Boys & books & long
lines of bone-dry rosebush &
all of it burning.

He craved a father like a burnout
licking his sugarcane eyes &
slapping them on
any surface they'd stick &

he called night The Kingdom
would wander off for ages
said I don't need to know
where I'm goin'

said Someday I'll have already
found it & maybe he's right
All people die a little
more in daylight

he was 16
a dry firecracker
one spark away
from infinite eruption

a dish containing my bones
& several vital organs
laid to rest on a bed
of colander and sage

a pretty platter
a selfless oblation

one hopes a gift of such
heart might be atoned
& wrapped in a cocoon
& sent away to float the sea

my insides ravaged
my restitution complete

Winter, night. Snowfall. Lake house. The family is gathered for a beloved relative’s “celebration of life” (we’ll say he/she didn’t believe in funerals).

Father, mother, two offspring, distanced by 8 years (27 and 19). Mother’s brother and his two children, staying at a separate, unvisited location. And a dead grandparent.

/

Winter was not the most opportune time for Grandpa to die, but he loved the lake, so because he passed in winter we are here and we are pretending to love the lake as he did. It is difficult to find joy or relief in a lake house. The whole idea is vacation. People go to the lake to swim in ***** water and drink and not think about things for a while. Winter is suffocating; it traps you indoors and surrounds you with walls and chills

Egos are firecrackers with short wicks. Do not light them in your hand. They explode and sting needles. Humans tend to trap themselves in the mind and that reality remains unbroken from formation until death. It really is a shame we make it all up. I wish heaven seemed a desirable prize.

In which life did your
body float the Ganges on
soft cuts of gum tree?

His words kept pouring
in the rain like the rain and
it stung like new skin.

This wall has skin
     a signal
stretch and collapse
w/ each breath the bent
mind keeps pulling—

See how far deep we can cut
you should have told me
anything but that they say
his pen tipped skin—ax-head straight through

when we left he was asleep and later
I got a phone call and the
voicemail, it said—

you need to get back
but first, you need to
tell me what happened

tell me
tell me
please
tell me

later, as we sat,
he said he didn't mean a word,
said, Maybe you should just
forget about it.

These Men are all in
boxes, taped air-holes and all
still, in time: breathing.

How many more seconds until this cigarette is all but broken ash?

How many more questions must I ask until the answers start to **** their way in?

How many people went to my funeral?

How many people didn't want to go and went anyway? Someone give these people a medal.

How many people have I killed on accident?

Was it quick? Torturous? Which is more horrible?

Did it happen too fast to enjoy (or recognize) the end, or slow to the point life was no longer a desirable option? If it ends in this…

Have you ever planned a ****** in your headspace? Where did it happen? What did you use? What were they wearing? How quick? Why? No, not why. No. I don't care why. All good people have reasons.

All bad people have options.

might fish dream of land

to wonder How many sharks
fall concious to the water

they must remind themselves
mustn't they

here is the water & life &
here we are surrounded

we escape via accidental hook or
suction of the propeller but never

on purpose: "fish out of water"
unnatural half-things, semblance

seeing sunlight through a window
and marveling the splitting rays

they jump and catch and dive
so soft

against the buffetting of waves

We fixed the middle.
Now Gaza's desert is glass,
Israel byegone.

Few things spoken
the way her hair played bingo with night air
& she grabbed my arm twice
I remember
                              exactly

1st at the bus stop (the way back)
a wind, chilly, rolled in/caught
her spin in a second—she squeezed
& giggled & goggle-eyed looks swept
the year away

2nd was the doorstep & I am not
sure this was not by accident but
her eyes fish-hooked me & reeled in
I, a hapless liquid-mouth fin-thing
lapping up *******
                               salt water
& where I'm left was/is NOW

she stirred with a spin in that dress
                               w/ the flowers
the ground/foliage/birds &
all their noises & all her
tiny exhalations suspended beneath
tiny worn wings, a current

all moving
up

three days remained;
the decision made
to pull it

no one knew
exactly how to
break the news

the gravity pulling
down a room:
tons & tons

i wonder, softly,
might we change
all our minds

if we should,
don't let it
be too late

never too late

Let us ignore
the wall
built in his honor

a looming crow's nest
black mangled stone
and onyx

Can we not forget
the bodies
the people lost after

the ground sank
deeper

Make my day!
Switch to another time/place to
once again be lost in the ether
     the cold and damp so sturdy in dark

But do not interrupt my impenetrable
bouncing because who are you
     (why are you is more apt a question)

You need not lose yourself in that
lightless chill to make your point, No,
     that is done

So please Friend, Fellow:
follow that tunnel to the end and at
the end you will come upon all that I
     hold dear and

as you exit the tunnel into day
you will be among the life-blood
     breathing in warmth and sunlight

I wanted to die

This house This place I can't

Tried to drown it smother suffocate deprive ******* life-force

I felt feel I belong to some Otherplace

I still feel; weeknight dim-dark

Streetlamps cities and my eyes swole shut a silly haze

No sugar or milk please thank you and could you

The owls sound off—or owl they all sound the same don't they

One too many passersby

Screams far away terrible

Wait for prescribed calm to take hold

Crows are not like owls are not like vultures

No thing is like any other thing

This I've come to sense

I can't shake this pain from my belly

I felt the presence of so many souls in this empty room.

