I'm in the current review of
everything right now.
When my lungs have told me enough
already and I taste of foul
consequences that seep into taste buds.

The walls were gushing water,
as they often seemed to do, and
I always lay on my side,
left leg crossed over right.
Nothing irregular.

The tinge, spark, of pain from a
resting avocado, I can feel it in the
tip of my thumb. The right one.
You were supposed to be soft,
and full of the good fats.

I can't look at a cupola without
seeing "SEWN". But I guess that's
just what happens when someone
intercepts your point of view.

I don't believe in reality right now.
The walls littered with literature of
one night's sobbing onto the carbon
copy- Machine out of order
due to ******* and coffee spills.

That wasn't supposed to rhyme and
I'm glad it didn't but the meter of this poem
is to irregular breathing and jostling
doors on hinges influenced by the
pressures of windows opening and closing.

You were a goddess up there. In the
chair that you loved and learned to hate
3 months later. It pulls you down deeper
into your own personal- Help me understand your
A.M. radio beauty.

Was it recorded then, or is he
making it now?

a poem for Ben*

I remember sitting with you in a small
field when the air was sweet and comfortable.
An air that draped itself upon your
skin to shield it from a breeze.
The field, wasn't really a field.
But an inevitably guilty attempt to cover
up the shame of the town's aging lines.
It was adjacent to a bank, and I played
with the crumbling dried up dirt under the
bench that you sat on
I read you a poem here.

You called me confessional.
I don't remember what we were doing there.

It is easiest to lose the time when you can
feel it moving forward, but looking back
has different laws in physics.
Back, then, in the relation to now drags
slowly behind the future. Progression.
For now it is cold and I tread carefully,
through ice glazed parking lots,
but I can remember you in the warmth.
And you can still find me in the snow.

To those who rise at 4 in the morning.
Sin cannot win and faith cannot fail.
For those rising not for the occassion
But for the necessity of being.
This one's for you.

For all the coffee spilled on leather car seats,
And the evidence that the caffeine runs
Differently through your veins.
Because let's face it. You need it.
You were told the youth of Germany
shared your taste in coffee and cigarettes
For breakfast.

Here is to those who have never seen the sun set,
but greet its rise with a forsaken smirk,
as it has lost its luster by now.
You can take a shower later, for that
final fifteen minutes could equate a
winters hibernation at this point.

They say for every step forward, you take
two steps back, but that's hard to believe
When the world is standing still.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

a cough staying lodged between
your tongue and your throat.
screaming outside startles you.
you are used to being alone
with only the faint tapping,
or illusion of tapping,
in your ear, flooded,
by the ceiling fan set to low.

I wish we named every rainstorm.
Hurricanes get everything, but
It's easy to have everything when
All you do is take.

I used to think that falling
Asleep was the same feeling as
Earthquakes shaking the grounds.
Don't get stuck in the chasm.

Washed up memories, shoe box
Chachkis, left untouched through the
Eye of the storm. Who knew these
Relics would follow you here.

Crying as the pouring rain stops
Is impossible.
All of the tears have been taken.

But rippling water is overrated.
Have you ever seen sand slide through
The Sahara Desert.
I've been there. I've seen it.
I watched as each minuscule grain slid
Down the valley ridges built from years
Of wind storms making piles.
Piles idiosyncratically stretched across its reddened face,
Maybe modeled by the smoldering surface of mars.

Lay down and let it wash across your leathered skin.
Sensations spreading, each nerve on every centimeter of you
Lighting up, marquee, competing with the hot desert suns.
A million dandelion spores dancing ballet.
Tip top, tip toes to a tarantella timing.
Buried under dunes, only too soon to
Uncover you once again.

You wouldn't believe how something
Solid can so namelessly float across the land.