in a mother's flawless den:
a drop or a rise; a letdown,
a lift.

When this month is up,
that's it.
I'm cutting the cable.
By the end of the year,
I'd better be famous.
I've bought all new clothes,
I'm combing my hair,
I'm spending hours
and hours and hours
at work, but like
all of my poems,
I want to end this with
fuck. Or a question mark.
Or with silence,
—but it's not like it's
simple either, not like
dumb really is
the best thing to be—
a quarter on the thumb
or whatever you tried
to teach me.

A poem, among other things,
is an "optical shift,"
(it says no no no no
that's not it, this is).

You see, category
is our major invention.
The orange peel falls
into "rubbish"
and "barrier,"
"spongy" and "ornament,"
"orange things," and "zesty"
and "plant life" and "fruit,"
but where but the ground
could it fall without us?

When my mother says "God,"
I accuse her of forgetting Africa,
but Australopithecus
is less real than church—
I can see one!
through the window!
Presbyterian, this one!—
and I too will die,
believing a lot that's not true.

There are two types
of something in the world
where we live,
but it's like gnats
choosing football towns
in the North.

The pluck or the pill?
The pull or the pull.
A sun to explode
or a sun?

I close the door on you once more just like before
When you chose my prose and left me so morose
With a critique so antique it made me feel a freak
And a monster can't foster child with good posture
Even offsetting such upsetting features with writing
Of wonders beyond measure for blunders are forever
In eyes of a god, what surprise at the rise of this fraud,
Automatic to cry, just a gimmick, Sorry and pathetic
These words must be to beautiful birds with fortitude
Enough to crash the gates and smash the plates
Rich hooligans do feast upon fins of beast and fish
In comfortable style I rumble and perspire from fire
Within my soul, trouble staying full, double time this lull-
abye, goodbye peach of my eye who makes my heart awry.

Where/Why and the Who,  I Am

I am a child of emigres,
Sojourners in a land that was not theirs,
Early risers, both long distance travelers,
- a traveling salesman who never forgot a customers name,
- a lover of Rembrandt, ceremonial Judaica, Broadway,
who shared her love for small stipends, traveling large distances.

They were transformational people, transformers of all they met.

Not great successes, yet well-reputed.

emphasize the small in smaller businessman,  
emphasize the part in part-time lecturer, writer,
emphasize the fullness of full time mother,

An odd couple, continentally divided,
Germany and Canada and born many years apart

Never understood the pairing, the mystery of "them,"
Different in so many ways, but inspirational to many in their own way,.

Never till just now,
got the light bulb turned on to what was their secret sauce,
the connectivity essence that wove their web
and I had a front row seat!

Story tellers both,
and if their biggest dreams went unrealized,
no matter, no matter as long as they could tell stories,
Entrancing the many Sabbath table guests, Sisterhoods,
Their Passover table included everyone on the block,
Long before 'regardless of faith, creed and color' was extant

Even interlopers, those who would beg a meal,
The professional beggars who knocked at ten pm
never went away empty handed,
Any crying child who crossed their path taken in, was restored,
Authors of good night stories that incorporated your daily escapades

Their was no commonality in their separate tales,
Their upbringings were as different as Jupiter and Mars,
But in the telling was their planetary passion released,

His ramrod posture, highlighted by eye twinkling charms,
Germanic, on Saturdays he wore a Homburg and striped pants.
Was oft disturbed by the pressures of the real world,
Never took me to Yankee Stadium.

But to this day, his children are approached by strangers,
Grown men and women now,
Who all say the same thing,
I knew your father.

The where and why of my life is still a mystery to me,
What I will leave behind that is worth cherishing may be  
Less than a zero sum game, but now I see that
Nature trumps nurture, for the story telling gene is
Strong in their offspring, inheritance, both sides.

What they gave me, all their children, was this:

The fearlessness to sign your name
to a public document like this poem,
to do small acts of public service kindness
and thousands of small private one for no thanks,
that lays yourself out, open to snide critique and ridicule,
Above all, tell stories.

