For some awfully
Long time now
I’ve felt like
A blind man
Playing tennis,
Listening for the ball
To bounce in front of me
And swinging with all
Of my might
Hoping to hit it back away.
And while it’s away
I’ll have peace
Until I hear
The ball bounce
Before me again.
It’s just that when
It passes me
I feel like I’m losing.

Last night I saw something
Very clearly
For the first time in a while.
It was her and I
Woven together
Like a basket
Made of sand-sized
Stars.
I heard the bounce
And stood as still as I ever have.
I feel like I’ve won.

The Fernet-Branca,
sipped slowly,
seems to go well
with the pack of yellow American Spirits,
though I usually go with
the light blue pack.
Yellow does the trick tonight.

From the 14th floor
the city lights of Denver
are blurry.
So are the morning emails,
the slot for quarters
on the laundry machine,
the cars that pass on 8th
headed to wherever,
and you.

I can see the whole city from up here.
There are buildings reaching for the sky,
so as to expedite the process
of getting into some heaven
that doesn't exist for most of
the people here.
The roads are woven together like a fabric
that is less like silk
and more like the towels
at any of the ****** motels lining Colfax.
The same smog that clouds my mind
lays atop this concrete like a warm blanket
that eats away at your lungs before moving
on to your soul for dessert.
I see only a few castles
yet there are kingdoms of shanties.
There are no gardens here
and the trees are fake.
If pain could manifest itself
in any physical form, it would take the shape
of this city.

And yet, I can see a shirtless old man,
singing along with the radio on his balcony
and drinking the beer I used to drink when
I was a teenager.
The sun still penetrates the smog
and presses its lips to the skin and antiquated shape
of his weathered body.

I can't pretend to know his story
or anyone's story for that matter,
but the echo
of his voice and radio
are the staunchest display
of protest I have ever seen.
In a world suffocated
by the cacophony of our
shared suffering,
his song is the anthem
for us all.

There’s a bird with one wing
that still flies,
but only in circles
and so it sings many songs
where the birds with two wings
never bothered to sing more than one

When she calls you
With that song
Of a thousand songs
And suns,
Don’t be afraid.
Let yourself fall in love
And hold on tight
To the madness.

I mowed the lawn yesterday
and it felt terrible.
This complacency
has made my feet heavier,
and though the road continues
I now walk it with cinder block slippers,
unsure of how much further
I’ll actually go.
I can feel a white picket fence
in my future,
trapping me in
and my dreams out,
coddling me
with the indifference
that trickles through
the cracks of our lives.
I feel myself becoming like
everybody else,
and I’ve never been so afraid in my life.

I think it’s finally time
to get glasses.
Maybe I’m just getting older
or maybe I’ve stared
into the sun
for too long.
I can’t make out
her face
as she feels
for ripened avocados
across the produce section
from me.
But maybe I don’t want to,
the mystery,
curiosity,
I dream
pleasant fallacies,
I’d rather not know
the color of her eyes
or the mess of
old newspapers
in her skull.
The second
I’m close enough
to be able to make out
her smile
I’m done.
I don’t want to see
her
ugly
yellow
crooked
teeth.

Quit me the way
rain drops quit
the cloud from which
they came.
Back to the earth
you go,
I might plan
on visiting soon.
Might.

I’m on the brink
of something new,
like a child in a spring garden
full of morning
and flowers
that are inviting
the pollinators in
for a cup of sweet tea.
And between the plants,
air, and the soil of my soul
I’ve found a hope
that throws its beams
off of the moon
and into the eyes
of a better man
on his way
to better days
and dreams
beyond his sleep.

Somewhere
Along this rusty railing
sits a fairy who smokes cigarettes
and prays for all of the busy people
that walk by
with their eyes to the sidewalk,
who have given up on writing
their own songs.
She sees children in expensive suits,
asking stupid questions like,
"What is the thread count on this piece?"
She prays and laughs at herself,
but her days of crying are over.
People are like corks
flying off of champagne bottles.

I’m waiting,
And not too desperately,
Until something is enough.
I desire,
Just as the moon moves tides,
Predictably,
Always on schedule.
The glass slipper I keep in my back pocket,
Grows cold, and I wonder if a different material might fit an idea more comfortably.
To say goodbye so many times,
Does not take anything from hello.
I’ve heard the core of the earth is very hot,
And that makes the most sense to me.
Somewhere beneath it all something burns,
And I want to know what it has to say.

