Not all martyrs meet their gods.
Don't be so quick to die.
There is no glory when blood is spilled,
just widows left to cry.

Far right, far left.
Same rancid breath.
Two heads, same beast.
Sharp claws, palms greased.

We have the numbers.
They have the guns.
Let's meet at the center.
Let's have some fun.

Velvet tongue. Serpent.
It's hard to touch your skin or
look into your eyes.

I don't know my voice.
I haven't heard it in years.
But I do know yours.

I wonder if you
give thought to me in these times
when I feel most lost.

You say I'm no man
because I cry and have doubts.
I really don't know.

The tears come easy.
I wish they weren't for you, but
everything is.

I feel like I am
tumbling down a mountainside
I should be climbing.

I'll look out for you
no matter where I will go.
You taught me to love.

"America I've given you all and now I'm nothing."

Nothing.
An empty chair in town hall.
A piano with no white keys.
An asterisk in the legislation, if I'm lucky.
I ate your bread,
attended your circuses,
burned my bridges for promises you made.
I remember I saved four-thousand dollars
after college and believed I had foresight.
You burned it all before me
and then pierced my eye with your sword of justice,
placed me on the scales and found that
all your wealth weighs more than I do.
The American Dream!
Yet, how am I to dream if I cannot see?
And do you feel heavy?
No, I don't believe you do.
You have your patriots to prop you up when you begin to slouch.
And good on them for being more blind than I am,
or good on them for otherwise.
But that is not the American dream, is it?
I think not, but then again, who am I?

I wake before dawn
to the soft sound of breathing
and am thankful
for another moment like this.

Subtlety is poetry in practice.
Too bad the world is made up of bad journalists.

I feel like September most of the time.
Not too warm or cool,
not more of one thing than another,
barely discernable between
the hot haze of August
and October's sobering chill.

There is a certain dexterity needed
to balance the life with the death,
to be a ghost in time and place
and memory, together.
And if you look into the morning fog
and squint your eyes to see me,
then you are trying harder than you need.

one word
just one spark
one soul
just one race

remember

we built a tower up to heaven
reaching up and out to Him
curious to what’s beyond
united in our purpose then

one tongue
one mind
one hand
we climbed

the tower

and was it wrong to search the sky?
to know the angels, brush their wings?
was it wrong to meditate?
to equate ourselves to kings?

and when He deemed we rose too high
He brought the tower to the ground
colored flesh and broke our tongues
with a hard hand held us down

remember
the tower

and was it wrong to search the sky
with all those stars we looked upon?
to see the truths eluding us?
to know what heaven lies beyond?

I can’t understand
She let go of my hand
An’ left me here facing the wall
I’d sure like t’ know
Why she did go
But I can’t get close t’ her at all
Though we kissed through the wild blazing nighttime
She said she would never forget
But now mornin’s clear
It’s like I ain’t here
She just acts like we never have met

It’s all new t’ me
Like some mystery
It could even be like a myth
Yet it’s hard t’ think on
That she’s the same one
That last night I was with
From darkness, dreams’re deserted
Am I still dreamin’ yet?
I wish she’d unlock
Her voice once an’ talk
’Stead of acting like we never have met

If she ain’t feelin’ well
Then why don’t she tell
’Stead of turnin’ her back t’ my face?
Without any doubt
She seems too far out
For me t’ return t’ her chase
Though the night ran swirling an’ whirling
I remember her whispering yet
But evidently she don’t
An’ evidently she won’t
She just acts like we never have met

If I didn’t have t’ guess
I’d gladly confess
T’ anything I might’ve tried
If I was with ’er too long
Or have done something wrong
I wish she’d tell me what it is, I’ll run an’ hide
Though her skirt it swayed as a guitar played
Her mouth was watery and wet
But now something has changed
For she ain’t the same
She just acts like we never have met

I’m leavin’ today
I’ll be on my way
Of this I can’t say very much
But if you want me to
I can be just like you
An’ pretend that we never have touched
An’ if anybody asks me
“Is it easy to forget?”
I’ll say, “It’s easily done
You just pick anyone
An’ pretend that you never have met!”

I was talking to a preacher,
he said God was on my side.
So I looked left and I looked right.
"Then why's he so hard to find?"
He invited me to mass
but I respectfully declined.

Next day I saw a billboard,
"God is on his way.
Put on your Sunday best
'cause He'll be here today."
Why should I go to church, then?
There's nothing left to say.

I could use a bit of saving, sure,
but I'm too proud to bend my knees.
A drink shared with a woman
will put my soul at ease.
You can call me a sinner,
and all the angels would agree.

I think by now we know,
nearly 250 years after her birth,
that our America nears her 11th hour.
The tubes fastened, pumping *******
straight to her stomach
need not remain.
Her crowd of bedside mourners,
politicians shedding imitation tears
need not remain.
Drape the flag over her emaciated frame
and get on with the ceremonies.

