the master of the universe
woke up this morning and
looked out the window to
see a reflection of his smile
in the hills, roads, and stars

summer had just begun
and I sat on a lawn chair
breathing in the warm
evening air, smelling
cigarettes, listening to
the power lines crackle
across the street, and
enjoying myself for
what seemed the first
time in months

it took ***** to walk back in there
and say “sorry fellas, but things
just didn’t work out between us
and I seem to have won you guys
in the divorce,” and I did do that,
and they said, “oh, I’m sorry to
hear that” and they really meant
it but later they would ask about
why and how and I would never
tell them because I think they’re
happier without knowing, they’ll
just never know that

it’s the end of summer now and
they’ve stopped asking about her,
maybe they forgotten about her?
probably not but they certainly
know not to ask, so maybe now
I can tell them, because she’s
not going to show up now

life’s looking up and I can laugh
without worrying that I shouldn’t
be laughing, I’m enjoying life
and life seems to be enjoying me
and maybe that’s the lesson here,
that life rewards those who reward
it, those who seize the day, even
if the day is done

I keep writing poems
because I don’t see any
reason not to and I guess
that maybe one day I’ll
start writing good ones
again

it’s not really likely but
it certainly could happen
so why not keep trying?

I feel like I use that logic
far too much now-a-days

I have gone to Zion and
seen the sheep and now
I realize why a starving
wolf dies happier

though not yet ready to take on the world,
I am desperate to attack the rest of my life.

I am
seventeen

smart, strong,
and optimistic

over-brimming with
energy and excitement
and juvenile grit

it is time for the world
to meet the real me

a being of inexplicable good luck
determined to make the best of it

women, men, and children
I introduce to a man not yet
fully realized

but know this:

he will come to you with fire
and the best of you will carry
it on beyond him

how many times had I driven down pleasant hill after dark?
how many times had I sailed through the left turn lane into your neighborhood?
how many times had I squinted past my lights on the road in front of your house?
how many times had I seen the name of your neighborhood on the sign but I still can't remember it now? (did I ever know it?)
how many times had I leaned into that narrow uphill turn?
how many times had I gone fifty in a twenty-five when no-one was around?
how many times had I sped past your house only to turn around in the cul-de-sac just a little ways down the road?
how many times had I parked outside of your house and then knocked on your door?
how many times had I parked outside of your house and just waited?
how many times had I said "hi, how are you?" and listened ever so intently to you?
how many times had I had something to say and ignored you?
how many times had I stopped at QT and gotten a 59 cent soda and some gas?
how many times had I leaned over and kissed you at a stop light?
how many times had I pulled up into my drive way and gotten out with you?
how many times had I brought you to basement and made love to you?
how many times had I brought you down there just to *******?
how many times had I enjoyed that and so did you?
how many times had I laid there with you wondering if things were ok?
how many times had I said I loved you before I knew for sure?
how many times had I walked awkwardly with you upstairs trying to fake like we weren't up to anything? (not anything bad at least. hehe.)
how many times had I sadly driven you home?
how many times had I smiled at you because I really had been happy for once?
how many times had I smiled at you because that's all I could do?
how many times had I driven off without and felt less whole?
how many times had I stopped at QT and gotten a 59 cent soda on my own?
how many times had I thought about how great things finally were?
how many times had I almost believed in god because of you?
how many times had I felt like a fool?
how many times had I regretted all this wasted time?
how many times had I thought the best way was the way out?
how many times had I been right about everything?
how many times had I been wrong?
how many times had I loved you?
and
how many times had I been a fool?

well?
how many?

put a little faith in life
put a little faith in all
the forces that be

obviously
something cares about us
something thinks we deserve
to keep toddling forward

so if you think you've done
something to make these
forces turn against us:

I think you should reconsider
just how long the ****-up we
call human history really is

forty-three dollars
forty-three dollars?
forty-three dollars
*****

she was a woman in every way:

petty, conniving, back-stabbing,
the sort of girl who cared when
somebody wore the same dress,
a person who rants endless and
then complains about those who
voice an opinion, she's had dozens
of men caught in her web (but has
only slept with two of them), she
reveals just enough skin to entice
but never enough to satisfy, she
is smart, she is desirable, and she
thrives on being needed

too many times I'd let myself
get involved with her

she'd spend weeks, winking
and nudging, sending every
signal that this time she was
going to bite back, and that's
why she enjoyed it even more
when she flipped the switch
and went cold forever (at least
until she decided to play with
me again)

she cares if she was the first
to hear that song, it matters
that she doesn't ever really
care, everyone else is worse
than her (in all the ways she
can think of), and time and
time again I've let her get
a hold of me, **** me dry,
and leave me for dead

she's a queen amongst spiders,
a rattlesnake in brazier, god of
hate and deception, ignorant
of her own ignorance, the center
of her own convoluted universe

she's wrong in nearly
every way

but, god,
she turns me on.

how many poems
began with the words
"I am"?

I am good
I am bad
I am misunderstood
I am steadfast
I am strong
I am wonderful
I am my best
I am better than you
I am not better than anyone
I am who I am
they write
over
and
over
again

so few poems tell us
the story of these good
and bad and other-wised
defined people

so often are we concerned
with getting them right we
forget who they really are:

fathers and grocery clerks,
jail-birds, school teachers,
drunks, priests, writers and
critics, hotel owners, bag-
stuffers, and not to mention
all the drivers of automobiles

these people
could all declare
that they are:

good/bad/strong/misunderstood/
steadfast/strong/wonderful/their
best/better than you/not better
than anyone/themselves

but until we see that they are
we have only their word and
centuries of ****** skepticism

he smiled at me
putting his pointer finger
to his lips and
said
"you didn't see
anything"

I smile back,
"what's there to
see?"

"oh,
good."

I waved goodbye
to him and went
on to mop.

the things we learned
staring into each others eyes
after our first time making love
will be more important than
anything found in books

and the things we knew
as you ran away down the road
tears streaming from your face
will be more important than
anything we figured out while
still in love

I am entering
that part of my life
where things
are things
are finally looking
up

not to say
that my challenges
are not greater
than ever

and not to say
I don't recognize
how important
this period
will be

but I am ready for this
I am ready for the schools
and the jobs and the women
and the ****-ups that will
inevitability happen.

I am will tackle them,
foolishly or not,
and, for the first time,
leave an imprint
on this
world.

you can’t say you didn’t see it coming
nothing like that passes away peacefully
the fire was inevitable, and each night
while you slept next to her, you thought
of all the ways things were going bad

you two never talked, she loved you
but did you love her? and did she even
love you? maybe you were just a wallet
to her, once the money ran out so did
her love, how could you even know,
you never really talked to her anymore

so when the news came in and ****
hit the fan, you were not surprised
hurt, yes, you were hurt, but not
surprised, it would a lie and an insult
to say that

it was impossible to feel the pain
like you were supposed to because
you had already felt it, let it go, and
moved on a thousand times before
as you faded into sleep next to her

the pain was a dull poison, one you’d
already been injected with before and
had long since become immune to but
it still made you sick, didn’t it? you still
felt it, but you refused to feel it, because
why should you? you knew this was
coming

so in the months prior, as things returned
to normalcy and life resumed its course,
you began feeling all those feelings you
were supposed to be feeling all those
months ago

it didn’t hit you suddenly, not like a heart
attack or a crushing realization, much more
like a stomach virus or a creeping realization:
there was the vague feeling of sickness and,
then, you were puking, left dying by the toilet
as all this inner turmoil worked its way
out of you

that lasted for a long time didn’t it?
and it felt good didn’t it?

you didn’t see this coming, because you’d
lived with the pain for so long, you no longer
thought there was release from it, you had
long since realized and long since accepted
that the city had burned to the ground and
it was all your fault because you laid in bed
next to her, utterly terrified, incapable of
the strength necessary to save her and you,
and when the first sparked you let it burn
because to you, there was no other way

what you learned with each heave was this:
you ****** you. she ****** up more. get
over it. get on with things. look out that
window there. see that blue sky? see that
white sun? those were going to be yours,
but instead you laid underneath a blue moon
and prayed for a solution to emerge from
the black night, and now it has.