What good are these words
utterances
noise
in my ears
in my head.
They are always on sale,
and always on back order.
Words
surely won’t
bring back
the Amazon,
they won’t save
the pig
from the knife.
They will never
wrap themselves around
how much I miss the
girl I’ve never seen,
let alone met,
let alone kissed,
let alone left.
How I miss
the moon
that never set,
how I miss the words
I never said,
the place I’ve never been
filled with streets
I’ve never walked,
full of puddles
that reflect the green stop light,
the neon light
in the old star drenched bar
I never visited
to quiet
the words
in my head.
The words.
Always on sale,
always on back order.

Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I stop drinking
or smoking,
or, god forbid,
both.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
I think I might
do something really stupid
like pray,
or move to California,
or get a tattoo
of an empty pale blue dot,
or throw myself to the lionesses,
or write poetry,
or call her.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that lilacs turn black.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I make statues
of happy people
out of the rocks
at rock bottom.
Sometimes
it gets so bad,
that I shoot
hummingbirds
with 24 caliber regrets.

There are sidewalks
soaked with apathy.
There are ladders
that were intentionally
built to be
almost tall enough
to reach the fruit
on the tree that your soul aches for.
You'll thank yourself later.
It will always mean more to you
if it is constantly just beyond your fingertips.

Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I see the ghost
of the person I thought you were
In the smiling
eyes
of a brand new human.
I see fire escapes
and think of the best hypomanic episode
I ever had.
And then
It gets so bad
all of it rushes back
and the knife
that once cut me free
guts me.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I dare it to get worse.
And then it does
and I start to laugh
like some kind of
*******.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I start
to love myself.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that caterpillars
make me cry.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
I melt away,
and all that is left
is the music of revelry.
Sometimes
it gets so bad
that I wear down cinder blocks
with my tongue,
and those black lilacs
don't get their color back,
but I see them as August.

I wonder if the spider
is less lonely
with a fly in its web.
I wonder if the fly
is less lonely
in the spider’s web.
I’d like to think
they are less lonely,
just for a moment,
before the feast
in a world
where you die
if you don’t eat;
in a world
where you might be
tonight’s special,
served on a webbed plate.

I took a sip of my beer
and then I said
to the monkey on my back,
“Nothing has ever hurt
so much in my life.”
He took a breath,
then a sip of his beer
and said,
“Ah, it must be love.”

All of the factories
would shut down
when her eyes
took naps on mine.
Many moons later,
here I am;
Soot on the lips
She used to kiss.

The mountains never play dress up
and sometimes I feel
like we shouldn't either.
But that doesn't
cleanse us
of the sad reality
that we do,
the sadder reality
that we can't help it.
We throw lights on trees,
as if the moon doesn't exist,
like a child who makes a cake
only out of frosting.
We put lipstick
on cuts that need stitches,
and I'm reluctant to admit
I find that painfully gorgeous.
We pour dressing
on salads,
and talk about the weather,
and then pour dressing on that as well.
Even when we undress,
we still cover each other
with dots of infatuation,
but neglect the reality between them.
That's where the honey is.
There is a sweetness to our naivety.
It is an unpredictable ghost
that drinks the ocean
through a straw
and sings hallelujah
to draught stricken fields.

Only her evergreen eyes
and painfully pink lips
can pull an object,
a young fool,
14 floors towards the earth,
faster than gravity.
The longest day of the year
had a clock that was criminally
insane,
the hour hand
moved like a propeller
of a plane,
and flew me to somewhere
that felt familiar
but I’ve never been.
And the moon I told her
that was mine,
really belongs to her.

Sometimes it feels
like people are all the same,
and I don’t want to be like them.
Watch how they fight
because they think
they are different.

I wish that we were
bound by the pain
that we all share,
the way a drop of water
is bound to the ocean.
But we are not.
Instead, we wander
headless and heartless,
and chasing
the horizon of
our fellow human’s strife
proves futile
lest we recognize
that love is the only way
we will ever meet the sun
where it sets.

Pour me a shot of something
that actually interests me
and I’ll pour you a shot of
how sorry I actually am.
Pour me a full glass,
I can handle it.
Pour me a shot of
hope.
Pour me a shot of
I don’t care,
with a splash of
seriousness.
Light the place up,
I’ve got all night.

The days pass
under feet
like cracks in the sidewalk
under pressure
by the traffic jam
of cognition ants
that echos with
the engines on 8th.
They slip our minds
like hair
down the shower drain,
minuscule things that
we can lose
because they seem so
dispensable.
But the old man still sings,
the crows still fly north
toward downtown,
and far away galaxies
still waltz,
out in the cold
and empty,
before you,
now,
and long after.
It is a ****** kind
of gorgeous,
where even the eyes
of a stranger
can help us
to thaw.

