Wind pounds at
The window

Of the new apartment
My fingers fond the weather app
Patchy fog it says,

And a high of 36.

It is clear I should stay
In bed another hour.

My red plaid pajama pants
Are far too comfy

For the fog.

I stare at the ceiling
In a hotel room
In Duluth.

I wonder if
I will ever have a book
That finds its home
On shelves
At Barnes and Noble.

I wonder if
Former lovers
Will pick it up
Looking for
The poems I wrote

For them.

...

10. I see you across the bar.
I remember that quote about how 10 seconds of insane bravery is all it takes
To make miracles happen.
9. I realize that I've got the quote wrong
And that even insane courage would still leave me
With the wrong words.
8. I take a sip of my Morgan Coke
hoping it can give me the courage to say, "Hello."
It's vanilla notes make me wonder
What your hair smells like.
7. I realize that wondering what your hair smells like is a really strange thing to wonder about a stranger.
6. I think back to the courage sentiment.
My friend finishes telling a joke.
There is laughter.
5.
4.
3. I take another sip of my drink.
The courage hasn't set in yet.
Every love letter I've ever read comes rolling back through my mind.
I begin to wish I was F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I mean - have you seen the way he wrote to Zelda. That's how I want to talk with you.
A romance that roars like 20's.
A romance as obsessive as staring from the dock at a light across the water.
A romance filled with speakeasy passwords to each other's most intimate thoughts.
Our whispers will not be sweet nothings, but sweet somethings.
And when we decide to sing,
Well, I won't have the words to describe that either.
2. I am sitting at the bar.
My friends are still laughing.
I wonder what your laughter sounds like,
And the courage hasn't set in yet.
1.
0.

With the blatant
Guess work
Of a my
First chemistry
Set
The girl
In the denim jacket
Reaches for
Creamers,
And sweeteners,
And sugars.

First one
Then another
And then the first again.

Each time
Tasting her
Iced-coffee
To see
If it is just right.

A child cries in the corner.

Her father tries to console
Her screams.

I laugh to myself
As I wonder if her
Coffee didn't turn out just right.

The girl in the jacket
Is still
Mixing
And tasting.

She has pretty auburn hair.

Across the street,
The railroad crossing
Sign swings down.
Crying out a
Familiar
Ding, ding,
Ding, ding.

A group of graduate
Students
Discuss the complexities of art
Over a yellow pad
And some chai lattes.

"There's more to it than that,"
The oldest one says,
His voice raised as he stands.

I take a sip of my coffee
And look to the counter.
The baristas here
Don't smile on Saturdays.

The cute one makes a mocha,
While the other takes an old man's
Order.

The girl in the denim
Walks toward her seat,
A backpack in hand.

The crossing gate still chimes.
Ding, ding,
Ding, ding.

I debate adding some
sweetener
To my coffee,
But remember
I like it black.

I debate
Discussing the
Complexities of art

But decide I like
it
simple.

The crossing gate
Continues to ring
Ding, ding.

I like it better
Here during
The week, when
The baristas
Remember to
Smile.

I sit at the country bar
Meeting with old friends;
They like to dance
with random women.

The guitar player
begins to play
a set
of songs;
they are all the songs
we used to sing to
in your car.

I take a sip of my beer.
Ryan says
“I love this song.”

I say,

“I used to.”

My eyes drift to the
waitress.
Her eyes catch mine.

She smiles.

I assume this is
because
I tip well.

At the end of the night
she writes
her number on
my receipt.

I fold it and put it in my pocket
and begin to leave.

As the songs
we used to listen to,
fade in the
distance,

I find myself
alone on the street.

It was late one March night after we saw Superman in theaters,
I got home and heard my phone chime with a new email.
It was from my grandma, who had died a few years back.
Maybe it was just a glitch in the system
or maybe
She really did hope to see me around Christmas.

They used to put bells in grave yards,
So the dead wouldn't be trapped if they came back to life.
So they could tell us that they were still here
That they are still here.

We have an obsession with talking to the dead,
Don't we?
Séances, Ghost Adventures, Chris Angel.
We think that they are trying to tell us something.
But what?
"They miss us"?
"It'll be okay"?
"The money is hidden behind the sofa in the den"?

Or is it not that they have something to say,
But that we have something to hear.
They are still here.

Maybe I'll develop an app
For people who have just lost someone.
Their phones will chime at 3 a.m. on Friday morning
With a message saying
"I am still here."
The graveyard shift will light up with a million chimes,
Bells tolling for the living.
The dead saying that they are still here.