then, like a light-switch,
the world was bright again.

it is late
I get up from my computer
walk down the hall
in my underpants
to the bathroom
get three pills
walk back to my bedroom
get my glass
scratch my ***
under my underpants
go downstairs and fill up
the glass with coke zero
go back upstairs
to my room
take the three pills
lean back in my chair
and suddenly realize
it is late

I smile in the face of oblivion,
excited to have a purpose again.

thirteen dead in Colorado
yeah that’s right
thirteen
or was it twelve?
maybe it was fourteen
have they even caught him yet?
I heard they just “identified” him
oh they did?
good
that’s good
lord what has the world come to?
mad men with shotguns
and semi-automatics
just walking into movie theatres
killing anyone and everyone
what’s the point?
what did those people
even do?

oh well,
you take care ok?
we’ll go see the film
later this weekend

it was unreal and
yet not special at
all

I knew what she clutched in her hands
I knew what she was giving to me

it was simple:
the days tip

just seven dollars

but having it in my hands
changed everything

it made my effort real
it legitimized my existence

I had worked
I had earned something
I had no longer needed to doubt

so I counted it
and I counted it again
and I put in my pocket
and can’t bear to look
at it now

what if it’s not real?
what if I overslept and
dreamt it all?

but reaching into my wallet
I see the seven dollars
nestled there
and
stop my doubting

what a day

I am stretched out my bed
as the fan whirls furiously above me
and the TV people dance
their dance on mute
and the music pours out
of my speakers

this book of poems
is very good

it’s got Bukowski and Ginsberg,
who I already know,
and people with names like
“Jack Grape” and
“Sharon Olds”

(though I have not gotten
to their poems yet)

it's a book all about
the poets who dared
to not be
“poets”

the ones who wrote
about *******
in simple terms
and
wrote about their fights
with their landlords
and their ex-girlfriends

they wrote of drinking
and of hang-overs

of jobs they did not like
and dreams they would never fufill

they described love
as it was
and
not as it should
be

this  is the sort of poetry I write,
or at least, I attempt to write
and laid out on my twin bed
I felt very much one of them

inspired only by the improbability
of my existence

I am
flotsam drifting with the currents,
experiencing each wave
and smiling at the chance
to bask in the sunshine

have you ever even
considered
the
perfection
of the human
skull?

he said to me,
pacing the room
and punctuating each
sentence with his
arms

how many millions
of lives it must of taken
to form the perfect
curve that slopes back
so that rain water
falls easily off
and yet
the well-trained
can balance ten books
for over ten minutes?

have you ever even
thought about
how much
that simple *****
changes from the time
you are born?

he stared at me,
frenzied anger burning
in his eyes

(I was as unsure why
and as he was, I’m sure)

how can you sit there
and call yourself smart
when you have never ever
considered such simple
matters?

intelligence is wasted
on the ambitious

he spat out

they never stop to consider
just how much we’ve already
accomplished

I am driving

from the city
into the city

something is approaching

a hunk of tire
a phone call

too late, impact

I drive slowly, listening
I put down the phone, listening

then it hits me

I look over at him
I look over her

they can’t face me

out of anger
out of shame

I pull off

an unfamiliar place
an unfamiliar place

we are assessing the damages

the bumper is ******
everything is ******

I am waiting

in a gas station
by a restaurant

how bad?

it’ll be okay, he says
it’ll be okay, I say

we start down the road again

scraping
crying

pull off again

we rip off a metal binding
we tear apart our binding

driving, again, in silence

a low buzzing now
a steady sob

I’m sorry

I know, he says
I know, I say

the ride is long

ten hours
the last hours

it’ll be okay

he says
I lie

you can
turn your back
on poetry
but
she will never
turn her back
on you

you cannot hurt her,
she is long beyond
that

no matter how long
you wait

she will welcome you back,
hugging you against her breast,
reminding you there is still
goodness in this world

so stray,
if you must,
go beat the bushes,
try to find a new way to
settle your restless
spirit