What an inconsistency,
that the rain or her
bioluminescent smile
can cool
this sun drenched balcony
down to a place
that makes you
the good kind of cold
in early July.
It’s too ridiculous to seem real;
no one would ever give something
as ethereal away to someone else.
Or maybe that’s not true.
Maybe that’s what keeps
the asteroids from hitting earth.

There was a poor
shepherd boy
who used to throw
stones at the castle
walls every day.
Every day
he would return
with pockets full
of stones,
and the walls
would stand there
mocking him.
But it was futile,
despite all of the
stones he'd thrown,
the walls continued
to stand
and the king
continued to oppress
his kingdom.
In throwing stones,
the boy had garnered
quite the arm.
One day
he came to the walls
with pockets
full of seeds.
He threw the seeds
over the walls,
and trees
and flowers
started to grow
on inside of the
castle walls.  
The king became
quite distraught about this
and ordered his servants
to pick every newly sprouted
plant out of the ground.
But they could not keep up.
The boy threw more and more
seeds every day,
and the plants started overtaking
the castle.
Birds, butterflies,
and other creatures
invaded the castle.
The castle became so infested
with life,
that the king could no longer
do anything about it,
and the roots of the trees
started to grow into
and fracture the castle walls.
And little by little those walls
crumbled.
And by the time they did,
the king did not care,
his castle was more
beautiful now
than it ever had been.
Once the walls fell,
the king could see
all of the people outside
of them.
The king finally understood.

If I were a card in the deck,
I don’t know what one I’d be.
And I don’t know of those cards,
Which ones sit in my back pocket.
I’m not sure I’m any of them,
And I don’t think any of the 52
Were made for me.
A card feels like a weapon,
I can’t help but wonder
If weapons were initially made to hurt others,
Or to protect ourselves from them.
But it seems for most of us,
We play a lot of
Aces against ourselves.
And in the face of seconds,
We understand very little.
Like how many seconds it took
To make a bouquet,
A bridge,
A bomb,
A person,
A picture of people,
Of me,
Of her,
Of you.
I question how many more seconds,
This glass will have champagne in it.
Well, it’s Prosecco, actually.
The seconds don’t care if it came from
California or France,
And apparently tonight I could give a ****.
That glass is my one companion,
This cold evening on Lincoln street.
It plays no cards against me.
We decided, very mutually,
to put down our weapons for a night.
Or for at least a second.
Just so we could shuffle the deck.

It is the elephant
before it knew the big lights
and roaring crowds
of blind mice
at the circus.
It isn't the black ink tattoo
that you left on my heart.
It is the only bullet
I almost didn’t catch in my teeth.
It’s not you.
It was you.
The bus sized trumpet
that screamed sugarcane rain
through the soul in my spine.
Life sings to us
in tongues
we are no longer fluent in.
Sometimes I think
the only way to step the stones
is to burn between them,
burn like an ant
under a magnifying glass.
If you ever have the chance
to ask a burning man if he's bored,
ask him.

And I’d go to church in the mountains
and sing praises with the crows in the pines
to a god most misunderstood,
rarely seen or heard;
the lynx of the feeling in my sternum,
the missing word in my vocabulary that
has bought permanent real estate
on the tip of my tongue.
And then she looks at you
with Medusa eyes
that turn you to stone.
You lie there naked
arms and legs woven together
like sacred silk,
the warm blanket of god,
the purring lynx.

Now I'm just the fly
on the rim of her
chardonnay glass.
A tourist everywhere I go.
It brings me back to
that apartment in the South Bronx,
an onion disguised as an apple,
an old boy who no longer trusts
the weatherman.
I leave the lights on when I'm gone
so that coming home feels less lonely.

I'm in between two apartments.
I'm lonely.
I was planted here
by the owner
of the apartment
on the left.
I'm the only rosebush.
I've been here
for about
ten years
and I wish
that I could
move to a spot
with a little more sunlight.

The ***** dishes sit in the sink,
piled up,
like the thoughts in our skulls
or feelings in our fingernails.
And sometimes we clean them,
but more often than not they just sit there,
in the sink, in our kitchen, in our cold
little apartment on Pennsylvania street.
And we pass each other in hallways,
saying something like "hello" or "how's it going?"
or maybe nothing at all.
The ambulances drive by
and sometimes we hear them,
but mostly we pay no mind.
The nightly news plays in the background,
but I don't know what they are saying anymore
because I can't distinguish the news anchor's
words from the ambulance siren.
And we gaze through our microscopes,
looking at the content of our lives
on a fragile glass slide
upon which squirm the infinitesimal
bacteria that we took from the sink.

