When I was eight years old,
I overlooked a moment of compassion
And challenged the will of a fellow third grader
Compelled by my ignorance
She gave the most astute summary of my life ever uttered.

When I was eight years old,
A frizzy haired girl asked me an impudent question
A question of infinite importance:
How do you sleep?
How do you sleep at night, since you know yourself?

When I was eight years old, my arrogant mind brimmed with resentment
Reaffirming that I,
I, apart from my arrogance,
Was the best person I knew.

I was eight years old, and a prophet had spoken.

Eight years later,
I long to be swallowed by the sheets
Eyes stare mockingly at the dormant ceiling
Clinging to the handrails
As my train of thought
Careens off the tracks
Exploding in a cloud of terror and regret

Eight years later,
I long for the simple arrogance of my eight year old mind
I long to close my eyes
And remember nothing

Because today,
Today I am sixteen
And tomorrow I will be twenty-four
And the next day I shall be eighty

When I'm eighty,
I'll stare at the bleached walls
Succumbing to the force of the past
As it consumes the present.

When I turn eighty-eight,
I'll look to the end of my starched bed
And He shall smile
Saying, "Well done!"

I hope I lie, when I'm eighty-eight,
Because If I am honest
If I tell the truth
I do not know who he is
And I never have
I will be cast away
because, eighty years before,

When I was eight years old,
I was arrogant
But still innocent
eighty years from death
and eighty years from shame
I could have heeded those words
The words of the frizzy haired girl

When I was eight years old,
I could have decided
I could have had him sing me to sleep
I could have died entirely unlike myself.

Now that I'm sixteen,
I still do nothing.

three of four funerals
gun collection, gun
long narrow boxes in the trunk of my first car

Dad’s dad, Bergen-Belsen, babbling
Dad’s mom, floorboards
Mom’s dad, collectibles
Mom’s mom, alcoholic

obituaries, guns, boxes, garages
adults, guns, St. Peter, Joni

Dad’s dad, lessons, dreams
Dad’s mom, cabbage recipe
Mom’s dad, extra hugs
Mom’s mom, low blows

memories, value, months
A pawn shop good rate
moral boundaries:
kids on the street, no parents

Jake
I loved you
you were my first;
for everything.
I loved you blindly;
obsessively
and it wasn't healthy
like how a moth is drawn to light
their fated demise
i came too close
so i perished into ash

William
you were
the "good guy'
charming with that smile
and doleful eyes
you had everyone bowing at your feet;
everyone but me
i wanted to give you a shot;
really i did
but that was a time when i was
so far lost
like in the midst of a forest
the gas in my car
depleted
i know i hurt you
i knew i couldn't feel all along;
but you were just another
boy
who wanted a place to rest his *****.

Joey
I held a flame for you through the
days of chopped hair
and child-like physique
you only paid attention
when i had grown
into what i was meant to be
i had fun with you-
a summer fling
but when the leaves began to change;
just like them
my feelings blew away

Bradley
what's the point
you were a pompous ***
and I was an equation
you couldn't compute

But Alex
yes Alex
you are the gentle hands that carry
me through the moments
through the seasons
through the changes
your sweet demeanor and faith
never wavering
every morning i hear your songs
and i've forgotten about all the ones
who didn't make it.

she gave up on me you know
five years and three quarters

we used to it around all day
smoking *** and
ignoring phone calls
only leaving the house for candy and cigarettes

but
she'd eventually grown tired of shortened nights
and un-walkable distances

I left my heart somewhere in that house
I imagine it's collecting dust in the closet
next to dried flower bouquets and
old birthday cards

too tired to retrieve it
too drunk to care

I'd rather sit here on this barstool
wasting away what's left

And I saw spectres sway
in smoke and smog,
hazy gray, secretive fog.

And from the wings
of the checkerboard dance floor,
I stood, saw and adored.

And in fine finesse, finish and form,
you tore me up from the dance floor depth
and whispered odes I shall never forget.

*And what fools we were for not saying yes.
I am sorry.

Let Death be spontaneous
as will I

Shakespeare

I am a little boy
drawing the midnight wings of a moth
that I saw in my dreams
on the damp window
of a nomadic van
crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway
1993

Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads
high grass
I am laying with my black lab

Death is a wild animal
birthed in the sands of a desert
that I traveled
****
holding the Bible
holding Hemingway
holding a
sternum of poems
to keep me
weighted from the sky

In a vision
In a vision
As a boy
Crossing the life span of a symphony
Crossing the life span
of a musical note
of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey
from my Camel Wise palm

I am grace
I am Evil
I am the Devil's brother
scribbling war paint
on the bathroom walls of
Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches

Blessed with a passion
Blessed with a vision
Blessed with
the Night
on my back
that slants like the sunrise
that slants like
the eyes of a widow'd mother
of a widow'd goddess
of a widow'd song
of a widow'd night
of a widow'd Boy
stretched out on the Lawn
of a rich man
Who sleeps with silk
and hope

And I
I am a child

Exploring the tiny beauties
of things
that do not happen

I open the swede coffin
of imagination
of foot steps
of Beethoven's finger tips

I climb the roof of Death's condo
of Death's shack
of Death's
Widow'd cat

LifeX70
if you are lucky

Emma
girl with black hair
hair like sleep

On a Violin
On a Piano's back
On a Dog's color blind eyeball

Let Death
be spontaneous

I will wait for him
in my stained sweater
holding a bottle of wine
for the two of us

I know he won't say much
like the pavement

I will offer him a glass

Where does the poet go when he dies
Does Death favor him
Does he let him
become a bird
or a crooked lamp post
that shimmers
that shines
Like Youth once did

Highway child
Nomadic boy

falling in love
listening to the shapes
listening to the wrinkling skin
listening to the story
for ******
in a symphony

Aging night
leaning on my window
I would offer you a cigarette
I would offer you inside

But I know your tricks
I know that the moon
is awake

When does
the poem stop

When the poet stops writing
or when the truth is lost

There is a Cicada following me
like rain on her long hair
as she walks to a river

There are too many books poetry
too many lamps that wont let me sleep
too many poems I have stained
too many nights I have lived
Like a Moth
or a wandering bull through a cities lights

I ask April to stop the rain
I can hear scraps
from the storm
falling into the flower ***
where nothing grows

Let Death be spontaneous
and I will study the rain