And maybe It'll have a button
So we can hit reply.
And it will send a message to the dead
Saying I miss you, and I love you, and your husband isn't holding up great; he misses you too, and the million other things we want to say.

And maybe in the afterlife, the dead have bells,
And at 3:01 in the morning,
A thousand chimes will be heard in the sky,
Bells ringing from living to dead, and back.

A cacophony of "I miss you,"
Orchestrated to the tune of forever,
And sold for 99 cents on iTunes.

In 1963, Ohio State pointed an ear towards the heavens.
They figured if someone had something to say, at least we’d be listening.

I’ll still talk of the stars in your eyes to anyone who happens to ask,
and I’ll speak fondly of your smile and your charm.

My friends don’t ask me anymore.
I’m told to forget, to give up, to not care,
And my poetry falls on deaf ears.

Fourteen years later, we heard our first note.
And for just a minute, it played louder than space,
And it traveled at hydrogen’s tune.

For 24 years we tried just to hear it again;
but our alien song was no more.

Lately, I’ve taking to talking to stars,
hoping that maybe they’ll listen.
I know I don’t broadcast a hydrogen note,
but I’ve heard soundwaves travel forever.

Maybe, someone’s got really good ears,
and maybe they’re listening hard
Because I’d love to sing them a song of the girl,
the girl with the universe eyes.

So, I’m no good at online dating / That is to say I do this to myself / After a couple days of messaging, a woman asks me to write her a poem / I see this as a good thing / We have a 97% match according to the algorithm / And she says she likes the beetles / And I say I don’t like typos / I tell her I will write her a poem / And I won’t give that poem to you because it was for her / I will tell you, it began with dung beetles / I waxed poetic about how they carry **** around for three things: / love / food / and a home. / Of course I don’t know that dung beetles experience romantic love / Or I don't know that / But I do know they stare at the stars / They are the only other animal on this planet we’ve found that does that / I wonder if they — too — get lost in fireflies / There is a place in Tennessee I haven’t  been to yet / but my brother lives close by / and the fireflies there, they synchronize their lights while mating / I compare this to the planets lining up / How people assign such power and luck to small dots in the sky / How people assign luck to the dots on a lady bug’s back / How people assign luck to lady bugs / How lady bugs got their name and are perceived as a religious symbol / So are dung beetles / I’m sorry — they preferred the term scarabs / They used to push the sun across the sky / We used to give such power to such small things / And all they are doing is searching for is: / love / food / and a home. / The poem I send her is filled with Beatles references, too / Because I wanted her to know I actually knew what she was saying / Because all we need is love / Because all I really want to do is hold her hand / Because I'd just seen a face I can't forget / She doesn’t like the joke / Or the poem / Or me / Or I assume / because she never messages back / I still hope she finds those three things / Love / Food / and Home.

Mirrored eyes catch mine,
A smile -- springtime windows try
To light your dark home.

The sunlight draws
Warm light
On your neck
You've turned
In the night
An the covers reveal
Your legs

You breathe
Quiet as
Your ******* push
Against my
Tee shirt

In the light it is
Clear like cellophane

I run my hand
Along your thigh
And along
The grey
Lace
Edge of
Your *******

You look at me with
Those deep
Eyes

We kiss

Your lips are
Soft
And wet
And delicious

Most species of rattlesnakes control
just how much venom
they release into their prey.

The hemotoxin destroys tissue,
clots blood and sometimes
causes a severe paralysis.

A necrosis:
a caused premature death
in its victims.

Now, as far as monsters go.

The rattlesnake is one that scares me
less than the ones I've seen of late.

The rattlesnake offers its victims a chance to run.
Before the venom is released.
Before the deadly bite.

Before the pain
and the paralysis.
There is a rattle.
Tss - tss - tss

A warning for the victim
tss - tss - tss
to run.

The monsters I've seen of late,
they have a rattle, too.
But it serves a different purpose.

tss - tss - tss

It serves to reel, meant
to draw their victim in.

tss - tss - tss

A drum beat.
A dance, a club.
Bodies meet.

tss - tss - tss

A forked tongue, and a flash.  

The venom consumed:
uncontrolled.

And still
tss - tss - tss

The rattle goes on.

The victim sees no danger.
Rather comfort in a monster's smile.

The deadly bite,
it happens next.

And the necrosis,
the premature death,
begins to take hold.

A darkness consumes the conscious.

A paralysis takes to the body and mind.

The victim no longer has control.
No longer herself.

Fear, now is only of the monster --
no longer that of
snakes and clowns.

And nightmares make what memory exists replay.

tss - tss - tss

The darkness consumes again and finally.
And the rattle continues.