Certainly
When she used
To look at me,
All of the factories
Would shut down.
But now,
I see a forest
Filled with vines
That suffocate trees.
They climb and ****
To survive
And I still don’t know why.

Rarely, if ever,
the toolbox in the closet
comes out for some
easy fix.
Today it was my lawn chair.
But I can’t use a wrench
to fix the way you look at me,
as you try to sip
the entire Colorado river
through a plastic straw.
Part of me wants to let you
have your fun,
to believe that across
the table from me
you might find
your own wrench.
But stainless steel
has no effect on the cortex,
no effect on the river,
no effect on a sun
that has overstayed its
welcome.
Drink me
until the wrench
must come out,
but I have a duty
to warn you
that I am not
a lawn chair.

It's the warmest day of the winter
here in Denver,
and I enjoy wearing a blue
short sleeved button up
with strange patterns
that I found at the thrift store
that belonged to some man
before it belonged to me.

I wonder how different we are.
I wonder how similar we are.

I wonder if he'd ever crawled
inside one of the great pyramids,
only to find a small room
that people slaved and died over,
once occupied by a king
who is no longer there
and was replaced by
cool, wet air
that smells like
some tourist
who forgot to wear
deodorant that day.

Maybe he'd have quit
smoking cigarettes by now.
Maybe he'd have never started
in the first place.

Maybe he would run out of breath
when introduced to olive eyes
complimented by olive overalls
and constellations of freckles
that spelt out the words
to the greatest poem
he'd ever read,
along with the letters
of his name.

Maybe he'd worn black jeans,
along with that same shirt,
that grilled his legs
medium rare.
Maybe they stayed rare.
Maybe they stayed moving.
Maybe they didn't.

Maybe that man
had spilt a bag of *******
on this shirt.
Maybe that's why my heart hummed
to the tune of Etta James' "at last"
the first night I wore that shirt
across the table from those
olive eyes.

Maybe that man didn't give a ****,
maybe he understood how silly
it would be
to glue fallen leaves
back on their branches in November.

Maybe that man was a brilliant idiot,
who really didn't give a ****,
and knew how silly it wasn't
to glue fallen leaves
back on their branches in December.

Maybe he said,
"**** the neighbors, watch me glue these leaves
only when you get tired of the news on T.V."

If you want to know what's happening to the world
don't just watch the news every night.
Watch what happens to yourself
after watching the news every night.

Maybe that man's thoughts
moved like gravel
under steel toed boots.

Maybe the moon moved that man,
the way it moves the tides to higher grounds
and brings life to those hot evaporating pools
where an octopus
contemplates leaving,
only by way of
scorching sun baked lava rock
and air that he can't breathe.

It's all for a better life,
isn't it?

Maybe that man
was a house with one small window
with a view of his well earned
green lawn
and white picket fence.

Maybe there were no windows
and he was a cactus
somewhere it rarely rained,
to his own delight and misery.

Maybe he figured out
that the only things that break our hearts
are the things we are willing
to let inside of them.

I'm eating apple pie right now,
and it's one of the few things
I have enjoyed this week.
Most people like apple pie,
including myself.
And maybe he does too.
Maybe that matters.
Most likely it doesn't.

Either way.
We've worn the same shirt
and it's a nice day out.

Light pollution
may be
a necessary evil.
But beyond that,
the only other necessary evil
I know of is love.
My heart goes far away,
when I think about her.
We are rubber bands
laid next to another
amongst many others
on the bungee rope
that ties the sun
to the earth.
This rope is strong,
but it stretches
and constricts
in a way that
brings the winter
and the summer,
the day and the night,
darkness and light;
you are the martini
of my Monday.

I remember a night

half smoked spliff
dipped in red wine
napping on the windowsill
I don't remember
when I first heard
I'd rather go blind
and when I turned off the lights
a handful of deep breaths
passed
before my eyes adjusted
to see a newly naked
old tree
posing outside my window
it painted my bedroom walls
with the shadows
of its anatomy

(what a blonde)

I saw your face
in the street lamp behind it
and I'm starting to fall
less in love with you
and more in love
with the shadows
you cast.

This poem is for:
Bluejays that love the blues.
Tigers, not liars.
Beggars, not leapards.
Dogs that walk without leashes
and their human friends
trying to get rid of theirs.
Well rested trees in April,
and all birds....
even penguins.
This poem is for
people who don't take life too seriously.
It is especially for
the ones that
do.

I knew a boy
who wanted the whole world.
And he almost had it.
He wrapped his arms around it all
and just as it was about to finally be his
he realized
he had no place to put it,
except for exactly where it already is.
So he let it be,
exactly where it is.
He painted it with evergreen eyes.
And as he smiled at it,
it smiled back.