I never heard
the door unlock
but *******
I wanted to.

Who draws the blade and
who makes the cut?
One in the same or
anything but?
Who pulls the shade
over my eyes and
who gets my body
when my body dies?

If a poem could save you,
could mend all your breaks,
let it be this one,
for both of our sakes.

If a poem could teach you,
could offer you faith,
I pray that this poem
has what it takes.

It doesn't take much
to bend you toward beauty,
just a little sunlight
and a woman who cares.

I think of you, friend,
as I make my way to Baltimore,
awake and aware of the
stillness in the backseat.
Used to be at least three
of us, sleepless and ******,
never alone except when we slept.
I think of you when the
sunlight finally hits my windshield
and refracts into rainbows
all over the dashboard.
I've always hated mornings,
but this one is calm and beautiful
and I can't wait to reach the shore.
I think of you once more
while I'm sitting on the docks
tossing rocks into the Patapsco,
watching the gulls go sleepily overhead. I dread the drive back home. But I'll be thinking of you
when I hit the highway laughing at
something you said when you were
alive.

I don't want to say
too much to you.
Violin plays through
the radio, lonely instrument,
and I don't want to say
too much to you,
don't want to make you
cry because that would just
make everything harder.
I mean, for ****'s sake,
the violin is sad enough,
don't go getting tears
on the strings.
Now my mind wanders
as I write this all down,
as my mind wandered
when it happened.
I'm thinking  of
the dress you wore.
It was white (you couldn't have
picked any other color?).
And I don't want to write too much,
I don't want anyone to know
what happened.
Yeah, I think I'll stop here
and just listen to the violin play
rather than dwell on what I
said or didn't say.

I don't need
     your     namaste flower-
power    poetry         words
     that       barely break   the
skin               give me something
strong like gin     something with
a little                sin.

        I don't want your
fluffy words               I want something       seldom heard
    something I          can always use
something that'll        leave a bruise
           so bomb the page I'll
light                the                 fuse.

She had this thing about her,
made me weak in my knees.
She had this other thing, too:
the ***** had fleas.

We used to go out for walks
and climb apple trees.
But my friends, they all warned me
'bout the ***** with the fleas.

She was polite over dinner,
always "thank you" and "please,"
but I just couldn't excuse that
the ***** had fleas.

So last night at her place
I went looking for my keys.
When I found 'em, I bailed on
the ***** with the fleas.

All this must disappear -
crosswise minor roadways and
State Road with its bleating traffic,
plazas where pennies melt into
palms of Middle Eastern merchants,
Chinese, Nepalese, Indian or
what have you,
road signs for New York, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Toledo, Youngstown, Columbus, Sandusky or
what have you.
All this must disappear -
the ****** gardens
on Ohio River banks, railways rusted retired and ready to
sink silently into the soil and stone,
back yard above-ground swimming pool algae beds and front porch
family-festival fetanyl parades,
All this must disappear -
gas station dollar altars and
decaying or decayed Irondale tennant building windows, *****,
community college self-defined
street scientists gathered in old
high school parking lots discussing
politics and the Pleiades and the fastest way out of the galaxy or the
slowest way into an easy death.
All this must disappear,
from Walnut Beach to Wheeling,
and the rust lift and assemble
into something lovely tomorrow's youth can work with, can love and
can sit atop the hills and smile and
be content in knowing while I
sit on the sidewalk and be
glad the future finally showed up.

He's going bald
like my dad
So he wears a cap
like my dad.
He likes Led Zeppelin
like my dad.
He drives a Ford
like my dad.
He votes republican
like my dad.
He holds my mother.
But he's not my dad.

Nothing like
a pen that won't write
to ruin
the whole ******* day.

