Here I am,
writing poems in a rainstorm
like I'm Poe or something.
I'd honestly rather be asleep,
now and most of the time.
Don't get me wrong,
I love poetry,
and I love rain,
and also I'm not depressed, I swear.
It's just I can't really
**** anything up
when I'm asleep.
But as soon as my eyes are open
(though not really open),
I start waging war on love
like it hurt me or something.
No,
when I'm asleep
I can only dream of it.

Well, tell your brothers,
     your sisters and misters
they dont need to
     hang around my door.
My hands and feet
     are covered with blisters -
just a product of our
     little war.

     And next time you
have half a mind
     to set fire to my
Cadillac,
     just remember that
kinda behavior
     is never gonna
bring me back.
     Know that.

Yes, I believe I received
     your last message,
but I didn't care to
     hear it through.
It's just my mind
     was preoccupied
with finding ways
     to rid myself of you.

Don't get me wrong,
     we sure had our fun,
but it was much too much
     to make it last.
Now my windows and
     doors are all locked,
I only open 'em to scream
     when you drive past.

I went to the graveyard today.
Sat beside your stone,
even through the rain,
just so you didn't feel lonely
(if you can feel at all).
I began to relate recent events.
That didn't take long,
so I sang songs you loved,
songs by Johnny Cash mostly.
I swear when I said
"Because you're mine..."
your stone rang like a bell.
     Something came over me then.
A tear fell down my face
when I remembered you said
nothing as you were leaving me.
I dug into the earth in a fit of passion,
though nearly sure of what I was doing.
I looked at your bones.
Held them.
I wasn't scared and was glad
that no one saw me.
But they didnt look like you.
They weren't smiling,
singing, or anything.
So, I put them back.
Covered them up.
Didn't say a word.
    And I left you.

You might call me pathetic
     when I beg you to stay,
or when I cry after hearing
     that you've fallen out of love.
I would say I'm simply a romantic
     with inclinations toward      heartbreak.
     I would say that that is my definition of love.
     If that's the case, then I guess
I can't blame you for
     falling out of it.

Get me out of this suit,
for ****'s sake.
I look like
some flashy bird of paradise,
but I feel like I'm in hell.
Feel like I'm a far cry
away from myself.

She called me her savior
for watching her dog
while she was away.
     Savior? No.
I can't even save myself.
Hell, I even forgot to feed the dog once and now her couch is in ruins.
But if she wants to keep thinking it,
     she can.

In the shopping center
     I feel like an exile.
     As I write this,
sitting on a patio furniture display,
I realize I am the only one
without a cart full of cardboard
and artless plastic.
     A seasoned couple quarrels in the next aisle over which
shower curtain to go home with
as if it really matters at all.
     Children yearn for the colorful things, women the shiny,
men the dangerous.
     I want to tell them that if
they want color, brilliance, and danger,
they should listen to Elvis Presley
or read Tom Robbins.
     Anyway, I buy the lawnchair
I've been sitting on
and walk out the door.

Babe, you know I'd love to go and
meet your mother,
but I've been hearing that she
kicks like a mule.
Maybe I should just go
undercover
so I don't seem like such a fool.

Well, I hopped off the ship
and fell face first
in a pile of ****.
Thought nothing's worse.
Saw a man go by
pullin' a hearse,
then I remembered
this single verse:

Oh, it'll get better now.
Say oh, it'll get better.
Don't let the wind
ruffle those feathers.
Just when it rains,
pray for some good weather
and oh, it'll get better.

When I rose again,
I fell into
a mess of chains
and heavy, too.
I asked the Lord
what can I do.
He told me Child
this one's for you:

Oh, it'll get better now.
Say oh, it'll get better.
Don't let the wind
ruffle those feathers.
Just when it rains,
pray for some good weather
and oh, it'll get better.

I managed to
shake off the weight.
Resolved I could
determine my fate.
Went lookin' for a boat
to take me back,
but the docks were bare and
I had a heart attack.

So I sit right on
the edge of this land
where the anchors drop
and the ships did land,
sing this song
to whoever I can,
stomp my feet
and clap my hands, it goes:

Oh, it'll get better now.
Say oh, it'll get better.
Don't let the wind
ruffle those feathers.
Just when it rains,
pray for some good weather
and oh, it'll get better.

I kept you,
despite my constant worry
that it was wrong of me to do so
(you also kept me,
but you couldn't
possibly know that).
Around and around you'd go,
and my gaze went with you,
felt like I was weightless,
until at once the dream I sunk into
with you rose and evaporated
like a sudden, desperate breath.
I held you then,
tried to keep you warm,
sang you songs,
told you it would be alright.
I was left breathing onto you
as your spirit rose and evaporated
into the room around me,
into the air I breathe.