Some say we are all made of star dust
but I don't buy it.
How could we be
when stars don't bleed like we bleed?

As I walk
hands-in-pockets
to the edge of the parking lot
where the asphalt meets the trees
I think of you
my love with the kindest eyes
and how you climbed upon my back
and went with me
down over the hill
among fallen leaves
to that secret place
to trade secret kisses
and sway to the melody
of school bells ringing

And when in my daydream
I hear you say my name again
I realize where I am
and where you are
and wonder if you will again
come to love me
in secret

Where embers once burned
'neath smoke's blackened cloud,
a flower now grows
resplendent and proud,

for yesterday's wars
brought little but strife,
yet today all is calm -
may we celebrate life.

Caesar conquered the Gauls,
again uniting Rome
under the promise of total glory.

Napoleon, First Emperor of France,
escaped exile in Elba to return to France
as emperor.

Lincoln as president
issued the Emancipation Proclaimation,
bringing hope to those disenfranchised.

Better men than I.

Now I stand in the comfort of my home,
struggling to reach my own back
to scratch it.

History dances to me
on a whisper.
I listen to the echoes
of those tired feet on stone,
and to the choir of voices forgotten,
bowing my head in lament.

As sun sets over the mountain,
crowning this miraculous country,
wreathing it in purest gold,
visions of absent glory
cleave to the luster hanging,
suspended above the contours
of this majestic empire,

and by the light of that brilliant corona,
enduring the blameless and bitter dusts of time,
a delicate mirage emerges,
chronicling the last vestiges
of the valorous heroes who came before,
who influence our proud and dignified march.

And where a ceremony awaits -
beyond the scope of that western realm,
beyond the reach of that bleeding sun
into which silhouettes now fade -
to laurel today's new hero with a crown
of golden light,
so too awaits the ecstatic promise
of a brand-new, untamed world.

I want to release my inhibitions,
feel the rain on my skin.
I want my Venus, my fire, at my desire.
But I'm not a woman.

Deep beneath waves -
salt and darkness -
a challenger emerges,

silver, streamline,
fins and flippers.
Tuna heeds no warnings.

Here to undo
all your progress,
mankind poses no threat,

on hands and knees,
weeping, crawling.
Tuna stands the victor.

I am happy to have lost my innocence.
If I hadn't, I would have never noticed
the devil you have always been.

The pain that follows comfort.
The rain that comes with spring.
The snows that follow summer.
The chains which bind the wing.

Moths flutter 'round in my mind,
chasing after the light in my eyes.

The hate between men
in view of a prize -
the bitterness of their hearts, then.

Two wolves circle a fawn,
a trophy - the eyes.
A hush in the forest at dawn.

The fortune and the glory,
the blood spilled, the ecstasy -
to be laureled in a light
of gold.

Bridges we once danced on
over waters we thought would drown us.

Photographs of friends
who have since become ghosts.

Candles that remind us
of our sweetest memories.

Oh, and toast.

I am not what you expected
when you went searching for answers.
I too come with a question:
what is the use?

When you're holding my heart
can you feel the cancer?
When you kiss my lips
can you taste the abuse?

And do you want to hold me?
Do you want to touch me?
Do you really believe you've got what it takes?
Do you think you can control me?
Do you think you can love me?
How long will you last before your heart breaks?

Crying, she locked herself
in her room,
boarded up her window.
She laid down.
I didn't know what I'd done
when I asked about her old lover.
It was casual,
but maybe that was the problem.

Hours turned to weeks.
Her parents brought her
all she asked for.
Wood.
Nails.
Paint.
All she needed.
She didn't leave.

You could hear the anguish,
the hammer,
her feet pacing,
her knees drop to the floor.
You could taste the tears,
the sweat, her blood.

I called to her, ashamed.
Worried.
I drove my fists through the wall.
I drove my car to city limits.
I drove myself to the edge.
I sat in the hall.

When finally the door opened,
she looked mad, accomplished.
No more tears,
just red and black paint
smeared across her eyes.
I reached to her
with broken hands.
She handed me what she'd built -
wood nailed to wood,
crudely cut and shaped,
splintered,
dripping red and black
paint and pitch -
her heart.

Before moving,
I left my apartment spotless -
no soap **** in the tub,
no hairs or crumbs in the carpet,
not even the linoleum had a scratch or scuff -
spotless, I can assure you.
Yet, I got a letter from my landlord
stating that my security deposit was being withheld.
O, the injustice!
O, the villainy!
Four-hundred dollars, that swine!
That crooked-nosed knave!
If this were 14th century feudalist Europe,
when men still had a fighting chance, mind you,
I would have half a mind to
drag his very name through each tavern and inn,
through the street muck,
don my longsword,
dress my horse,
ride through the dawn,
into the walls of his squalid garrison,
lay waste to his livestock,
enslave his first-begotten,
canoodle his wife,
torch his hens and roosters,
shave him bald,
form a rope with his filthy hair,
tie it to his filthy ankle,
and yank him along
from the back of my horse,
spitting in the eyes
of those who dare oppose me!
Nay, who oppose justice!

