The sky behind the bare winter branches, blue and white, nearly reflective. I was almost an angel,
spread wide in the snow,
if only I had known about my wings.

If you were to ask my father,
he'd tell you I'd always been
a happy kid.

If you asked my mom,
she'd tell you something
different, but happy for the
most part.

You can't ask me such questions.
I hardly give thought to it now.

I was under the canopy for
what seemed like an eternity.
To a child, time is nothing, so
that's saying something.
It was cold, but that's what I'd needed, since warmth gives way to lies. I was looking for something true, and I didn't know where else
to search but the sky.
Were I to look anywhere else,
I'd just be retracing steps.

I was listening to a tape,
Iron Butterfly, wondering where
the name came from.
I fell asleep before turning
the tape over, and when I woke up,
I woke up to the sound of
my father calling my name and
an engine revving somewhere,
my brother driving 'round
looking for me.

When they found me lying there,
they thought I was hurt.
When I told them I wasn't they
asked what I'd been doing and I said
looking for some truth.
I was paddled and sent to my room
for the rest of the evening.

I stopped searching after that.
It always hurts to know for certain.

There's something in the water
making everyone a fool,
reading doorsigns that say "push"
and yet, they still are trying to pull.

Why trespass so long in a body?
Is the soul so vain that it
needs to fill a space,
never moving to be free
both in dreams and in joys,
hinged to this heart
like the shadow to my heels?
        Like the shadow to my heels,
why a spirit bound to anything,
not chasing distant stars,
not moving in eternity,
not looking for a vacant space
to spread itself unbound?

I wonder if, when the sun rises,
it brings a little something
back from the east.
Do its golden rays have stories
it wishes to tell, or lessons or gifts
to give us when it gets back?
I guess what I want
is to know that it remembers
and thinks of all of us
while it is gone.
Or does it shed all memory
of its time spent with me?
Does the sun come up
out of duty or love?

She stuffs all the bad things
into a closet
and then hides the key
after she locks it.
Her face turns all red
when I ask what's inside.
She screams out her lungs
and yells "everything's fine!"
So I rattle the door as to
blow out the hinges.
And when I glimpse inside,
she thrashes and cringes,
"we don't need to talk
about our past no more.
Will you just go sit down,
will you please close the door?"

Dear Mr. Trump,
I know the Russians aren't the reason for your recent election. Putin slapped the democrats with a rock-hard misdirection. There's no need to conduct a voter poll inspection. In any case, I think America's made the right selection.

Dear Mr. Trump,
I can't believe that some are questioning your mental stability. Do subjects have the right to challenge nobility? To do so, I feel, would be a lesson in futility.  Those of us still in your cabinet think you're doing the job brilliantly.

Dear Mr. Trump,
I am writing to urge you to declare war in the east. Don't listen to the media, the democrats or Chinese. Don't listen to the South Koreans, those ***** only see half of what your great white eyes can see.

Dear Mr. Trump,
I think it's great what you've done
to our military. All those phoney genitals, generals, were starting to scare me. Guns are no use in the hands of a fairy. And besides, when they die, that's 10,000 less soldiers to bury.

Dear Mr. Trump,
When will construction on the wall begin? Those ******* are causing too many problems within. Besides, I think we can take it one step further and completely wall ourselves in. But keep up the good work - I know you'll make America great again.

I had a customer at work today
with a tattoo across her chest
that said "Royalty" with a little
jeweled crown hanging off the "R."
She wanted a pack of cigarettes.
She didn't ask, she demanded.
She didn't say "please."
I gave her the cigarettes.
She didn't say "thanks."
I asked how her day was going,
and she said "good."
She didn't ask how my day was.
At first I thought a girl like that
isn't royal at all.
But, the more I thought, the more
I realized that she was.
Because royalty doesn't ask,
it demands.
Royalty is above saying "thanks."
Royalty doesn't mingle with
gas station clerks.
Regardless, I muttered "*****"
under my breath as she walked away.

I used to want to be an
archaeologist.
I thought digging things up
looked like fun.
I thought that I wanted to
touch history.
I don't get paid for it,
but I guess
I sort of am an archaeologist.
I dig things up.
I run my fingers through years
of history.
It just isn't as fun as I'd always
thought it'd be.

I am the dog, collared and chained,
deemed useless and left alone.
I am the nail in the wall left unhammered, jutting to snag at your sleeve.
I am the hole in your line through which all of your energy will be filtered or lost.
I am heavy with meaning and weightless with meaning and grounded in someone else's reality.
I am that reality, while my own remains silent and hidden and threatening.
I am a threat to some, no one to someone, and everything to one.
I am the card in play, always, even
when you leave the table and
I will be there when you get back.
Also, I am the deck and few cards are missing.
I am the mirror in which you might one day see yourself and startle your eyes into misrecognition.
I am the cup that overfloweth,
and the child guilty for wanting.
I am the season which seems like it will never let up.
I am the sun casting rays of golden relief on the faces of many lonely strangers.
I am the forgotten sun, just as well.
I am the ruin of those who came here before me and the stain they left on the white fabric of time.
I am the fabric, loose and changing
in the winds of perpetuity.
I am a glass sphere in the midst of a landscape, puzzling and divine and uncanny alike.
I am a door left unopened.
I am a line with no end and a point with no beginning and I will let it be known that I am here seeking all.