I remember the
Morning she
Said "goodbye"
Instead
Of "I love you."
?Looking around
The room
Clothes hung from the side
Of the laundry basket,
Books sat half-finished
On the bookshelf,
Her dresser drawer, empty now,
Was still open.

A chickadee was
Singing outside
And her now vacant spot
On my bed was
A valley of
Forgotten pillows.

The blankets twisted
Like a river
Through it,
She had taken months, to
Find the right patterns
For them.

I glanced to the windowsill
She used to keep her
Hair binders on. There were
Small rings of dust
Around their spot.

I still sleep on
The right side of
And that chickadee
Sings again, every morning.

But the pillows and blankets.
Have lost their form.

Darkness surrounds me,
My left arm holds
My iPhone aloft.
A light shines down on
My face. Its pale face

A light in the darkness.
Beside me is my lover,
She -- worlds away in dreams.

I read the words
From worlds away
On Twitter.
On Facebook.
On Reddit.

Netflix draws me in.

My phone,
With white face
And shrouded in darkness,
Holds her chord,
scythe-like
Across my chest.

Serving to sever my soul
From this life around me.

Merely a psychopomp,
The reaper ushers
Souls into the abyss.

They lose touch with this world.

I lose touch with this world.
My mind is worlds away.

I lose touch with this life.

A gray-haired professor
Once harped on us about our titles.
I was sitting to the left of a cute brunette,
Brita.
We'd ****** the previous night.
And now, we analyzed stories --
Dripping in analogy and pretentiousness.
Our backpacks smelled of coffee,
They got a second-hand kick off the aromas
Of our hangovers and homework,
Completed in the coffee shop just off Harvard St.
I smiled over Janet's essay about a dead lover;
It was called, "Till Death,"
Which was apparently too revealing.
So was Brita's blouse.
My essay was "Black hoodies and blind intersections"
And it tackled grief, fate and the dangers of running at night.
It, too, was too revealing.
Unlike the hoodie it discussed.
I never got the titular lesson,
But figured I was more of a poet anyway.

I am watching TV
on Saturday afternoon,
when
trash
reality television
comes on.

I flip
vacantly
through the channels.

My roommate's dog
begins barking
at dogs on a
commercial about
dog food.

I decide to change
The channel to DOGTV.

The colors are strange,
A dichromatic thing.

But
the music is
relaxing.

The dogs can watch it
So, I can
get to writing
poetry.

My hands find a
pen and
notebook,
and I begin
to write:

"Shopping List:
1. dog food..."

First may I apologize for
The womanizing,
And
The shallowness.

Call me Ismael

I went whaling once.
Not -- on the high seas
But, at Big D’s, Gillys.

I went downtown, and around town
Trying to -- get down.

I needed a Moby to my ****.
So I went searching.
For the meanest, biggest, foulest fish in the sea
And there are plenty of fish in the sea

Trust me

And four or (fourteen) shots of tequila later,
She’d consumed me.
Like, Jonah.
I was inside her.

And the only way I could get out was a smoke
And I quit that **** years ago.

I woke up, my muscles hurt
My head hurt
My heart, still hurt.
I looked over and there she was
Lying naked in the covers
Suddenly, my stomach hurt.

As I hung my head praying to that porcelain god
I thought back to last night, and who’s lips I was kissing
I remembered tasting yours, not hers
I remembered your eyes, not hers
I remembered your touch, not hers
I heaved up, your memory, not hers.

And like that you were gone.
No longer did I pray every time my phone rang
That the phrase would be “1 new text from -- “

I had deleted your name in my phone.
The letters were just too pretty.
I tried changing the fonts,
They looked good in every typeface

Hell, you made Webdings look good.
So I had to tarnish perfection.
I had to delete -- perfection
And I sat there, head in the bowl,
Removing every last bit of -- perfection --
from my stomach. I smiled, broken heart and all
I smiled.

My grandma’s favorite holiday was groundhog day.

I don’t know if she just loved the fanfare of it all;
If she thought it was so trivial and fun;
If Pansawtukee Phil was just too adorable;

Or maybe she was just a fan of Bill Murray?

(Which I mean—who isn’t?)

My grandma always had a knack for everything, not just the weird holidays:

It was continuing to remind me that penguins have knees,
And instilling at least one of her grandchildren with a love of the X-Files that never faded,
(Me again)
And people watching
from the car outside of Byerley’s —
Insisting it was going to be her novel
“Tales from the Parking Lot.”

She also used to tell us that my grandfather had been reincarnated as a cardinal.