I lost all my ambition
when I moved here with you.
Now I'm in no condition
to do what I have to do.

My mind's mixed up with worries
on track to coming true.
And now I'm in no hurry
to spend all my life with you.

I used to dream of writing
for some big magazine.
Now I dream of hiding
with a bottle of amphetamines.

Some days you say you love me
and want me in your bed.
Other times you loom above me
and drop your judgment on my head.

If you'll just come out and tell me
what it is you want from me,
then I'll lose the pills I'm taking
and put you in that magazine

And everyone can read about you,
with your name beside "forever."
Otherwise, just say adieu,
and I'll write it, "darling, never."

We are what our parents' parents
taught them to fear.
The atom of liberated thought,
the shallow, the queer, the lazy.
We are what our fathers were not,
or what they never had the ***** to be.
We are united by the hypothesis
of instant pleasure.
We are measured by dollar signs,
nickels, dimes, roaring down
Penny Lane blaring hip-hop,
dropping the surnames and
blaming the slave trade for
the stains on our rap sheets.
We are what comes after the comma
in the history book sentence,
sentenced to life in mind-drug prison.
Listen!
We are going nowhere but forward.
We are the generation of disorder,
hoarders of unrealized potentials
who cross borders
just to say we did so.
We are the flame of ******* science
turning your bibles into embers.
We are the generation that
remembers to forget.
Let us take an inch and we will
turn it into a mile so you can
watch us march down it single-file
while you pray to god we don't
make it to Capitol Hill.
You know we will.
Listen!
We are the generation.

A glass of wine at sunset
and a cigarette.
He's drinking for two,
though it's only he who's there.
Through the window glare
he's looking at the loveseat
where his love would sit unhappily
as devotion drove her quickly mad.
He had her - all of her - once.
Her eyes of emerald, chestnut hair,
fair skin paired with dark garments,
and the smell of sweet lavender,
like a smoke, clinging to a broken memory, a stale picture tucked into a drawer that doesn't open anymore.
Yes, he has his wine, his cigarettes,
his sunset to help him forget.
But tomorrow he will feel it all again. When the sun rises, the bottle is empty, the cigarette burns out, the heart relives its pains
and reaches for what is lost.

My bones proclaim the work
of a hand unseen.
I am formed and fitted with
the means to spread joy or ruin.
I am humbled by the presence
of those who came before,
for they are wise
in the ways of this life.
I am certain that
neither demons nor death
may separate me from my faith
in learning or loving.
I am, for the first time, seeing
my reflection in the shape
of this earth and beginning to love myself.

It is in the nature of all things
to be formful and good.
All that moves is miraculous.
All that does not is deathless.
Regardless, these roles are fulfilled.

Machines are only as beautiful
as the nature of their function.
Consider a grandfather clock --
a handsome combination
of practicality and playfulness,
symmetry and simplicity
(though quite complex within) --
wood and steel joined perfectly
to inform, entertain, and intrigue.
     Conversely, a television lacks
such subtlety, making it
almost malicious in its capacity.
In its nature is the intention
to render nature, itself, obsolete.
Where a television aims to
make us forget,
a clock, for instance, serves to
remind us that it is time to
start living -- and what could be
more noble or more beautiful
     than that?

Well now your tears
they don't bother me.
I said your tears
they don't bother me at all.
You know your tears
they don't bother me.
Your tears, now,
they dont bother me at all.
But I'd hate to see you leaving.
Leave me with my back
against the wall.

I saw your train pull in the station.
I heard the whistle start to blow.
Yeah, as your train got to the station
I could hear that lonesome whistle start to blow.
Well, I could meet you down the line,
but where you're headed
I just dont know.

As those wheels got to turning,
so did my heart, girl, ya know it did.
When them wheels started turning,
so did my heart, girl, yes it did.
And I could see you in the window
laughin' like some little kid.

I guess my tears didnt bother you
and you know that's such a shame.
I guess my tears didn't bother you
and ain't it such a shame.
'Cause the reason they were falling
is 'cause you're gone and I'm to blame.

A bell screams through your mind.
You know now to keep quiet
when the passion is at his tongue.
When his cheeks are trembling
like the hand at your side,
you know to lower your eyes
and speak kind and care.

You know what to expect
and you mark it in your mind.
When dusk makes mirrors out of windows,
you know not to look long at what's behind.
You know to walk right by.

You know it like you know yourself.
You smile like you do,
falling in line to the purpose he’s drawn for you.
He brings you to your feet,
your eyes fixed on the floor.
You know what love endures.