I felt something brush against my neck. The brush was cold.

It smelled of rotted meat and toiled field-ground, sticky.

I broke the ice cold quiet with a question. Who are you.

Nothing. A creak, maybe, a disembodied patter of dust, set flight.

—

Someone hung from the rafters in the attic, I'd been told.

Only that wasn't true. They found him in the living room.

Apparently his eyes had popped out of his skull and lay on the carpet.

He'd been there for a while, air soaking in his last exhalations.

I was altogether surprised the ceiling fan had held the whole time.

—

I could touch it, slight sulphur-burn on nosehair and lung.

My arms bumped up, a flat-tire-road-like indicator of augury.

His voice was soft and weak, and he spoke only to me.

"My shoe's untied. Do you mind?" Hair once of my neck ran away.

Strike, redress—I heard his coughed cries from my dented boot-heels.

I received my weekly phone call from Lucifer.
He sounded ill, like his throat was full of
sandpaper. I told him he should probably
cut down on the talking and let himself
heal. He let me know how the kids are
doing, and I told him about the storm
that was passing through tonight and
how hopefully nothing would be damaged,
but he told me to accept this as fact.
There are some things one simply cannot
change, he says. Storms and violence.
For example.

What I would do to
feel the warmth of her skin, the
tremble of her touch.

'Binge and purge,' she says,
'It's a self-imposed poison:
hurts no one but me.'

Walking down 17th, I  found a note in a
dumpster—don't ask how these things happen, they just
     do. Things. It read,
Freely run, gentle traveler, but be wary the ground
beneath your feet; it trembles under the immense
weight of your fear.

I took the note and crammed it in my back jean
     pocket, hoping a vibration would soar up my
leg and shake the coarse curve of each letter off
the page and into the air so people stepping on my
     heels might catch a whiff of exactly who they're
dealing with.

This boy, he carries his fear in his back pocket and
     not beating in his chest like a bass drum. I haven't
shaken all the words yet, but every traveler has his day.

Today, tomorrow, yesterday. No, no.
     Not yet.

Spring yielded it's light blue, sending
little spines of fiber-work glass clippings about
and smelling like summer and sun and
reminiscent days long past and gone away.

He, blissful, weary, marched unfettered
amongst the wrecked flora, a hop in his step,
prancing about like someone younger
than he, who had seen little and felt less.

He had an attitude; bumbling, messy,
he was hardly a man for all men, but rather
a stoic symbol of time stood stone still, a
slapdash rendering of a simpler, better era.

Summer gave way to Autumn's yellow chill.
Soon winter stood, watching still and
silent, frigid as the bones in the funeral home.
The seasons painted his headstone. A canvas.

There is blood on the
belly of all living things.
Pity it's so smudged.

‘I set the ******
on fire with a gallon of
petrol. Overkill?’

When the end shows face, what
would or could he say?

When the wind tears trees
hundred-year rooted in thick,

fertile soil hot-lit by an
erupting sun—what does

he say then? Could he process
the light, the colors, the heightened

senses, awake again, alive,
back from Catatonia.

               could he see me the way i deserve
                 to be seen in a pale-white/tan hue
                 & linen & perfect & perfect & perfect &
                                                             per­fect

Asphalt is on fire and
beauty becomes the source of

light for the dark rooms and
undusted corners of his brain.

When the ends shows face,
he could say yes. Yes.

Sting of sloppy light.
Purse, bow, amphetamine.

Brown hair & a pink—
wind current cut through
               one open car window

to the other car window
pilling cigarette smoke cheap

               & steady forward.

He's a beauty, that one.
Wallet, vest & tie, coke.

Cut open her stomach &—
waves of salt water
               bolted to the ground

like tiny rocks & hardened
shells lain beneath the sea,

               a doubtless factotum.

Pull & stitch.
Sting again.

