novels are rocks
to be kicked and chipped,
impress that they remain.

poems accumulate
like ash,
are made to breeze away.

I'd change clothes
more often,
if you would only
come around,
make days
not all the
same.

We lounged around like careless gods
in southern heat
in low-rent kitchens,
splurging and
wasting each other like money.

We suggested pale plans
to eat some food
or move to the porch,
just to keep the rhythm going.

We gorged ourselves
on yesterday's jokes
and tomorrow's deadlines,
were sleepy and sated,
back before we got grown.

I'd like to learn
the names
of trees
and bugs,
so I can have
new words
for the place
I always am.

You were stern
when we were young
and spared not a rod,
but when you moved,
for us,
you boomed like miracles.

Later, you calmed,
and willed us
your wealth,
tried to share
how to share,
and we stubborn
and stupid,
wielded your love
like bludgeons.

Now modern,
full-grown,
we trace only
our ugliest genes
back to you.

And you,
old and dying,
can climb no mounts,
have nothing new to say,
and we don't call you
anymore.

It must
be hard
for you
to say
nice things
with such
long teeth.

people are wearing masks
to keep each other safe.

and i thought 'how sweet,'
and 'of course.'

They think me sad,
disheveled,
too loud
at times.

My country is coughing,
my neighbors number.

I search for pictures
of places
I used to live,
find landmarks
I remember
in lesser light,
scroll to the bottom
of local news,
where lonely hearts
notice me missing.

Remember when you coughed here?
Saved money to leave?

It's collected some dust,
but we saved you your spot.

Each morning
brightens
visibly
at my approach,
busking birds
and snoring
garbage trucks.

The mailman
refuses
to let me carry
my boxes,
and the bills pay
themselves.

Hands on hips,
popped akimbo,
I just want to hold something
that's angry at me.

Barring water,
bathe in wine.

If hearts are scarce,
eat seeds.

Without words,
make any noise.

You came with all you need.

You projected your voice
to the backs
of ninety theaters,
even whispered asides
to ballrooms and arcades.

It would take generations
to see your domes tower,
to call you to curtain,
our line of sight
at last
unobstructed:

You crafting your
cantilevers,
you setting the stage.

They call this a 'lesser work.'

How do you write a poem about a poem?

Why write poems at all
now that Fred Astaire has danced?

I'm in over my head
giddy dizzy diving downward.

Rhythm meter grace and beauty
Ginger Rita Cyd and Judy.

I really do think
that this might be
the prettiest thing
I've ever seen

which means

this can't be much of a poem.

How can one be holy
in this world
and not also be
a fool?

I wish I were brave
enough to babble,
ashamed to not
be naked,
knew enough for now.

Knowing better
is not being
better,
and Brother Juniper
runs
to do good
in any wrong way.

A splotch on a map,

spilled ink

that spreads and microbizes

past false edges,

infects other blots,

until we're all stained

with each other

and ourselves,

surprised

horrified

delighted

that we can grow

even inkier.

I'm long overdue
for a poem
on her eyes
or her lines
or her
sleepy Sunday smile.

But first,
how do you write a poem
about another
person's
jokes?

Tomorrow
and tomorrow
creeps on
such
a petty
pace.

i found a friend
while sitting still
and now i ache
awake,
trailing after talking,
complaining about the weather.

I propose a deal.

Where I would
scrape terrace walls,
would break my vows
to god and state,
Would fall in ****
and climb out broke,
Would cheat you blind,
Would feed you grapes,
Would steal ruby rings
from bishops' tombs,
Would bolt my pottage
with a wooden spoon
to get back to leaving
a painting unfinished,
I would be murdered
by your brothers
and ghost you with my head.
I would fire and **** and pray you.
Would believe myself
a ploughhorse.

All of this,
for ten stories,
each night.

You washed
your hair
in your
dream,
but I
did the
same
just now.

At any given time,
I wish I didn't have
about ten percent
of my too many books.

Thunder, it soothes me,
and quiet disrupts.

Must I always argue with everything?

I used to find freckles
and write them down.

Now that I weather
like wood,
I find I prefer
weathered wood.

I should be surprised,
but I don't do that anymore.

We negotiated natural wonders
and local history,
settled on county museums,
filled our days with boring
plans
to be somewhere new,
but not get distracted.

Edward G. Robinson,
in an apron.