I may not be a part of your reality,
but you are most of mine.
You shine through the  cur-
tains of my memory,
into the windows of my dreams.
     You with the emerald glow,
the flowing gown, my world
in the palm of your hand,
standing special in a golden hall,
are all I'd love to know.

contradictions
are what make
us human

To see the beauty of a life
is to stand with Death,
looking back at the whole −
the sum of joy and pain.
     From there, the face in the moonlight,
     the warmth in the glance of an eye,
     the untraceable laughter in the hall
take on more meaning,
bear new slight symbols,
conjure new beliefs.
     But do not wait for Death.
After all, these words were written
in the midst of a beautiful life.

Countless fired and flaming rows
of foot-worn streets I walked,
watching faces grow and become the things
of the evils that they talked.

I shot a sidelong sharpened glance
at these foes whose names are lost,
only to fall in line with them,
standing crooked, callow, crossed.

I donned a suit and played the part.
I spoke their words and sneered
at lonely men with drooping hearts
as mine did disappear.

I lived like this for centuries,
at least that’s how it seemed,
all the while grasping at air
and forgetting what I’d dreamed.

Until one day I heard a voice
come wafting through my door.
It said "Temptation is a ghost,
you’re meant for something more."

Stricken by this phantom noise,
I thought that I’d been called
upon by gods or angels then,
and so to them I crawled.

I crawled, I crawled, I lived like dust,
blowing this way and that,
atoning for what I had become,
and on my face fell flat.

I must have died a thousand times
if only in my thoughts.
My head grew weary, sight grew dim,
my heart ******* in knots,

When out of darkness came a hand
reaching out to mine,
and pulled me up. I stood again,
though much more straight this time.

I thought I could be eternal,
like air or sound or memory,
that I would be a ghost
in your attic forever.
I thought you would keep me,
or be kept by me,
find joy in my movements,
love in my breath.
But you moved away,
suddenly without word or gesture,
left me standing on the floor
in your house, now mine.
You took my place and I yours.
This was supposed to be simple, clean.
And so you became air,
sound, memory, nothing at all.
Eternal.

The long hands of mem’ry are strangling my mind,
reachin’ out past the face to which my love was assigned.
When I go out in the evening to see what it is I can find
I’m haunted by the things we said.

When morning light lies beside me in my bed
I’ve got to turn myself over and shake out my head
because the whole scene reminds me of the day we wed
and of the life from which we resigned.

Like a sharp shaft of glass, we tore through the years,
only to end drowning in each other’s tears.
But the past’s so much closer than it appears,
and if you look too long you’ll go mad.

To say I never loved you’s to fall in line with a fad.
But to ignore what I feel now is just more weight I can’t add.
So I look down at the ashes, dust off what we had,
and stifle my rising fears.

America, I am told, was once a gleaming jewel
cut and polished by men with ***** hands
and set in a western crown worn by Lady Liberty.

America, I hear, had hills full of gold
and rivers full of wishes and they always flooded
and watered the land and made things grow tall and strong.

I heard in a song once that this land was made for you and me,
that America was a place of possibility, prosperity,
and that I can follow my footsteps to find my way home.

Home. Home of the brave. Home of justice,
freedom, faith. Home of color, of pride, and opportunity.
Home of We the People and unity.

But I have never known this America,
and this America has not known me.

America has turned its back to those
who broke theirs in trying to lift her.
America has held the whip for far too long.

America has pulled the plug and
now the drain is clogged with the dying.
America is deaf to their dying songs.

America has told us that
we are right where we belong, but oh,
how she couldn’t be more wrong.

Looking out across a sea of green,
wond'ring where you are
and where you've been.
You should really see this view,
and the tea is set for two.
Where are you?

Is the sun just in my eyes,
or is this real?
Slowly turns the day upon its wheel.
My hope, I fear, will fade
like the light into the shade.
And so I pray:

Please,
won't you come back home to me?
Won't you please?
Set my weary mind at ease.
Is that you
I see moving through the trees,
or just another
cold and lonely breeze?

Looking out across a sea of green,
wond'ring what we are
and what we'll be.
O, how I wish I knew.
It would help me to get through.
Where are you?

Dangle it before my eyes.
Hypnotize this eager boy.
Beauty is your best disguise;
the lovely gal from Illinois.

You laughed at me and
called me names from the bed.
I held my head in my hands and
lamented each step that
brought me to your door.

In the morning, we kissed and
dressed together and
never acknowledged the
look in each other's eye.
You stuck out your tongue
in good humor while
this poem was dancing on mine.

It ain't nothin to see that there's
so many dead no more.
It ain't nothin to see that there's
so many dead.
And if that don't tell you somethin
then there ain't nothin in yer head.

It ain't nothin to look up
to see the fire fallin.
It ain't nothin to look up
and see the fire.
If you tell me it ain't there
then I'll tell you yer a liar.

And it ain't nothin to look out
and see no one lookin in.
No, it ain't nothin to look out
to see there's no one lookin in.
Make no mistake about it,
the ones that's there ain't yer friends.