I wrapped my coat
around your shoulders
and gave you a smack on the ***.
You liked that.
You laughed and we went walking
up Main Street, cars stopping
to stare at us (I mean you) as
if we (I mean you) were celebrities.
When we got back to the apartment
we cracked open a bottle of Cognac
and I smacked your *** again about
halfway through it.
You liked that one, too.
We laughed some more and you
told me a story about
when you were a girl, but
I wasn't listening on the count of
your perfect neckline, though
I nodded and laughed just the same.
Then came the rain and the thunder
turned you on - fast forward and
we were naked on the floor,
smoke pouring out of the ashtray
and I was happy. *******,
was I happy.
We ended the night smoking ****
in the bathtub like we were celebrities
(I mean you).

I've pledged allegiance to a flag
that pledges none to me,
that would sooner see her stars go dim
than allow freedom to be free.

Here I can think
without hindrance or bother,
amid towering pines and
the cowering bramble and
the river that rifts the soil
into pleasant little hillocks,
made home for the wild
and the earthly and the pure.
Here I am not harried by the
howling song of man,
no motorcades of lunacy
can touch my private ear,
traded for the placid, honest
sounds of earth (a song
that can't be echoed).
Here I'm left to ponder
or not ponder, just the same,
the truth of my soul or
the meaning of my given name.
Here I have not lost myself,
though should I do just that,
if I follow the bends of the river,
the road that isn't crowded,
I'll be brought back to nothing
but peace.

Rain smacking the glass.
White light, automated doors.
The hospital blues.

Waiting room TV
showing Caribbean sands.
Forget where you are.

A black man and child,
lonely wife, poet, vegan.
Guess what happens next.

Elephant painting.
You can tell a child made it.
Elephant, it smiles.

The elevator
opens and I step inside.
The sick frown. I frown.

Once back in my car,
the rain stops and I put it
in drive and floor it.

Even when walking
Backwards you still get a bit
Of mud on your shoes.

I held out my hand
And caught all the drops of rain
While you danced in joy.

I laughed in her face
When she told me that she was
Afraid of my dog.

I stood in the dirt
Looking for the picture of
You I didn't burn.

Girl in the black dress
Turns to girl in the red dress
And sticks out her tongue.

The car pulled up and
Out stepped a man wearing a
Better tie than mine.

America has
Exhausted her options and
Now looks to the east.

The elderly sing
With no inhibition for
More days like once were.

As the day passes,
Sunlight crawls across my floor
But can't quite reach me.

I dug up your bones.
They did not resemble you.
So I put them back.

Crouching at the shore,
My reflection reached out and
Carried me to sea.

The toilet was clogged -
That's why, instead, I chose to
**** in your sock drawer.

This really happened:
A cow jumped over the moon.
Can you believe it?

Called up my mother,
Told her, "Don't wait up for me."
She did anyway.

So many noises.
So many people outside.
So many secrets.

I removed her pants
And looked in her eyes and vi-
olently farted.

She put on her pants,
Spit in my eye, and then she
Galloped to the door.

Now it's spring recess
So everybody's shedding
Their clothes and their wits.

Sun lingers above -
Somebody tell me which way
To the hospital.

The hawks are circling
Overhead; pretty soon I
Will be at your door.

Shouting at the clouds
I lost my balance and fell -
The thunder was loud.

Shouting at the clouds
I lost my balance and fell -
The clouds, they just laughed.

Sunlight finds its way
In through my broken shades and
I'm ****** as ever.

Stop all this weeping,
Jesus has returned and he
Brings chocolate cake!

Father sits and stares -
John Wayne rides west with his gun -
Mother tracks the time.

Bob Dylan taught me
To swallow my pride and be
Honest with myself.

Marijuana is
Often my only true friend.
How sad is that, man?

College kind of *****.
Especially so when you
Don't like to drink much.

I am writing this
Knowing it won't get published.
Won't say more than that.

Hanging on the line,
A blue blouse, and what is this?
These aren't my boxers...

Heart under construction.
Looks done but it ain't.
Heart prone to seduction.
Caution: wet paint.

