Evening downtown,
listening carefully to a poem
read aloud in a coffee house -
sounds like an atom bomb.
     The world isn't ready.

They say when I die
there's a place I'll go
where every face
will be one I know.
Some call it heaven,
and I hope it's true.
But what paradise
compares to you?

I was just a lonely
little bag of bones,
but you took me with you,
gave me a home.
Each word you spoke then,
like a breath of spring -
your lovely laughters,
and the joys they bring.

You say I'm funny
for the way I feel,
the things I say,
glances I steal.
But you don't know just
what it is like
to lie beside you,
in bed at night

to feel the beating
of your precious heart,
to see you rising
at each day's start.
I'll take you with me
whenever I go
so lost is a feeling
I won't have to know.

And when I die
there's a place I'll go
where every face
will be one I know.
And I'll call it heaven.
It can be our new
little bed to lie in.
Just me and you.

She was born in a mushroom cloud,
1945.
Uranium halo 'round her head
and stars inside her eyes.

They pulled her from her desert womb
and the whole world with her cried.
"The War is Over!" Peace at last!
Mother Atom had arrived.

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.

So much for the destiny of man,
the potential of our youthful imaginings.
No more has it been than a carrot on a string,
a flash in the pan,
a ******* that's kept us afloat
on a sea of dreadful sleep.
And in waking, a feeling,
a dim sense of purpose laid out for us
like another warm blanket to wrap in,
to cover our eyes long enough
for that familiar vision of tragedy
to come and feed our fantasies again.

A whole world laid out beneath you
like a mother's arms,
you stood in infancy facing the stars,
and I remember thinking as I watched you
that I shouldn't speak,
that those million little suns
will teach you everything you need.

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.

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.

A girl was selling flowers,
white orchids she had clipped.
I found them rather lovely
and placed one on your crypt.

Like a bygone love, it wilted.
Its petals dried and fell.
You're long gone, I know,
but I hope you're doing well.

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?

The forest.
Fern and flower standing,
bending in sunlight toward it
like desperate souls
in their one tired moment
of beauty and grace.

I stand above a geranium,
kneeling as I pluck it
from the light.

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.

Peering intensively through fog-marked mullioned glass
into a cool and conquering October sunrise
I am met with a profound and welcoming sudden awareness -
zephyrs breathing through each emerald green grass blade,
     brow of country hilltops, mountains materializing
with the passing of each era like wrinkles in a face,
clouds crawling the longitudes to reform over Pacific pools somewhere,
soil forcing upward making way for elm or oak or pine to tower,
rivers thundering wild down the backs of continents,
     cliff or crag breaking the maelstrom on occasion,
and all the while spinning, all of this and more, clinging to the frame of the earth
as it dances balanced on axis, pirouetting through the cosmos
in turbulent, beautiful, simply complex form just as I
back away from the window and extend an arm to brace myself.

I'm lying in the sun
I've got church bells in my ears
Even though work starts at nine
my mind is miles away from here

There upon its banks
I hear the river washing past
Some say everything's eternal
yet sleep never seems to last

Always waking in a hurry
Hardly any time to shave
And when the day is done
reflect on everything you gave
Realizing once again
there's never any time to save
And so I lie between
the river and the grave

I've been told that
if I see something beautiful
(a flower, for instance),
I should leave it alone,
let it grow and bloom.
But, I'm only human,
and I've spent a long time
holding on to nothing.
So I say pick the flower,
hold it, smell it, love it,
and stop wasting your life
wanting something that is
right before your eyes.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

The beauty of two hearts
beating in warm synchronicity,
     a pair of hands clasped,
prayer-like, electric
between them.
     Two heads touching
at the temples,
thoughts filtered like
sand through fingers.
     Two eyes meeting
like spark and kindling,
     two flames climbing
under a blue-dark sky.
     Two stars shining like
the smile she wore
when you first met.

When I got to heaven, lord,
dont ya know there was
no one there.
So I tipped my hat,
turned 'round and walked
back down the stairs.
Yeah, this world's full o' sinners,
but I was just too lonely there.

I could've had religion, now.
Could've read the good book
every night.
Could've been a preacher,
said my prayers and
chased the light.
Instead I went chasin' trouble.
Guess religion didn't suit me right.

They say every livin' man, now,
sooner or later,
has his day.
And it could come tomorrow,
or it could come when you're
old and gray.
I didnt think much about it.
I just kept doin' things my own way.

So when I got to heaven, now,
dont ya know there was
no one there.
So I tipped my hat.
Tipped my hat and walked
back down the stairs.
Yeah, this world's full o' sinners,
but I was just too lonely there.

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.

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.

I woke up on the wrong side
of the bed.
I washed my face, shook yesterday
out of my head, and I
opened up my curtains, thought
"what's so great about a blue sky
when it could never match the beauty
that I found in your eyes?"

But I hope you won't remember
how I was at the end, and if
I could go back now,
I'd do it all again
with much more grace and wisdom,
with a tender heart this time,
and I'd pray that'd be enough
to keep you by my side.

I woke up in another stranger's bed.
I looked at her and hated
that all her hair was red, then I
stepped into the city, thought
"*******, I hope it rains -
let the water all run over me
and wash away my pain."

I hope you can remember
how we were at the start, and if
I could go back now
I'd give you my whole heart
and trust you just to keep it.
I'd never be afraid.
Then we might be together
and you'd be here today.

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.

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?

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You can find me in the newspaper -
"Don't get too close,
this one's insane."
Yeah, you can read me in the paper.
"Don't get too close,
that boy's insane."
Didn't take me long to figure out
that the one's who wrote it
barely know my name.

Go ask the one's who used to hang around,
I'm sure they'll tell you some and more.
Go ask they one's who used to hang around me.
I'm sure they'll tell you some and more.
Sure, we had good times together,
but now when I see 'em coming
I lock the door.

Most of what you hear is a rumor,
the rest is really just a bore.
Baby, most of the talks are rumors,
and I promise the rest is just a bore.
Way I see it, there's two options:
believe them, or stick around
if you wanna know for sure.

I don't forget that I love you
when we disagree.
My dear, I have learned humility
through my shortcomings.
Sometimes I sympathize with Pluto;
once a planet, taken seriously,
orbiting mysteriously
at the edge of what is known.
Now, demoted to little more
than a frozen rock
somewhere out there beyond care,
only locatable
by its relation to Neptune.
My love, I am estranged by you,
though I dare not speak it directly
for fear that I might
plant a seed of fault in you -
a **** that is hard to uproot,
I know.
So, you can go on being Neptune -
I'll stay at your limits
and hope you'll turn to me and smile.

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.

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.

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?