the constant*  pounding
as my cleats repeatedly hit the grass
and the lactic acid frees itself

the constant  pounding
of the blood as it rushes
through my spinning head

the constant  pounding
as I see two
of the person in front of me

the constant  pounding
as I push my jelly filled legs
to keep going

the constant  pounding
as I push them even harder
than before

the constant  pounding
of my heaving lungs
as I try to **** in more oxygen

the constant  pounding
of my body
as I fall over the finish line

To my brother

monkeys cartwheel as we dance
letting our frivolous attitudes take us deeper and deeper into this wonderfully dangerous jungle called love.
sometimes you will find love in the most curious of places. 
a bus stop
a coffee shop
in a bar
or at a summer camp.
but once you find it you will know.
it will be like a wave has just hit you and sent you reeling
searching for a place to anchor yourself, but hoping you don’t find one.
it will be like you have let go of the trapeze and as you soar through the air looking for the next bar to grab, you hope there isn’t one, and that you just keep on sailing
past everyone else
but you
and her.
it will feel like you are coming closer and closer to the sun, and all your body is telling you to do is run because you know you might be burned, but another part tells you that there is a mystery there I f you can just get close enough. 
it will feel like getting hit by a train, and then begging the train to hit you again, and again, and again.

But it will also feel like lying in a meadow, staring up as the few clouds drift lazily by. as the sky darkens and the few wispy clouds drift away leaving a view of the terribly frightening and beautiful night sky.
the night sky that is just waiting for you to jump, to sail from this earth. to trust yourself and jump. jump away from all reason and everything you have been taught. to trust the one thing that is able to hold you entirely true. to trust your heart and leap. leap as you have never leaped before, because if you do not, if you don’t put your whole essence into that one leap, you will fall back to earth, and land a broken pile of dreams. broken dreams. all because you didn’t trust your heart. all because you listened to all the people who hadn’t believed in themselves. all the people who had fallen before you. so listen to me. i have jumped, and i haven’t given it my all, but i haven't hit the ground yet, i merely hit the canopy. so now i will climb until i reach the stars. i will make a ladder to the moon, and then from there to the farthest star, until i find it. 
so jump.
jump with all your might
jump until your legs have fallen off.
because its harder to jump when they're broken
hey, the worst that can happen, is that you don’t jump at all,
and remain tied to the earth. 
so fly with me brother.
fly to the stars and back and find that love.
trust your heart now and forever.

Dear woman, lady, girl
Please step on the scale
Record the number
And now know the worth of your character
Look in the mirror to address your moral fiber
Forget your mind and make your tummy tighter;
When you were young you wanted to be a scientist or a fire fighter
But you were taught to be a missionary, a cowgirl,
or to live for *******
And this leave's so many crying because their bodies can't take them any higher
This is what it means to be culturally bankrupt;
We've come to value the cocoon over the butterfly
The shell of the egg over the yolk
The ship over the goods it carries
The body over mind
The vessel over the person

Laugh if you want;
lately my dreams
are all the same:

black and white and silent,
a montage of mute scenes
in which he quietly appears,

a funny little man beset
by brute absurdities, framed
by a toothbrush mustache,

bowler hat, and vagabond suit—
dressed for hapless caricature,
a disheveled angel in disguise.

He forever waddles away from me
down a lane of denuded trees,
jauntily twirling his bamboo cane,

his gray pocket watch stopped—
a cheap prop at the end of a chain.
Watch how the last scene transpires:

I stay in my cushioned seat
expecting house lights to rise.
Alone in the dead theater,

I wait for the live orchestra
to offer an accompaniment,
to set the silver screen on fire.

When I was seventeen
I did a dangerous thing:

Rung by rung, I rose
into forbidden space,
climbing as an insect
would along a slender
blade of wiregrass.

At the top of the tower
I settled into thin stratus.

I took in my home town,
insignificant and benign:
car headlights sliding
on roads to park below
neon drugstore signs,
yellow house windows
and amber streetlights—
whole neighborhoods
stretched out like fields
lit by electric flowers.

I’m sure I saw the glowing
orange tip of the cigarette
my girlfriend was smoking,
rocking herself away from me
on her metal front porch swing.

While I cowered
there in that aerie,
the air reeked of rain,
smoke, and despair.
I remember my heart,
syncopated and suffering;
how it pulsed beneath
a scaffolding of bones—
a buried, burning flare.

When it is done
you will be dead
so let me tell you
what comes next:

The executioner,
a connoisseur of
wine and dread,
returns to his hole
behind the gallows
and uncorks a bottle
of Châteauneuf-du-Pape,
forgetting all about
his heavy black hood,
which he removes
with a hollow laugh
and leaves hanging
by the unlocked door.

He drinks the bottle down
until all that remains
is a another red stain
on the wooden table,
a circle interlocking
other circles—
Venn diagrams
with nothing
but nothing
in common.

Come morning
he’ll cut your body
loose and listen
to your future:
the sound of wind
threading an
empty noose.

So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,

separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.

In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.

It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,

but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.

In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls

the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.

The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid

abstracts.

I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch

and watch the mangled colors—
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stall—

the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.

Where are you?
I don't mean
"where are you in the world?"
That is information that I know,
more or less.
What I really mean is
"where are you for me?"

I know you are in my head.
You don't go away,
but I can never find you.

And I know you are in my heart.
So why does my heart feel so empty?