Boldness is akin to desperation.
No no Love, do not
weep for the tree or the
mountains jagged—

                                   w/ their bulldozers
                                and iron
                                                           fist

do not cry Love for
we are all in mourning:

                                    it is not the tears
                                    that sting, but the

ebbing thoughts—

the warmth

When I'm forgotten,
God will scatter my ashes
in the Land of None.

He figured the birds were chirping.

It's a beautiful day, just warm enough in direct sunlight. Squirrels hopped around the fenceposts.

The neighbour boys, splashing and jumping in the swimming pool,
mindful they didn't run around the concrete edges or their father would step outside and firmly correct them. He loved them, didn't want them hurt.

Spring is alive.
Birds are chirping.

He wondered what birds sound like.

A lightning crack. A blinking television.

His hands, like packed sand melted to glass,
rugged and burning on my torso.

Shoveled feeling and lust and gilded
passion. Tears well, a guilty mind
strung up again.

I stop. Our eyes locked. Lost.
Lost, lost. I see lips. Slowly dragging
his head, I wed them.

I pull back. Flashing lights,
blinking television.

The night is young.

the rim-rocked voice bellows
'I was a maid once. On the
Titanic, most famous one-trip-ship
in the history of mankind.
A tragedy. A massacre. And I survived it.'

a shapely cigarette clenched in her jaw
'It was such a magical place. The air
was so static and vibrant. Everything
was bright, audacious, unflinching.'

sound of sirens stabbing through smoke
'And as soon as we were so sure the
world we left behind was quiet, mortality
reminded us of its omnipresence. There were
screams, terrible screeches piercing the beautiful
starry night.'

smell of spoiled milk, sour
'I think God turned his back that night.
He couldn't bear to watch. But He knew He
had to remind us of our place. Somehow.'

the sky is never blue before sunrise

This city I've found,
ruined and beautiful,
cloaked in floating plastic bags
full of pipe dreams and
unhemmed seams. Shards of light
stitch the surface together.

This city I've found,
benign in all it's wanderings,
never sharing it's secrets and
never quite hiding them either:
the ugly walk the streets in
alluring strut.

This city I've found,
sifting through my veins and
pulsing in my head—

This city I've found
that's yet to find me.

All new people
crowding the heavy cage,
dribbling on to West 33rd
in heat.

All new people
mid-mourning, 4am, heartbeats
ring the streets like gong-strikes.

All new people
I've never seen. Faces
who, tomorrow, may
never again see the
lightness of me.

If only your eyes would lock mine.
If only I could stop time, wind clocks
back and back until years passed like seconds,
became nothing more than leaves
drifting in an autumn wind.

What dreams we'd share.
What things we'd see and touch and live.
What fireworks would light the sky.

A good man
ought to be left
alone,

lest this evil world
wrap itself
around and
swallow him whole.

Blues:
singing, grumbling

vocal chords soaked in a
vat of golden whiskey, aged
like the pain he sings of.

Blues:
white, ivory

piano keys stained red
from the blood his guitar strings
cut out his fingers.

Blues:
chimes, rhymes

more like a feeling
than the color
of the cloudless sky.

The irony of
a smoking awareness stand
yielding free cupcakes.

If ever you find yourself
surrendering to the darkness,
look to me—

Listen.
I will never claim I can save you,
Lord knows I can't save myself,
but I know, for a second, our
eyes carry a comfort the dark
has no power to put down.

Listen.
There is nothing that can
divide the bloodline that streams
into our hearts when we touch
skin, when we grasp and
piddle at the wind, searching
for a safe breeze to cart us home.

Home.
Fields of lilies, dayflowers, marigolds,
things we thought were silly before.
Look at us now, prancing about
like the couples we made fun of
not so long ago—love was a virtue,
not tangible bliss. We can touch it.
It whispers of springtime.

If ever you find yourself
surrendering to the darkness,
look to me—

I will swear to whomever will
listen that I will never again
be that far behind you.

Dear.
There is always light; it is simply
a matter of opening one's eyes
and finding it.

The morning after was cold.
I shielded my eyes as the blinds cut
open; scratched glass gives
way to a beautiful summer morning.

Avoiding my pupils at all cost, you
scurry out of bed and mechanically toss
your clothes atop that slender frame
just in time to say,
I should go. I can't disagree.
I haven't the conviction.

The sores on my arm have all but blackened;
bruises beneath the surface of my
skin retell the night like a lost tape:
we came home, we made love,
we rode a euphoric steel railway in a lumpy,
benign mess of an evening.

Now it is morning. Birds are chirping,
children play games in the street.
Light shames to shine on our battered faces.

To place name on faith
is blaspheme—aside from the
faith one names oneself.

The wood-burning fire
resembles a cusp of cloud
set ablaze by faith.