I can't define poetry.
I don't want to define it.
Let it remain obscure,
like the forest sounds
you hear at night.
Let it terrify you.
Let it crawl in the dark
as you walk by it.
Does it watch me from
behind the tree?
Perched on limb,
does it sneer?
Poetry defies the cage.
Let it.
Let it get the best of you,
running in circles
around the page.
Poetry is a creature,
wild, pure,
perfect by design,
desired and revered.
Let it escape you,
and then follow
as you will.

Look at your fathers.
            All dead men.
   And all you have in common
        is the blood.
      But, once that's spilled,
nothing.      
                      No truths.
  No lies.
                   Bury the thought.

Back to school tomorrow.
Back to the din of hallway talk
and chalk dust on my jeans.
Back to long walks from
parking lots to too-bright
classrooms chock-full of half-wits.
Back to the space where I contemplate
better men than I.
Back to stairwells crowded with
oblivious ****-type idiots.
Back to advisors
huffing and puffing when they hear
the phone ring.
Back-to-back weeks of solid hell.
Back to trying to fit my square brain into a round hole.
Back to gum stuck on my shoe.
Back to school.

I got me an all-night-girl,
keeps the door unlocked for me,
and even when my girl forgets,
she'll throw me down the key
sayin',
"come on up, down waste your time,
you're wanted in this room."
"Well that's fine with me,
but I've got time
to take my shoes off I assume?"
Yes, she's the one, the only one,
whose face floats in my dreams.
And she ain't like nobody else
'cause she's always as she seems.

Yes, she can take the paint right off
my Chevrolet Bel Air
with just a sweet little kiss
or one electric stare,
and
then she'll jump right in the back
and down the road we go
with the windows down
and the music loud,
she doesn't like to take it slow.
She's somethin' else, she surely is,
and she never leaves me wantin'.
This all-night-girl really rocks me.
Yes, she sure is somethin'.

All your false securities
will not protect you in any degree
when the Man descends from the sky to see
if he or she or them or we
will surrender to him finally
and gather all most nobly
beneath the sun, the Eden tree
and bid that man must bend the knee.
Will we cast aside our crowns, our pride
and recognize that what we idolize -
the dollar bill, the satyrized
faked-out phoney false franchise
that man has made as a disguise
to keep distracted the hungry eyes -
will not serve to get us by
but to keep us down and cold and empty?

Well,
love and hate are both
good reasons to do anything.
However,
out of love comes love,
and out of hate comes hate.
So,
before you're done,
there's always this choice to be made.

If your spirit must one day clear,
and our lives at once must cease,
if that sweet smile must leave your face,
and time must claim its lease,
then, Allison, let's not a moment waste,
let's pick the fruit and savor the taste.

And if the hour should ever come
when the two of us must part,
or phantom fiends creep from the dark,
their daggers aimed at our hearts,
then, Allison, don't be afraid,
for our love's hand is always stayed.

Put down the book and draw the shades,
don't carry on and make me wait.
Tomorrow's coming might seal our fate.
Let's love and nothing else.

A cold wind from my future blew
across the room, you felt it too,
so let's just do what lovers do
and hope it lasts forever.

Put down the broom and draw the shades,
don't carry on and make me wait.
Tomorrow's coming might seal our fate.
Let's love while we've got time.

The television shows the news -
bombs and banks, conflicting views.
And hateful words are overused,
let's make new ones together.

Shut off the news and draw the shades,
don't carry on and make me wait.
Tomorrow's in a sad old state,
let's make it great with love.

The past is dead, just let it be.
Why bother it when you've got me?
I feel like I have been set free,
free to love you fully.

Put on a smile and shut the shades,
there's nothing standing in our way,
let's join the march, the Great Parade,
and flood the streets with love.

The poor are kept poor,
the rich, elevated
to positions of office,
pushing beliefs, outdated,
down Liberty's throat
while Justice, sedated,
sits in the corner
beneath a flag, now faded.

I'm too young to be thinking
the good days are gone,
to feel lost in a crowd
of people my age.
I'm too young to want nothing
but a moment alone,
or to skip through the book,
not minding each page.

I'm too old to ask help
from kind souls who offer,
to crawl on all fours,
or to cry in my sleep.
I'm too old to be dreaming
of peace in my mind.
But no matter our age,
dreams are all we can keep.

Ah, summer,
come dancing up the mountain,
bringing near-naked lovers
and flowers and fountains.
Good summer,
and all in good fun,
with women in the shade
watching children that run.
Short summer,
you are all but too brief,
a daze dipped in sunlight,
warm dream of relief.
Dear summer,
time to gather your things
and wait out the winter
to return after spring.

Not everything sad
is worth writing for,
nor funny nor happy nor good.
Yet still, I would write
everything in my life
if only, if only, I could.