"It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again."
- Allen Ginsberg

What does it mean to be an American?
Does it mean I can say the
Pledge of Allegiance
When I'm told?
Does it means that I can vote for
My president,
Governor, and
County clerk
Even when every choice is a Condemnation?
Does it mean that I must be
Proud of the military?
Does it mean that I am
Entitled to the world's oil reserves?
Is being an American a liberty or
A constraint?
Why are America's trails full of tears?
If I am cold will the
Flag serve to warm me?
Will that be enough?
Is it ever enough?
Does "one nation under God" refer to
My god, too?
Does America's god practice
The golden rule?
When will America keep its nose
Out of the Middle East?
If America loses its nose
In the Middle East, will a new nose
Be elected - this one twice as nosey?
Does being an American mean that
We can only dream in
Red or white or blue?
Does the American dream seem like a
Nightmare to anyone else?
Is it America's bad conscience
That keeps it up at night?
Does America ever get the blues?
Does America ever open a dictionary?
Does America know the
Difference between "democracy" and
"Oligarchy?"
Is America aware that I do?
Can America survive on
Minimum wage?
Does America pay its taxes on time?
Does America go to work every day
With a smile?
Does America punch out and feel Proud?
Does America really blow smoke
Up our *****?
Is six dollars and seventy-seven cents
Enough to get me through the week?
Does America only have one life?
Is one life enough to satisfy her?
What about three-hundred million?
What about me?

to love a poet
is to admit the world
is tragic

Times like these never
End without someone building
Or breaking a wall.

The past comes back to us,
emerging from the dark, cold water,
dripping wet and breathing hard,
born again and longing to be held.

It drives you mad, Eve,
that I won't eat your apple
(now hold your tongue and say it).

If it is beautiful to you,
it is beautiful to me.
If the sun you wish to have,
I shall pluck it from a tree
so you might
hold it in your eye
and it will be my gift to thee.
For what is beautiful to you
is so beautiful to me.

We walk together.
More people should know this.
We are brothers
to have been born of Earth,
built of salt and clay and bone.
You are not alone.

We beat different drums,
but the song is the same.
We are artists,
to be given a vision and voice.
Be both careless and dutiful.
Each is beautiful.

I thought about
what it would take
to be happy and
to sit by the pool,
sipping drinks,
acting sappy and
how much it'd
mean to you, girl,
but I can't just
snap both my fingers
and rewrite my story.
So, instead, I
sat here and
wrote you this love song,
but by the time
it reaches you,
you'll prob'ly be long gone,
sipping drinks with
somebody who
never knew heartache
while my heart
barely beats
on the count of
a new break.

When a woman,
big or small,
young or old,
tells you they're
going to do something,
don't ever doubt them.
They will do it,
and they will tell you,
and it might hurt or
make you laugh,
but you'll be the fool
and they'll be the one
who knows how to make
the fool dance
ever after.

06:50:57 UTC

You don't know
how good you have it
there in the window,
mouth sealed shut,
eyes shut, too,
never looking any
better or any worse
than the next guy.
Or, at least never knowing.

This here hurdle, babe,
you know I just can't jump it.
So I'll sit here instead, in the dark,
and I'll just bang on my trumpet.
And every sound that you hear
from the window, dear,
that's just me
wasting my precious time.
But before too long,
I'll get right and keep on
toeing the line.

Everybody out there,
they want you to be just like them.
They think they've got royal blood,
that they should wear a diadem!
And to everything that I say,
they say "no it ain't that way,"
and that I'm just
wasting their precious time.
So I'll just shut my mouth,
I'll get right and keep on
toeing the line.

When you've nothing to offer
do not disparage those who do.
Our words may speak to many,
but we can't help they don't to you.
We poets, we are trying
to approach a common truth,
to challenge death and heartbreak,
or to celebrate our youth.

Let us recognize the honesty
of those who tax their hearts,
encourage human passion,
and glorify the arts.
If these impulses puzzle you
and inspire cynicism,
please bend your ear and bite your tongue
and try again to listen.

Mother your house
Will be empty soon.
Mother your husband
Is gone.
Mother your dogs
Now run wild.
Mother your kids
Will not sleep until dawn.

Mother your shadow
Is weeping.
Mother your shades
Have been drawn.
Mother your bed's
Not been made in ten years.
Mother you stand
In the sun and you yawn.