Let us not forget this man,
this onetime massacrist,
now a nervous painter,
now a lonely cashier.

Fritz fries the city
in chiaroscuro rain,
and Little Caesar
offers us a tattered
umbrella.

His hurt face
his hurting-face,
are barely distinct,
a furrowed brow
a sparking heart.

They've come to remind us,
that artists are heroes
and stupid in love.

Rumi
told me
to talk less,
and now,
I can't stop
telling
everyone
about it.

Some seam has burst in me,
and now I duel with the universe.

It keeps telling me it's big,
I keep doubting it's enough.

This space in me
eats galaxies,
so I dodge things
of value,
squirrels and news
and nurses,
anything that blinks.

But who ever heard
of a hurricane
that chooses?

Found a fence,
climbed a fence,
wildflowers
ever since.

*

It should be
right around here.
Yep,
see there,
through those trees,
with the gothic points,
that's it,
the one
that I told you about...

I've always regretted
the skin I scraped,
left behind in Jersey.

But now I find fondly
moments of asphalt
embedded in my arm.

Wrapped for warmth,
my neighbor plans ahead,
glances around.

She sees in future weeks
and ensures
she'll love well there.

She counts all her kids
again and again.

She paints flowers
on their faces
and sings to them
in Spanish.

It must be frightening for her
to see so many colors,
to hear wolves so far away.

I love the way you bubble,
but never overflow,
thunder like a fountain
aiming only at yourself.

But I want to break your balance.
I need to make you splash.

What shady grace,
as tall as trees,
you refuse to not
look up at me.

I got dusky dizzy
piano drunk
in the early evening's cooling,
in nina's sweaty cooing,
went giddy, mad, and growing.

I rolled around my porch awhile,
counting bricks and licking paint.

Over and over,
I kept thanking all the bugs.

After the linens,
I turned out my pockets,
was reminded
where I found you
and how much it cost.

I think I can
admit
that all I want
to write
is poems.

But for
so many
ugly days
at a time,
I am empty
of even
the fewest
words.

I.

you grinned at me
simple and syrupy,
a dollar reason,
a summer treat.


II.

like a road map
on a car hood,
we checked and folded
checked and folded
each other's lines
again
and again.


III.

you winced hard
against acid mist.

i watched
the bug spray bead
on your calves
and neck,
thought about blood
and the taste of you
later.


IV.

we drove around
looking for lakes,
or parks,
or picnic tables.

any new place
we could be the same.


V.

no matter how used to it
we get,
the sun stalks longer
than we'd expect,
jealous of our colors,
worried we'll set.

I got sixty bucks
and three jokes.

One day all of this
will be yours.

The Greek, the cowboy,
and the soldier know,
that what we do next
began long ago.

clementines
scatter the counter,
bruised and browning,
a seedless deadline,
a citric clock,
some recent kid's
acid ambitions.

When you can't ever
seem to
prune yourself,
then just
grow grow grow.

Always admire,
and never
respect,
a man with a
bag or
case.

Men without bags
or cases,
do whatever
feels right.

the house i am myself
sweating and spitting
returns my feelings.

we merely found each other,
neither choosing,
in our lazy, natural state.

she is cheap.
i ask for little.
she gives me less.
i give her nothing.

so she bakes me for the rocks i kicked last winter,
and i casually curse her too.

but once or twice a season
her humble hills
align along
my stooped indecision.

we pass each other on the mountain,
surprised we are surprised,
at another kindly solstice.

then we both resign our rage,
to sigh and sleep together,
quietly at home.

My watermelon thumb
crosses your brown leg,
like a thirsty prince
in a dizzy desert.

I trace bug bites
and stubble,
while you radiate heat.

I feel our whole summer
pouring out of you.

When the sun gets high,
I search for shade.

A four word risk
has ached at me for months,
stripped wire,
a fraying rope of
half a try.

God save the paper hearts
that smudge so sorry,
that follow on faith
the reckless breezes,
that soak up our histories,
and rip when wet.

It's nice to know,
that while i've grown duller,
the stuff inside of me
is still bright-red.

It's been a minute
since i was
permanent,
was wondering
if you'd
write  a bit on me.

It's so nice
to be so high
without doing
a thing.

A stranger knocked
on the wrong door,
so I showed him
where to go.

I started rereading
Walt Whitman
to steal
some of his genius.

A couple hours later,
he had eaten
all of mine.