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.

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?

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the dreamer is obsolete.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.

In the middle of the pale blue light,
I close my eyes and see, in black and white,
pictures of us laughing in the night
when we were young at heart.

Music stutters from my stereo.
Voices crawling through the small window
telling me I better say hello
before we drift apart.

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.

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.

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.

Somewhere, a brother's
not a brother for real,
who'd rather his little brother's
innocence steal.

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.

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?

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.

So, you've been to Venice,
 kissed at sunset on the gondolas,
  sipped Merlot at
   Ristorante Albergaccio.
    You're very well-read,
     you know Tennyson and Tolstoy,
    Fitzgerald and Faulkner
   ("Always dream..."
  tattooed on your rib).
 You lived in museums for a year,
  you spoke with Van Gogh,
   his ear turned toward you as
    you crawled among the Irises.
     My dear, it is impossible
    that you are a realist.
   It is impossible that you
  speak not of love.
 It is impossible
that you have forgotten.

Many men wait until Death
is staring down at them
in their beds before
they make the effort
to change their ways.
Then they insist that this
makes their lives meaningful,
as if Death should take pity.
     For me, Death was a woman
and my bed a grave of guilt.

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.

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.

It seems to me that I've
got myself a situation.
The girl I love doesn't even
know that I exist.
The more I think, the closer
I get to a revelation -
when she's away I'll write
my name down on her grocery list.

Even though we sleep
beside each other every night,
she doesn't reach for me. In turn,
I never reach for her.
I try my best to justify it,
but it isn't right.
The hardest thing to do
seems to be the only cure.

Maybe when I'm gone she'll
see the error of her judgment.
Maybe she'll be sorry when
I ain't walking through the door.
They say that time heals all wounds,
but maybe it doesn't.
At least she'll think of me
when she's shopping at the store.

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.

"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?

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.

we got bored
so we got together.
now all we talk about's
the past and the weather.

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.

Go ahead and point your crooked fingers at me
I bet you’re dying just to get them inside
I know your nature, your sins, your reasons
A creature like you’s never satisfied

You pick a new face from the gallery
Practice everything you want me to hear
You’ll be anyone, say or do anything
then raise the blade when I let you get near

And when I’m bleeding for the world to see
you’ll tell them I was always dangerous
No doubt will linger, there’ll be no debate
and you’ll be praised for being generous

So go ahead and make a fine example of me
Frame me, hang me there on your wall
Rip and pull me apart, take hold of me
until I can’t be recognized at all

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.

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.

The caterpillar
sheds all his skin to find the
butterfly within.

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.

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).

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.

Got broken up with today.
Expect poetry soon.

Big men
always seem
to only
talk about
small things.

Having been brought up as Catholic,
I was always told that
God was a jealous god.
Jealous.
That there is no room
for other so-called "gods" in his churches,
and that there can be no room for another
in the hearts of his disciples, his children.
Children.
     Now, a man of twenty-six years,
I ask, I wonder,
why do we invest our faith in a God
who is jealous, when we ourselves
do all we can to abolish
the jealousy in our own hearts?
Is God so unsure of himself that,
were we to merely consider another,
he would reject us and hold us in contempt?
And yet, he is described as "perfect."
Perfect.
That he need not work to improve himself,
though we here on Earth
do all that we can to come close
to purity and perfection.
     As a man of only twenty-six years,
I can tell you with a certain conviction
that God is only a child -
a child in need of guidance, himself.
And I wonder still, more than ever, it seems,
why we look to God at all
and not to ourselves.

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.

If you made a mistake,
     I would take you back.
I'd forgive you
     to spare you some shame.
     So can't you see past
     any judgment I lacked,
     and please, for love's sake,
do the same?

I left home when I was young
To the fringes I was flung
And I never wrote a letter
to my home, Lord, to my home
No, I never wrote a letter to my home

I set out for Tuscaloo’
Just my baby sister knew
She hung her head and handed me a dime

An’ it took me pretty far
I hopped on the next boxcar
I waved goodbye to her a final time

Not a coat upon my frame
nor a penny to my name
But I never wrote a letter to my home
to my home, Lord Lord,
No, I never wrote a letter to my home

I was settled on the track
A cold wind tried to ******* back
But I held on an’ swallowed all the pain

I stepped off in Alabam’
Boxcar door shut with a slam
And I tried to build a house there in the rain

If ya missed the train I’s on
Count the days that I been gone
You can hear that whistle blow a hundred miles
Hundred miles, hundred miles
You can hear that whistle blow a hundred miles


But when it rains it pours
When it’s done, there’s always more
And it’s hard to build a home out in a storm

My Papa warned me, “Son
you’ll be sorry when you’re gone”
I thought that he was bitter - now I know

I left home to chase the sun
But it moves faster than I run
Now I cry alone the end of ev’ry day
I can hear my Mama call
“stop your runnin’ ‘fore ya fall”
I don’t wanna go home, let me play

Not a penny on my name
ever since the bankers came
I got a letter on a lonesome day

Said “Your Mama’s dead an’ gone
and your sister’s all gone wrong.
Son I need you home now right away”

Not a coat upon my back
and I’m still livin’ on the tracks
No, Papa can’t see me thisaway
Thisaway, Lord ya know
that I can’t go home thisaway.

And if ya miss the train I'm on
count the days that I been gone
You can hear that whistle blow a thousand miles
Thousand miles, thousand miles, Lord
You can hear my whistle blow a thousand miles.

When I am dead and gone,
as the final note of the song
     fades and
the next ensemble takes stage,
may my spirit be resurrected
     among sprightly friends,
for that is the crowd I played for,
and the music never ends.

Would you dig a tunnel to me -
one that's wide enough for you -
so you can reach me through this distance?
Prove to me I matter, too.

And would you walk from end to end,
in the dark and all alone,
just to touch me one more time,
or see just how much I have grown?

I have laid a road to you.
Many times I've wandered on it.
I can never find the end.
I guess I'm just a hypocrite

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?

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.

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.