The Where/Why of my parents lives'
explains mine somewhat,
or maybe even,
its entirety.  

Feb 2012,  
above the intersection of
Wyoming, Colorado and Utah

I'm Back baby!
Jay Mance yes I'm here!
Had to make some changes,
Getting my ass back in gear!

Lets start with my weight...
My goal is 270
I'm currently 328...
Got my ass in the GYM!
Fat pic on my wall,
Time to get rid of him.

On to my Girl
Don't have one!
I'm single
I'm not really looking but..
Its time to mingle..

Man I feel great
Motivated to move forward
On a path thats truly straight.

Expect some more from me
Critique
Cut me no slack
This is the me i love
Oh yes Baby I'm Back!

Things I'll Never Be

So many things I'll never be,
elegant, tall and thin,
with an Englishman's confidence.
Blonde and beautiful, transformational, radiating,
possessing a Marilyn Monroe spell magical,
nope, not me.

Some things I was, I'll never be again.
Never be a sad-eyed teenager again, and for this,
in my morning prayers, I utter a blessing,
(tho my hormones have yet to be informed!)

Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Switches in my brain are shutting down this elegy,
knowing that a dozen stanzas will die stillborn,
so herein and here now, the door closes,
a parting shot escapes over the door sill.

A joy thin threads within, pumped thru my ventricles,
brook springs from sources non-DNA, holy external,
oft hid, well disguised under actor's white face makeup,
this peculiar joy, as long as it embraces me and I, it,

I'll never be unhappy any more.

the seeking eye that even seems to speak
of urgent matters at an early time
is the best weapon wielded by the weak

not in the option given to the meek
to keep heads lowered as the sweet bells chime
the seeking eye that even seems to speak

looks through a wall apparently unique
but hidden in its recesses and grime
is the best weapon wielded by the weak

a simple tool not modern nor antique
whose users have come under in their prime
the seeking eye that even seems to speak

and not been frighted they are past critique
able to know just where in the long climb
is the best weapon wielded by the weak

those who are able find they are to peek
in hidden places for the true sublime
the seeking eye that even seems to speak
is the best weapon wielded by the weak

Is to lay my head upon your chest
I'll hold you like you're the best
Kiss you softly all over your skin
Go way down, let the fun begin
I'll run my fingers through your hair
And show you how much I care
Teasing, pleasing, breaking the shell
Please show me how you rebel
Bite me, fight me, hold me down
Explore my body all around
Throw me over on my back
Jump on top! Charge attack!
Win control, take the lead
Use aggression to succeed
Playfully tugging at each others clothes
Naked, positioned nose to nose
Your turns over, my turns now
Anxious to see what you'll allow
Wrists held tightly in my grip
Straddled, holding us hip to hip
Sweaty, hot, pillows and sheets
Breathing heavy, fast heartbeats
Fucking, sucking, enjoying it all
Oh dear, you're such a doll
Screaming, moaning at the peek
Whispers follow with a fine critique
Slowing, showing satisfaction
Can't possibly get enough action
Gently peeling my body from yours
My lips still trace your contours
Salty but sweet, I'm addicted
Sexy and fine, s'what I predicted
Horny with a mate to match
Ain't no better thing to catch

The grieving process is strange:
step 1. the shock factor: Your heart sinks inward upon itself, because you can't believe what you hear, as if it is a fiction book on a shelf, nothing you read is quite clear.
step 2. Vent to everyone through texts and tears. Set the shameful Facebook status you'll regret in a year.
step 3. Make your "jaded soul" a thing to the naive ear, then feel ashamed of that self critique for it was two severe.
step 4. Cry in the bathtub to Rascal Flatts.
step 5. Talk about it too much.
step 6. Realize it is okay to still care, just be honest.
step 7. Don't let their self pity through drunken visits be misunderstood, they may still care but doesn't mean you should.
step 8. cry some more
step 9. lose yourself
step 10. find yourself


and do it all again.
Because this life is about hope
don't you ever think it's the end.
Doors start where houses stop and lovers always win.