I stood in the water
which rose to my ankles
and I asked it to lower an inch.

But water is set from
the sea to the stagnant
and it paid no attention to me.

I stood to the chillness
which swallowed my stomach
and I begged it to give me some room.

Still the puddle was deaf
from loud years in the sky
and it reached its blue arms around me.

I stood in the last lights
with a collar of ice
and I prayed all might cover my head.

Then the water did drop
as a freak act of chance,
but my feet are still stuck in the earth.

I watched him on the
Green vein,
Looking at nothing,
Caressing the infinite
Skin.

I watched the sun
**** up the dew
And spit it back into the air,
But humidity doesn't bother me
Anymore.

I fingered the white thread
With my bitten nail.
(Because I bite my nails, fingertips
Lips
When I need to focus.)

The spider on the leaf
Never looks at me.
He just drinks what's inside of the fly.

My roommate and I
were talking about
The Barrel Roll the other day.  

Now, the Barrel Roll sounds incredibly difficult,
rolling around the outside
of a giant imaginary barrel,
but you can do it.
Apparently.
In one of those rickety World War Two fighter planes.

The Aileron Roll sounds even more difficult.
You roll around an imaginary needle…
of infinite length.
To avoid the Germans or Chinese or whatever.

Even more difficult than those, of course,
is the “****-Off Roll”
wherein you stop the fighter plane
in midair
like a hummingbird.
Then, turning sharply,
you spell out the words “**** all of you”
in luminous green smoke
and then you explode
into a million purple cubes that then fall to the earth
and bury themselves upon impact.

Then, with rain and sunlight and so on,
up grow an assortment of tall, unlikable trees
that bear unpleasant fruits that fall to the earth
and decompose until the seeds plant themselves.
From these, more trees grow,
hundreds of them,
thousands.
All growing inward and converging on one point
over the course of many years.
The dew of twenty summers winking
and sparkling on this forest of wonder.

Until one tree grows
in the absolute center of the others
and it has this huge fighter plane dangling on a little stem.
The plane breaks off
and flies up into the sky
and the pilot alternates between shouting “*******!” at the Germans
and raining stagnated walrus carcasses down on the Chinese
who have forgotten all about the second World War
and the fact that it was actually the Japanese who were involved.

"Poetry is not an opinion. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth." ~Kahlil Gibran, Sand and Foam

I

I’m so embarrassed to tell you this, but well…

You do this one thing that drives me absolutely wild.
You wore your shirt to that thing yesterday.
You know, the one with the pearl buttons.

And you had the first two buttons undone.
And I could see this bit of your chest.
And I just wanted to touch you so badly.

But then you told me how "hot" the girls in the yard were.
And then you’re just not for me.
Because no one is, it seems.

II

The air’s too heavy.
It’s cream and the sky is too.
Skim.
Skimming through the grass.

III

I’m so embarrassed to tell you this, but it’s…

A bit of you that I thought I knew.
A splash of your skin that I know would perfectly fit my hand.
A triangle of tan and tangle.

IV

I’m under the moon right now
And sleep should be in the door any minute now.
What did you say to me earlier?
When you were speaking to me for seven minutes,
Seven minutes under the red lights,
But I can’t think that means anything.
No matter how much it should.

V

I’m a little ashamed to tell you this, but when I was little…

Everything was smaller.
The world accustomed itself to me
And I ate it up as though it were real.

But I’m not sure anymore.
Not about anything.
Not even myself.

I was playing checkers for the first ten years of knowing you.
And you reached across the table, took my hand.
Told me we were playing cards.

VI

A bit of a weird metaphor, but…
Days fall off the calendar like apples.
Meaning comes in boxes now.

Boxes of light.
Boxes of ***.
Boxes of music.
Boxes of things that aren’t funny anymore.

And I shouldn't have to leave myself closed.

VII

I’m a little curious why you want to know this…

Yes, I love you.
I love everything about you.
I love every you that there has ever been.
And every you there ever will be.

The very possibility of seeing you in that chair is a miracle.
I hope you are around in the future,
So I can not tell you these things.

VIII

I’m pretty sure he’s music.

IX

I’m sure you’ve heard this but…
The night is for us.
The trees expect activity.
The distances serene and slightly buzzed.

She was so short when I met her,
I could see you over her head.
All amber and slightly buzzed.

X

What in the hell is wrong with me!?
Throwing away my life and energies on you…
Unlike people that actually feel the acuities of time,
I glass feeble ******* worm straight through the walls.
I don’t deserve the power of speech,
Because I only use it in one-way liaisons with you!

And you can’t appreciate me,
Because you’re too ******* straight.

XI

I’m a little embarrassed to say this, but…

I moved a hand in your direction the other day
And I think you looked at it.
But you didn’t look at me.

I think you made eye contact deliberately with me today,
But there was nothing behind your pupils
But “Hey… buddy.”

Later, when I pick up my arm
I can only really focus
Really, really focus
On the divots cut into my arm
By the picnic table.

XII*

But the summer is folding itself away,
And the grass starts to move without a thought.
Not about me, not about any of us.

When the heat inside the clock face presses down enough,
It might run a bit faster,
But it won’t ever admit to what it’s done to me.
And understand why he should be so embarrassed.

christ.

Blinking back tears,

I contemplate that cruelest of human injustices:

How few friends I have on Facebook.

You are the hidden quantity,
The man on the other side of the canvas,
The word written behind the sky.

You are the breath
that transfers oxygen to the lungs of an awful house cat.

You are the reason
that anybody bothers to finish the book

You are the second wasted retrieving coffee
that allows the stars to escape me.

You are the trauma in my childhood
that will haunt my genetic code.

You are the x
for which I am solving.

You are the hook in a song
that makes all the fans remember it.

You are the ingredient
that is toxic on its own.

You are the remembered name
in a world of forgotten faces.

You are the accidental word
that destroys the context of the sentence.

You are the electric innovation
of which I would never have thought.

You are the designation of a fiasco,
The shadow we recognize,
The boy or the girl. It doesn't matter which.

The greatest poem in the whole wide world
Is all about a boy and a girld.
They love each other very much
And spend the poem kissing and such.

My poem should be about true love and pain
And maybe a scene in the middle with rain.
The girl and the boy might have a brief fight
But be ready to apologize by the morning light.

The words are not especially lyrical.
A college professor would find it hysterical.
But that doesn't matter, and nor does the meter,
Though you don't know what a meter is either.

The rhyme scheme is awful but no one will notice,
The everyday reader just wants it to sound close.
We smart people care so much more about story;
So what if the actual technique's derisory?

No intimate struggles with life and death
Or Shakespearean references that no one would get.
Just make it appealing with predictable rhyme
And too many words which ruin the rhythm of every line.

Write quatrains in sing-song that should have been couplets
And only use subjects that are okay in public.
But remember the rule that is chief above others:
Don't use a word that would frighten your mothers.

If you follow these steps, then you too can be great
And have all your scribblings inscribed upon slates.
The world will declare you a king among men
And the words are pure gold that escape from your pen.

For the greatest **** poem in the whole wide world
Is supposed to be all about a boy and a girld.
And no one suspects or cares if it's garbage
As long as it's the same degrading, puerile drivel we've grown to expect.