All the same eyes, same minds,
in all the same places -
day in, day out -
casting their sparks
of doubt or defiance,
never bothering to question
what either is aimed at.

the metal silence
of an empty river town
still rings in my ears

boy dreams in big words,
looking out from the porch to the
pond growing algae

moon is alive with
vivid colors and pictures,
reflection of this

wake to the smell of
bacon frying up the hill,
grandma cracks an egg

this recurring dream:
rolling down the hill naked,
logs rolling behind

the trees are it all
and I might be part of it,
so I like to think

we built a treehouse
at the edge of the cornfield
and never used it

it was hot I remember
and I didn't like the sound of
the hammer on wood

I said it was a
cornfield, but it only used
to be a cornfield

now just mud and ruts
and a place to stand when we
feel introspective

when a good thought leaves
the mind and's not recovered
it ends up right here

rustbelt suburban
teenagers smoke and ride in
the dead of the night

when I close my eyes
riding in the backseat now,
I pray that we leave

The American dream
is only a dream -
a dream in which
the dreamer is obsolete.
For those who
both sleep and dream
in her streets,
America is a reality
too real to deny,
like a ladder too high
to be climbed,
like a bar too hard
to be bent.
And after each dollar
is spent,
after each shining diamond
find its way to a pocket,
the dream becomes
more and more a dream
that we become
less and less likely
to wake up from.

It is a wheel
rolling over you,
slowly,
letting you feel
it all, leaving you
lowly.
You'll be begging
it to stop,
dollars flying
from the top.
Those who turn the wheel
consider themselves holy.

When did our homes become
tombs?
When did our truths become
lies?
When did our hearts become
stones?
When did our laughs turn to
cries?

When did our men become
gods?
When did our gods become
men?
When did this world become
someone's?
When, oh when, oh when?

Inspiration, like a trickle
beginning at the skin,
moves hot beneath the surface
to flood the veins within.

The page is blank before me.
Pen lifeless as a board
until I pick it up again
and fill the page with words.

Ink gushing over paper,
pen and poet become one.
Veins burning with a purpose
with the heat of every sun.

And all the clocks hang silent,
and all the planets do align
when I raise the poem to the light
and read what's only mine.

We follow the current
around each rock and
up each straight.
Some break free
and are forgotten,
some break free
and are remembered,
but only those who
swam fast away.
The rest of us are waiting
for that one great leap,
up and out and over
the banks -
the leap that we know
will be our last,
but the one we know
will show the others
we got out,
tasted the air,
glubbed our last glub
and did something
unequaled.

I know what it's like,
standing with your back
against the storefront window,
to reach into your pocket for a dollar,
but pulling out only six pennies
and a ticket stub.
Or to return to work on a Sunday
and dread seeing the faces of
the lonely, toothless men in
oversized shirts that haunt your dreams.
I know what it's like
to drive home midweek,
midnight, head full of worries,
and to find your bed void  of warmth,
bad music the whole way there on
the radio.
If you care to listen
I can tell you what it's like
to have your fast food meal cut short
with father on the telephone,
"Grandfather's passed away today,"
or to realize that that poem you've
been writing is full of recycled verse,
words already written - and you knew it all along.

With your parting,
the sun was pushed aside
by grey clouds and silver moon,
dropped down below the horizon
and didn't rise again for some time.
Summer ended and autumn began
too soon, with leaves coating the
rooftops and sidewalks and
everyone talked about the doom
riding wind, swift,through the town.
        Down and down, everything fell,
but the light did not touch a thing.
Darkness was the language,
darkness was the doctrine.
In the plazas and asylums,
I saw this shift in reason,
wisdom falling from the brain
like flesh from the bone,
driven hard down into dirt and
left alone. The madness swelling
outside like cold air in a lung.
Then came the snow with an angry
wind, hung in the halls and bedrooms, hospitals and cathedrals,
me asking, "why did you go?"
The radio crackled with static fear,
and everyone who hadn't gone mad
went mad and disappeared into
crumbling homes with ***** windows, their fates forever sealed,
like pointless letters into envelopes.
       I wrote you from the madhouse,
hand shaking with indecision,
words risen out of dread,
words you read but never reached you, telling you that,
with your parting, the whole world
has gone to hell.

Take your time
getting home tonight.
For me, be in no hurry.
My love's the kind
that waits for you.
If you rush, I'll have to worry.

The light just
by the window's on.
The door is unlocked, too.
I'm in our bed,
now go ahead.
I'll wait here for you.

My therapist acts like I'm normal,
like changing my clothes
four times a day,
or locking the car doors and
screaming at the top of my lungs
because people keep interrupting
my cigarette break at work is
what most people are doing
with their lives.
When she asked me if I ever
thought about hurting myself
and I said, "at least twice a week,"
she just nodded while smiling.
Hurting myself - it's always me
that hurts me, no one else.
I guess that's something
to smile about.
I guess that's normal.

If your love is but an ocean
and I a ship with without a crew,
will my vessel kiss the coastline
or sink deep into you?

I give myself away to the sea.
My ship has been ruined
by reef and by rock
and I am a captain no more.

My flag is layed out on the shore.
The mast protrudes from
the bay, a grave,
and I am a sailor no more.