It ain't nothin just to find that
you got no place to stand.
It ain't nothin to look 'round, see there's no place for you to stand.
No, you can't even go outside
or yer on someone else's land.

I been listenin for the voice
that'll say "come get yer lovin."
Lord, I been listenin for yer voice
to say "please come get yer lovin."
That there's somethin special, man.
Oh yes, it sure is somethin.

I look up at the tenements and wonder
how many of them are like me.
Hidden by roofs and walls and windows, sitting, chasing their
butterflies of silent obsessions as they
threaten to fly too close to the net.
Do they too struggle with eternity?

I go by my old apartment, by the college, and don't hear my voice at the door. No more my reflection in the glass bulb. Whoever's inside there now, I hope they fill the space better than I did -- hope they're remembering to laugh once a day.

When I get home I make coffee.
I add creamer and sugar.
I stir it until they disappear.

Fat *****, fat *****,
as far as the American
eye can see,
fondling over the fudge
and the cheese in aisle 3.
Gobbling up the sugar
like a crazy chimpanzee
who gambled away his nanners
and now all he's got's black tea.

You drew me out
when you called my name
then you drew me in,
into your flame.
I was just looking
for a place that's warm.
You gave me that,
and you gave me more.

The light on your face,
snow in my hair,
emeralds in your eyes,
you walked down the stairs
into my arms
where you belonged
both then and now
and ever long.

For nothing now can ever
come to any good -
Words I lifted off the page,
popped in my mouth and
swished around til it all
made sense to me.

That line, by itself,
hanging at the end of
the stanza, now hanging
off the tip of my twisted tongue.
It touched me somehow, someplace,
by way of some terrible twist of fate.

W.H. Auden, it is
the end of autumn and I
ask you how you handle death.
For, though I write, a poem
does not suffice. Not me.
I am, by these falling leaves,
reminded of their faces and
when they touch the ground
I look down and weep.

Love, the sweet voice
heard in the doorway,
and the way it
rouses the ear.
Do get up and greet it,
you fool, before
it disappears.

Don't let anyone
try to tell you
how to live.
The moment you
do, that's when
you start dyin'.

I get up out of my lazy chair
daydream to stare out the window
and I'm looking for someone to dance with me.

I envision little footprints in snow,
two pairs pointed at one another,
made one with a cold kiss and
who'll ask me for my coat?

You'll say I'm drunk and ought to get some sleep. I'll say I'm happy and not afraid of winter. Now let's meet outside while my bones are still warm.

sky licked by flame
branches become fingers feeling
for the throat of the night
     clouds cast over crescent moon
the cloth concealing the blade
hanging in suspense while
     shadows make their way
up vacant streets toward
hollow voices echoing from
     inside the corner house
where nothing's as it seems
where children wake from
fever dreams to piercing screams
     and darkness

Memorizing times and dates,
trying to get a jump on fate.
Good things come
to those who wait,
but that just isn't me.

The moon, a dagger, hangs over all.
I watch to make sure it won't fall and
walk away, my shadow tall
to see that it's still hanging.

In anxious sleep, symbols of blood
haunt my dreams, the coming flood
when I'll be left lost in the mud
and revising what I'd thought I'd known.

Were I to dive into your eyes
would surely be my cold demise.

A sea of green, but bottom black.
So deep no chance of coming back.

I thought misfortune not to meet,
that desire came without deceit.

Nevermore to chase the heart.
Doomed was I right from the start.

Moon alive.
Curtains dancing.
There is no one
at the side of the bed.
Peel ***** sheets away,
get up and walk
down the hall.
There is no one
at the side of the bed.
Movement in the mirror,
but it's just you and
there is no one
at the side of the bed.
Check the loveseat
for something left behind.
There is no one.
It's just you.

You're a caricature,
an exaggeration.
Yet, you fill the page
most irritably.
You cartoon-colored
cardboard cutout,
don't take yourself
so seriously.

Move into me, certain and gentle.
Move with the beauty borrowed from wind.
With your hands full of flowers,
move like a child who moves like
her life has no beginning or end.

Move, with your hands, the keys to make music.
Move, little bird, into my lonely tree.
Move without fear of becoming lost.
Move into view, move into me.

She had a king,
a kingdom,
wealth and
power.
Yet, what is that
in the face of passion?
Forsook it all for
a stranger's love,
let crumble the realm
beneath the weight of
her stray heart.

Big men
always seem
to only
talk about
small things.

When he died I was waiting
for my meal at a fast food restaurant thirty miles out.
My father called me and said,
without crying,
"Pap passed away."
I regret that I still kept waiting
for my food.

When I saw his body,
shorter than I remember,
in the casket lined with white,
I thought Am I man now?
I didn't say any words for him,
but laid a handed-down
golden cross necklace
over his cold fingers.
Part of me was buried, too.