And she would tell us,
In the springtime,
He, (or the cardinal,)
Would come visit.

And, my grandma adored talking.

She would tell anyone her life story
Whether they wanted to hear it,

Or not.

This included:  
nurses,
doctors,
a man named David at the Jewelry store,
some of my friends when we were just driving through on a road trip from college and stopped to say, “hello,”

Really, anyone who would listen.

She called it her gift of gab.

And, she was also really into scrapbooking
and creating slideshows of pictures
Simple ways of preserving the memories of loved ones

I don’t quite remember when her memory started slipping
When Alzheimer’s started digging it’s claws into
The facts, the stories...

Even the reality she knew and loved.

I’m sure, looking back, it was slow at first.
Like those first moments when Bill Murray wakes to the song “I Got You Babe,”

Again.

Not quite sure what is happening,
But confused.

The fear doesn’t begin until later,
As the events repeat again and again.

I remember my mother telling me of a moment
Where my grandmother was reliving her
Junior prom.

She lived with us then, and my mom had a baby monitor set up in her mother-in-law suite.

My mom woke to a crash through the baby monitor.
And when she rushed downstairs,
She found my grandma’s robes were laid out all around the room.

My grandma was on the ground,
The TV on top of her.

Her explanation of what happened is she was trying to steal the TV to buy a prettier dress.

In her lucid moments,
We told my grandma this story.

And she laughed
and laughed,
With the same confidence Bill Murray
has later in the film

Having accepted reality,
having accepted this fate.

Reliving days past
Knowing that a future
may never come.

It might be that the reason
She loved groundhog’s day was

The promise that spring is coming,
And with it, the cardinals,
And with it, new life.

The small faced Korean
Man
Paints orange nail polish
My girlfriend's feet
He wears plastic gloves that

Don't fit
Quite

Rightly.

He is missing half a
Finger on
His right hand.

Robb and I talk
Again
Of the orange grove
He will inherit,

We make jokes
That cause the women
Rubbing our feet

To laugh and smile.

My feet begin to lose their
Hard earned callouses.

The soap they use smells
Like oranges.
The three of them

Walk over to a crock-***
To grab warm rocks
Robb asks if it's time

For chili

He had
not finished

His soup at lunchtime
As we talked of
Old stories
Some that left scars
And others
Callouses.

The soup grew cold
But the smiling
reminded me
It is springtime

The waiter grabs
another beer

brining it to
table 24.

They send him for
more
water.

He cusses as he walks
back
and forth

He brings
them
the water
the beer
is

gone.

They send him for
another.

I pour him one.

He brings it to the table.

But not before
asking me
if we plan
on getting ******* tonight.

I tell him:

"Yes. It's Amanda's
birthday.
Everyone is going out."

He brings the table another beer.

The fat man sitting there
laughs.
His laugh is
curdled with
an onset drunkenness.

I pour another beer
for a different waitress.
I am counting
the
clock.

She grabs the beer.
And smiles with
an honest
smile.  

She is new.

Unaware of the
distain
we all
hold tightly.

I pour another beer.
I count the clock.

Until we can
get

*******.

On idle Tuesday nights you coast into the darkness --
the captain of your two-door space cruiser.
Enveloped by the empty North Dakota roads,
among the nothingness and the stars,
you stare beyond the windshield
into the peace and the silence.

Your eyes search the horizon.

Inside your shuttle,
the music dances at volumes
Of 10 or 15 or 25.
The lights flicker.
Your phone vibrates.
It is clinging to its only bar of service
And the messages from a million loved ones back on Earth.

You pay it little attention on these drives.
The stars speak more to you
as you cruise through towns I've never heard of
(And probably won't remember).

I don't know if you know this,
But: I went to Space Camp,
and I've always been a fan of star-gazing,
and cruising past satellites you've probably never heard of.
I've got a penchant for idle Tuesday nights
and adventuring into the stars.

So the next time the stars dial your number,
your steering wheel turns toward Jupiter,
the country music is just a little too loud,
And you wanna leave these streets behind:

I've never been much of a pilot,
But I'll always be there for the ride.

Supine
On the floor
Of an unfinished treehouse

I stare into
The glow
Of a Wednesday
Morning.

My sketch pad
And a few
Unfinished books
Scattered around me
Some are fiction
Others not.

I stare into the
The ever lightening
Sky, searching
For inspiration.

She took that with
Her.

I lost a sense of
What beauty is
When I no
Longer woke to
Her eyes.

Poems and sketches sit
half finished
And I lie half
-- of what I was.

In a world that
Has such a complete
Understanding
Of every
Morning
Breath.