And I said to her
Those lips could tear worlds apart
as she smiled that smile.

I remember your naked body
like it was yesterday,
bending about your bedroom, quiet as
drifting rose petals stripped straight out
of a summer sunset sky.

I remember our naked bodies,
touching in discovery, swimming oceans
between ourselves we never fathomed
into existence; never questioned out of it.
For the first time, I felt at home—at sea.
Innocence no longer played part.

After the crescendo, I saw the clock beside
us on your nightstand. I used it as an excuse.
"I really should leave, it's getting late," knowing
full and well that she could see right through it,
right through me. I lept through the doorway,
sparing a look back, parting with my shame.

I got home and ate pizza with my family.
My mother and father chuckled about a newscaster.
My brother and I bickered about housework.
I went to my room after dinner and collapsed on my bed.
I wept as my eyes surrendered to darkness.

I am lost at sea—and so is she.

There was the moon
and then there were the stars,
so bright and boisterous,
far away from us. Less familiar.

We were always looking up. Be it
the stars or the moon in the night sky
we always found a way to stir up
some trouble under the endless
cover of darkness.

There was the moon
and then there were the stars.

We loved the former because
it was close, reliable, beautiful, serene.
We loved the latter because
it was adventurous—you couldn't
fit your small fingernail on it.

We loved what passed. We remember.
All the stars are gone. Now there is darkness.
Nothing to light the way home
but memories and kerosene.

Cupid sang about sunbeams
and blooming grapevines before
darting a single arrow in either
of our directions—I suppose

he knew better. I suppose it was
all part of the Master Plan, because
if there wasn't a plan then what's
the point of planning a *******
thing anytime, anywhere. There

isn't one. It was written that I'd
meet you. Shakespeare said something
tragic about it, but he certainly never
felt what I felt. Not like this. The feeling
of loss is never familiar. You are talking

underwater without a snorkel or air
to pray with. Cupid never misses, that's
part of the plan. But maybe, ever so
often, he hits the wrong people right
in the ***, and forgets to pull the arrow out.

I talked with you on the phone the other day.
You were telling me how you visited the zoo;
spent an afternoon watching the zebra graze
and the lions lazily roar at civilians with digital cameras.

I talked with you on the phone the other day.
You were visiting the zoo, crying on the phone—
How can they keep them in cages
Locked away as if they don't feel like we do
You forget
there are people in cages without keyholes
there are blistered eyeballs scanning a lightless horizon for a lock pick or a clothespin
that may allow them to puzzle their way into the gears
There are people who die searching

I talked with you on the phone the other day.
We chit-chatted about sunbeams and lawnmowers.
We were happy, careless.
There are no cages here.

Only keys.

They say ****** is an unforgivable sin.
I beg to differ.

Why?
Because it's fun to differ. And also, I could fathom myself committing ******.

I'd do it with a knife. It shimmers—it's clean; cutting flesh with primal ease.
It's painful.
It emulates so many feelings we have—brings them up to the surface.
You can see it in the victim's face,
right as the blade slides in.

They say ****** is an unforgivable sin.
It's a sin, no doubt.
—I ask now for forgiveness, for what I may soon do.

A sick reasoning of mine is this:
"In some defeated way,
I feel as though you should be thanking me."

Smart poetry



Christian pacifist punk artists shaking their fists at the government elite

Mothers dreaming in Tide-to-Go and quiet nights

'"Bed-head" implies you have a bed to sleep'

Cracked lips, because its cold and I don't display that spring-merry ****

Smart poems sound like silly songs

John 8:7

Greek reference to Aphrodite and her thousand noses

'I haven't slept in four days'

Atheists asking fundamentalists to dance at the prom because you're alive now in this moment at the least

'It's silly to think we'll be alone forever'

Finality—some kind of closure

I can't seem to sleep

There are those who die with the wind,
and those who inherit,
staring, steam-eyed, at the blistering cloud scattered sky,
scanning for a safe place to land amongst our feet.

Everything starts at the bottom.
Sun peaks over the orange Horizon,
Sea crests and bellows, ebbs and flows,
History begins at the Beginning, and so on.

People start at the feet, and wheel their way up.
So often there are toes caught in the zippers,
the hairs of our feet singed on the swelling soil
we plant our feet.

A Sun rising.
A wave crashing.
A human being born into a dying world,
deprived and blinded,
it's beauty swept away in the panic of a coming storm.

And some day
I will sit on my back porch
in infinite, consecutive jest,
staring at the night sky.

And, best of all,
I won't trouble myself wondering
why I have the itching inclination
to look up.

And, even more so,
I watch, contented,
a celestial understanding:
The stars. They speak.