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

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.

All these trees
reach up for warmth
as I cool my boiling
blood beneath them.

Dying artists nurse
on youth, beauty,
and foreign cities.

They think that
making marble
is their gift,
and not simply
the belch
of their overfed
souls.

The stone you strive against
with no success,
becomes the perfect
welcome wall
to rest your head.

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.

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.

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?

While I while hours
and wonder where to be,
by the time the *** is empty,
I like the view from here.

Tomorrow
and tomorrow
creeps on
such
a petty
pace.

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

I made the books on my shelves
straighten their posture,
I dusted lamps and practiced jokes.

I bought new things
for you to sit on
and next to.
I wondered which fruits were your favorite.

I suddenly
grew clean
and brave,
because I knew that you were coming.

Building
marble men
to admire
or hate.

We should
tear them all
down,
and climb up
ourselves.

There's red,
there's white,
there's blue.

There's other colors too.

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

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

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.

Being right
is not the sole
of not being
wrong.

Step softer, my friend.
There are people underfoot.

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

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.

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.

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

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

If knocks on doors
frighten you,
think of the courage
it takes
to knock.

the hours play pianos
through the scaling
spiraled
march of truth,
out my window
afternoons,
fleet of foot
and sharp of tooth.

stranding through the moments
come glimpses
of tomorrow's
news,
inked in future
blacks and blues,
just off beat
and out of tune.

surely there's a braving
somewhere
waiting for a
nickel rube,
selling something
old men use,
softer eyes
or faded suits,

where sighs are money,
and sleep is grace,
i can settle in
the spot they've saved.

I could move
so much faster
if I knew
it was toward
and from
only paint.

Coffee is for
mild apologies
and introductions,
sometimes to
yourself.

you called me an angry thing,
said i blamed the leaves for falling
and noticed you less.

i loudly disagreed.

but as i watch you call for cabs,
scratch your ear,
and pack your books,

i miss the angry thing
i used to be.

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.

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.

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.

fingerprints
on glasses
on water rings
on tables.

i think you
make messes
so i know
that you were
here.

Lizards, snails, birds, and *****,
tobacco plants,
thornapples, obscure types of
buttercup.
Pinecones, arrowroot,
the more striking moments
of fossil remains,
foreign fish and normal bugs,
a terracotta monkey.

We took the things that matter,
gilded them in squares,
glassed them astride.
We enshrined your lazy gardens
in a temple on the cheap,
reminded you to
visit,
to look up
at the world around
above.

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

My eyelids are a coiled bolero,
a bear trap,
a battery.

My tongue is bitten with
careful measure.
The skin of my teeth,
a dormant antique.

My breaths tilt forward
to the next dry season
and downbeat ignition.

I keep faith with the calendar.
I worship the prophet,
the savior spark.

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

Men without bags
or cases,
do whatever
feels right.

Wood-fired summers,
spiral iron curtains,
cloudy watercolors,
a stride away from certain,
brazen vinyl blearing,
lazing under searing,
sighing over greening,
reading over fleeing,
gritty teeth and halfway crying,
brand new air and album trying,
one foot keeping
in your hiding,
noses stretching into braving,
loudest laughing,
neighbor waving,
counts-as-living,
public sinning,
barefoot breathing,
hornet seething,
coffee filling,
spirit swilling,
someone
smelling
later
grilling.
.
the safest sort of being,
only just outside a door.

Should we see
at the speed of grass,
find it stretching
good morning
at the growing heat,
we would notice it pulsing
and step more softly.

Cats could walk tightropes,
but they'd never think
to brag.
They rather hunger.

We may blood better
but pretend we don't.

Instead
we love cats
and people keeping balance,
love purring over pork
and going 'ooohh.'

Oh! Thank you!
thankyouthankyouthankyou.

Thanks.
Thank you.

That's nice, thank you.

Oh wow! Thanks!

Thank you. Thank you.
I appreciate that.

Hey, thanks.
Thank you.
Thank you.

Thank you.

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.

If you struggle
to make
your eyes
meet others,
such magic
can be
learned.

The Greeks made flaws fatal,
but now they merely
tire us,
until we slowly resign
ourselves
to our organs.

We'd be better
to be worse.

Cautious on a couch
we made mild plans
to go to the store
just to come back to bed.

I click
and click
and click,
mining new words
to mean new things.

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

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.

I scan the room for smiles
like radar pings,

homing in on
easy love.

After five minutes
of pleasant conversation,
or twenty
of clenched teeth,

I grant myself a cigarette
and the stolen secrets
of a stranger's back porch.

There's always some other snake there,
and I remember to,
next time,
not wait so long.

There's a river city
close enough
to pin my sloppy
dreams on.

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.

You cannot help but cannonball,
you thick-thumbed thing of trying,
mauling all their myth.

You wear down the wicker
they hoped would hold weight.

You say,
"I'm sorry I said them.
I thought they were jokes,
I thought they were poems."

But it's always honest razors
you haul in your hair.