I think by now we know,
nearly 250 years after her birth,
that our America nears her 11th hour.
The tubes fastened, pumping *******
straight to her stomach
need not remain.
Her crowd of bedside mourners,
politicians shedding imitation tears
need not remain.
Drape the flag over her emaciated frame
and get on with the ceremonies.

I have a friend I never see.
He hangs his head inside a dream.
Nothing is ever quite what it seems.
He is as lonely as a machine.

Some say that I was born too late.
My whole life I've beared the weight.
It's hard to tell good love from hate
and all these things we complicate.

And I have a friend I never see.
It's been too long, we both agree.
He lives his life inside a dream.
I hope it's big enough for me.

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.

Harvey Weinstein is not in jail because of *******,
nor did the Devil make him do it.
Harvey Weinstein is in jail because of power.
He felt he had it - all men feel they have some.
Yet, Harvey Weinstein is the kind of man
who knows not restraint, who knows not respect,
whose little taste of power, he felt, should
be on the tongues of the women whose lives he polluted.
******* is not the impetus of abuse,
just as a gun will never be a murderer,
just as the Devil will never be anything but an excuse.
Men are their own devils.

I am happy to have lost my innocence.
If I hadn't, I would have never noticed
the devil you have always been.

The only thing that keeps me sane
is hoping I'll see you again.
Legs bound and move around a chain,
I search the sky for aeroplanes.

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.

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.

"I cannot go back,"
I think to myself driving alone,
early afternoon, Rt. 7 North.
The last time I visited
the house where I grew up,
I felt like a ghost
there in the yard,
as if something - some secret misfortune -
were tugging at my sleeve,
begging me to stay, to remember.
A secret not my own,
but one I have spent my whole life forgetting.
A secret as old as the great maple tree
under which I used to play and pretend.
That tree no longer stands,
though its branches remain
scattered about the yard,
causing me to remember.

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

I don't know about reincarnation
but after you died I saw
a little boy painting an elephant with his fingers
and I thought "there you are"

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.

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'.

I just don't know how people do it.
Wake up and work for a living
just to pay hospital, insurance,
utility, student bills
like there's nothing to it,
and then go to bed
with no scary thoughts beating
like cold rain through their heads.
Every day is a struggle between
either myself and the world or
myself and time or
myself and myself,
and it takes every drop of will
that I have to not reach for
the bottle, the pipe, on the shelf.
I just don't know how people,
some people, most people, it seems,
can live any better than that.
Like the one percent sitting
on top of the world looking
down, hysterically laughing
at those who have to work,
who breaks their
backs and necks and minds
trying to make something last
longer than a few ******* days.
Sure, there's beauty in the world,
but you gotta pay to look at it.
And even then, you aren't allowed
to just grab it and take it,
put a sign on it and make it yours.
Someone's already claimed
all you hold dear.
You're just stuck borrowing.

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.

America, is that you?
Your stars are looking dim.
Stripes look nice on prison clothes,
but yours are wearing thin.

America, is that you
there behind the mask?
Of course, I too, am wearing mine.
You don't need to ask.

America, is that you
angry in the street,
smashing windows, spreading fire?
And is your dream complete?

America, was it you
I saw on evening news
dancing like a circus monkey,
speaking as you're cued?

America, is that you
propped up by the wall
with little men surrounding you,
waiting for your fall?

America, use your voice
and let me know it's you.
I can't hear much over the noise
that's coming from the zoo.

America, it must be you,
though I can hardly see.
I'm feeling for you in the dark.
America, it's me.

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

I tell myself
I'm never going to write another love poem,
but then I put pen to paper
and end up w/ a poem about how
you broke my ******* . . .
anyway, I guess I'm trying to say
there are more things to write about than you.

The pain that follows comfort.
The rain that comes with spring.
The snows that follow summer.
The chains which bind the wing.

Breaking free from the line
I had formed in my mind,
I ran all the way to your door.
"It's been years," you proclaimed
as old passions inflamed.
"My dear, any port in a storm."

I'm in love with a lady
and it's only been days
since she became my baby, now
we're gonna travel the world.
Though I suspect a lot of you
prob'ly think that I'm crazy,
but

I'm really diggin' this girl
and only moments ago
she asked to have my baby. Now
she's got my head in a whirl
and the next few months
are gonna be a bit hazy,
but

I'd do anything for love,
I remember how it felt
to have a lack thereof, and now
I'm bending over backwards for her.
And please don't ask again
because of course I'm sure
(of her).

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.

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.

History dances to me
on a whisper.
I listen to the echoes
of those tired feet on stone,
and to the choir of voices forgotten,
bowing my head in lament.

There is a
tenuous beauty
in apocalypse, I imagine.

The longer time flows on,
the more diluted words become.
What was "love" to our grandfathers
is now "****" to ourselves.
"**** love" is what I mean to say,
but that would be redundant.

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.

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?

we built a tower up to heaven
reaching up and out to Him
curious to what’s beyond
united in our purpose then

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

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?

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Caesar conquered the Gauls,
again uniting Rome
under the promise of total glory.

Napoleon, First Emperor of France,
escaped exile in Elba to return to France
as emperor.

Lincoln as president
issued the Emancipation Proclaimation,
bringing hope to those disenfranchised.

Better men than I.

Now I stand in the comfort of my home,
struggling to reach my own back
to scratch it.

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'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 have died a thousand lives
trying to love you,
and I will live a thousand deaths
until I have the chance again.

Big men
always seem
to only
talk about
small things.

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.

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.

I dug up your grave
because I missed you,
those nights lying beside you
watching your stomach rise and fall
with each sacred breath you took,
eyes open then shut then open, again.
I took those subtle movements for granted, I did.
Subdued I was by the present.
Now as I kneel at your stone
in the loneliest Spring I can recall,
beneath a pale and faceless moon,
holding your bones,
glancing them in moonlight,
I find they look nothing like you.
There is no warmth that I expected,
no memory coursing through them.
You have moved on from me
so that I may do the same.
Yet, now my heart is scattered
like the bones I kneel beside.

I will never be as cool as Bob Dylan,
and neither will you
(don't try).