After the wolves and before the elms
the bardic order ended in Ireland.

Only a few remained to continue
a dead art in a dying land:

This is a man
on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle.
He has no comfort, no food and no future.
He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by.
His riddles and flatteries will have no reward.
His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid.

Reader of poems, lover of poetry—
in case you thought this was a gentle art
follow this man on a moonless night
to the wretched bed he will have to make:

The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree
and burns in the rain. This is its home,
its last frail shelter. All of it—
Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before—
falters into cadence before he sleeps:
He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it.

Not like these things ever make sense. Makes sense? As if such a thing really matters. The relevance of something and how much it makes sense are both relative. As in doesn't matter. Nothing does. Not me. Not this room. Not the rain or the stars or the way my eyelids can't seem to stay open. Why? Don't ask me. Don't ask anyone. There's no need to ask anymore. Those old questions, will get you to nowhere. But if thats where you're after look no further. Welcome. A word I'd love to hear more often. You never seem to hear anything often enough these days. These days. Whats the use? Where's the appeal? Appeal? Oh I'll give you appeal. I'll show you a girl who gets everything she wants. Thinks she owns the world. And she does. But get this, she cries herself to sleep at night. Fair trade no? Some would say so. You look out those windows and all you see are packed streets filled with the stench of christmas shopping. Put a bullet in my head and paint the walls with my brains. You'd be doing me a favor. The first one anyone's done in a while. When its done I wanna fish away from wife and family and responsibility. Don't tv party too long. You won't be able to turn off the set in the morning. How long does it go? How long did I just spend writing that last sentence. Feels like ages. I'm half asleep. The other hand isn't there a hand unaccounted for. The last one to leave. Always. I leave alone. I go home alone. Even now... You guessed correct. Haunted. Vacant. Lost. I'm drowning. Growing up. But still. Ask yourself what you want. Subtract it. Head is pounding. And I hate to be alone. And I have to be of course. Of course. No. Never. I don't care and I don't care and I don't care. That's another story. A story about a baby who was let go. About yesterday. But sometimes these stories just don't have a happy ending. Sometimes you go from being the hero in your own story, to the villan in everyone else's. But not likely. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe its a terrible terrible tragedy. Sure enough they drive around again. That memories been following me. Burning me inside. The heat will bury us all. They can search all the want. Only I know the way. All gone. Everybody gone. Gone off the deep end. Okay. You never told. I wasn't told. Overrated. Under ground. Last kiss. But I threw it us up. So? No. Sometimes. I caught you like a falling star. The air is warm. The sun is gone. I am not well...

The age demanded that we sing
And cut away our tongue.

The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the ****.

The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.

And in the end the age was handed
The sort of **** that it demanded.

I had to sell the cottage
and lose the gestures
of wind on water,
the names
of flowers and trees.

Time runs out, traffic
snarls, sirens wail. I
stare, confused, frail
as faces dissolve
in fog and mist.
I forget names now
and how to move.

Homage Kenneth Koch

If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my ***** Iran
I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap,
       scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in
       the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparkly
       Cesium out of Love Canal
Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludge
       out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little
       Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie
Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood &
       Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out
       the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
       & put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an
       Aeon till it came out clean

We cannot seem to understand
that one perceives personally with limited scope,
a minuscule allotment, a slippery vision of time.
We believe to hold witness to a great single minded river,
this metaphor is bought wholly
and sold solely to sweeten our short life-
As one word often leads to the next,
a parent sires child
thinking this is the most powerful measurement of truth
we use to falsely foolproof our assurances
and assuage any feeling of being a victim,
eaten by time.
It is a shared dream of the dead man's final words-
they carry weight, meaning and purpose.
Needing to be painfully comprehended and carried self evident.
A literary reflection of our need for death to matter,
to have matter and be of substance is a view of ourselves linearly,
as a line drawn between birth to death
then- maybe
a cathartic eternity.

I'm up at 5 a.m., and it's cold in the basement again despite the new summer heat. I am quiet.
You know, every morning, I choose a face. It doesn't matter which one I choose, it doesn't matter what place I have to go. It only matters that I have to constantly know that I have it on, and that however long I have to wear it, I'll be able to bear it because that is what's required of me.
I say, "This is today's face...the one that everyone will see." "Today's face is funny." or "Today's face is sad." or "Today's face says '*******' to everyone I pass."
Now, about the other day...just the way you said you hate it when I'm quiet.
I should tell you that I love you most when I'm quiet. Even though I know it bothers you, and I know you'll never buy it, It's the truth.
Because, though I've been doing it for a long time, and it's nothing new, putting on these faces often gets old.
So, even though I know it's 5 a.m. and it's cold,  I think I may need to stand up and be bold and demand that you accept me as I am, without any stipulations or a contingency plan, and without any reservations.
I want today's face to be me. I want it to be the face that you see when I am quiet, and at peace. The face you see when I am able to laugh as a child would. The one you see when I smile and kiss you, or when I crack into a good book, or ride a roller coaster.
As you and I get closer and closer I think it's more than fair that we should share who we really are with each other.
As we get to know one another, we become a part of something special that will be good for us both.
So think it out. Even though you have your doubts, you should think about it, and we should try it.
I'm willing if you are, and more than ready...If you can love me when I'm quiet.

FIRST

Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how's for an infantile inventory?
Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here's the phenomenon all complete,
It's got two hands, it's got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.

SECOND

Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.

I am the last minute suitcase shoved full girl
I am the up for anything girl
Most importantly, I am the girl you hurt.
Now my heart is tearing in half like Jesus' bread at the last supper
and there are a thousand conversations going on saying things like,                                      "I can't believe she hasn't completely broken down yet, I would."
But I don't want you back because you left me bruised and broken
But I don't want you to be anyone else's
You never liked the idea of calling each other baby, “it was too possessive” you said
But at this point, every ounce of me is aching to hear you whisper, "I love you."
You were always so shy and I was always the social one
My heart has never felt fuller than when we were us
When I was yours, you were mine, we were us, and us was ours.
I hope you're happy, I really do. I hope your heart is still 60% in love with swimming, and 40% your mom's, because we all know there is no other man that can light up her world quite like you.
I hope you have fun in college, I hope you wake up not regretting anything. I hope breathing, getting out of bed, smiling and laughing is coming a lot easier for you than for me.
I remember the day you walked into my life, you were at swim practice. And so was I.
I don't say we or us anymore because it would force me to become a witness to my own emotions.
Hating you hurts me so much, but talking to you is like talking to the barrel of a loaded gun.
I've had glazed over eyes while looking all around me
Looking for any sort of trace of you,
It's like I am a CSI looking for a killer. I always hoped you would never be that killer but I have been proven wrong so many times I can't turn right any more. Only Left.
You: right-handed, tall, blonde hair, blue-eyed would have been saved by ******; I wouldn't have been so lucky. We used to joke about that.
Maybe I need you, or maybe I just think I do.
This is me dancing across the ocean of my emotions;
This is me dancing in front of you to a broken-hearted love song trying to remind you that I am here.
If I could write you a letter, it would say this:
Dear Love, I am yours, Love, Me.