But, alas,
I merely read the notice letter and sighed.

To live, to feel,
deny what's real,
to run, to hide,
to stand and fight,
to give or receive,
or choose to believe,
to laugh, to cry,
or hold it inside,
to bend or to break,
to lie there awake,
to sleep and to dream,
stay quiet or scream,
to nurse or to ****,
to swallow that pill,
to eat, to drink,
or refuse to think,
to die every night
or bask in the light,
to hold on, stay true,
or let go of you,
I'll do what it takes
to get through.

I got a phone call late last night
and who was it but Mr. President.
"Ya got no business callin' when I'm trying' to write!"
"Can it, pal, you owe me rent."

In seconds flat I's out the door.
Ran a block and hailed a taxi.
But I left my cash in my underwear drawer
so I couldn't pay the cabby.

So I got dumped out in East River,
and as I's swimmin', met a mermaid.
She went by the name Bette Midler.
She ran me to shore, gave me a band-aid.

There I was all cold and wet
with seagulls overhead laughin' at me.
I wrangled 'em all in a fisherman's net,
started walkin' to Cincinnati.

Naturally, I got lost along the way
tuggin' at a movie star's blouse.
When finally I looked up, to my dismay,
I's standin' on the lawn of the White House.

Mr. President said, "I can send you to prison
or exile you to Nantucket."
And sure as seagulls are mean and Christ is risen,
I threw up my hands and said

This world spins
like a record
and we are
the needle

I dug up your grave
because I missed you,
those nights lying beside you
watching your stomach rise and fall
with each sacred breath you took,
eyes open then shut then open, again.
I took those subtle movements for granted, I did.
Subdued I was by the present.
Now as I kneel at your stone
in the loneliest Spring I can recall,
beneath a pale and faceless moon,
holding your bones,
glancing them in moonlight,
I find they look nothing like you.
There is no warmth that I expected,
no memory coursing through them.
You have moved on from me
so that I may do the same.
Yet, now my heart is scattered
like the bones I kneel beside.

No deception in his yellow eyes -
I admire the hawk, I do -
as talons seize the shrew.

Forthright in his motions,
he takes that which he needs,
to sentiments pays no heed.

For nature is indifferent,
not blind to love or hate.
A course narrow and straight.

You came to me an angel.
With gleaming eyes, seduced.
Around your head a halo,
now become my noose.

The past is like a leaky faucet:
you always hear the drip,
though you learn to tune it out,
eventually.

Once I saw not color.
My dreams were black & white.
The days, it seemed, were endless
and void of light.

Then I met a young girl
with rainbows in her eyes,
bringing hue to my life
and to the skies.

"I cannot go back,"
I think to myself driving alone,
early afternoon, Rt. 7 North.
The last time I visited
the house where I grew up,
I felt like a ghost
there in the yard,
as if something - some secret misfortune -
were tugging at my sleeve,
begging me to stay, to remember.
A secret not my own,
but one I have spent my whole life forgetting.
A secret as old as the great maple tree
under which I used to play and pretend.
That tree no longer stands,
though its branches remain
scattered about the yard,
causing me to remember.

Harvey Weinstein is not in jail because of *******,
nor did the Devil make him do it.
Harvey Weinstein is in jail because of power.
He felt he had it - all men feel they have some.
Yet, Harvey Weinstein is the kind of man
who knows not restraint, who knows not respect,
whose little taste of power, he felt, should
be on the tongues of the women whose lives he polluted.
******* is not the impetus of abuse,
just as a gun will never be a murderer,
just as the Devil will never be anything but an excuse.
Men are their own devils.

You are the reason I look out the window at night and smile.
You give light to the darkness, it is your nature.
You bring thrill to an elsewise soulless sea.
Though I saw you not that night, you were there
(part of me) at my birth and,
come time to die, I will look on you and smile, again.

No one wants to hear the truth.
That's why we tell stories,
invent personas,
make secrets of ourselves.
Lies are the currency of love.
A peacock is just a turkey with pretty feathers.

I remember as a child
how desperately I would fight away the needles,
no matter that they were to make me better.
To this day, nothing has changed.

Your body moved like ocean waves
                beneath me,
    the wet taste of salt shared between our lips,
        moonlight reflecting off metallic jewelry
like little lighthouse beacons gleaming in the darkness.
And in that fleeting moment
      of equal parts fear and fulfillment,
  when there is no moon or movement
             and all is quiet and still,
                 I felt myself sink into you
             and I have yet to hit bottom.

Eclipse me.
Keep me from view.
The whole world wants to see you.

God created man.
I create poems.
Just like poems,
some men are good,
     some bad.
The poems that are good,
I save those.
The bad ones? I save those, too -
that I may rework them
until they are good.
     I do not burn my creations,
for they are only ever bad
because I lacked a vision or patience.