but you will not
and you will return
and that first poem
will be as sweet as grape juice
and as intoxicating as wine
and you will wonder how
the two of you ever
found yourself apart

the cracks are showing
the water is trickling out of the dam
how long do you have?
how long does anyone have?
the flood will come
soon enough

there are three
Mexican painters sharing
Chinese take-out
on the back of a Ford truck
as another day comes
to a close
and the city
quietly wakes up
for the
night

listen now
to the thunder striking
the tree that will
fall over
onto
the power lines
that will light the house
on fire

and
listen now
for the emergency vehicles
screaming through the rain
to save the burning house
and fix the broken lines

listen now
to the hopeless,
endless,
struggle of
humanity  
and smile
with
excitement

lean back kid
it’s important to take
these moments in
like a fine wine
taking little sips
and experiencing everything
that it has to offer before
sipping down another
gulp

don’t worry about it
either kid,
it’s important to be
here, experiencing
this

lean back into it kid,
feel the power rumbling
through your veins
don’t get distracted
don’t rush through it
too fast

you’ll never know
the last good time
when you see it

why not
enjoy
an ice-cream sandwich
on a beautiful
afternoon
in a city
by a
bay?

it assaults you with
a barrage of sound

rising up out of silence
it builds greater each
second

each note comes a little faster
each lyric jumps eagerly to its place

the soul of players
the soul of listen
and
the soul of the universe
connect in that moment

no longer individual points
strewn across an infinitesimal space
now threads flowing across
and together across an even
bigger fabric

time and place meld
with each other,
people become one
long, continuous
face talking and
talking and
talking about
the meaning and the
purpose of it all
and never really
coming to a conclusion
but satisfying better
than any drink
or any drug

then the music begins
the break-
down

going from soft,
constant chords
to rapid, shifting
notes

up then up then up
then down quickly
then up again

building gravity
building tension

waiting to fall or snap
waiting to release and unleash
waiting to explode

but it never does

the music keeps getting louder
the tempo keeps getting faster
the beat keeps getting stronger
the song keeps getting bigger

then it falls apart

one instrument fades away
then another, then
another
till
all are gone

except the singular guitar
playing singular notes
trying to fill the empty souls
but they never can
and when that fact becomes
too clear for even the most determined
of players to ignore
the notes begin to slow,
the sound begins to fade,
and in the last few chords
the song barely sputters out
you can almost hear
the frustration
of all this effort
almost saving us
all

she was afraid

so afraid

because everything is
about fear

hate is about fear
love is about fear
jealousy is about fear
fear is about fear

in the days of animals
we were the most fearful
and thus the most
successful

it is one of the many
ironies the universe sticks
in for ***** and giggles

she was afraid because
she saw me slipping

she saw the image
she had a-fixed to me
coming apart at the
seems

so she was afraid,
she was terrified,
that she was losing
me

and she was right

when it comes
to art
I always find myself
gravitating
to the *****,
the make-shift,
and the
simple

art,
I think,
should
be about life
not about
“high”
life

that is why I read Bukowski
and admire street art
and lawn art made of
corrugated metal
and adorn my walls
with miss-matched posters
and write about things
I do instead of about
things that mean
anything

art,
I think,
shouldn’t need
to be explained

so when it comes
to art,
I always find myself
seeming quite pretentious
in an untraditional
way

the way in which a teenager
scorns main-steam music

the way art critics ostracize
their ex-lover’s work

the way I refuse to write sonnets
and write about cereal instead

misunderstood
reinterpreted  
stereo-typed
re-processed
de-sensitized
de-humanized

left to waste on the shelves
of big-box stores for eternity

a skeleton looks
back in the mirror

a toad hopped up
one day to me
and said
nothing
but looked quite
serious and
made it
quite
clear that he
and I were
not that
different

why,
he would not
explain,
but
how we drifted
together,
this toad
and
I,
was quite
clear

sitting there for hours
we said nothing
and did nothing

each of us a stone
in our own ways

then toad got up one day
and left me with my ilk

his message silent
his meaning quite
clear

I gathered up the last
of her today
and
put it in
a box

her dress,
her apron,
her robe,
her jacket

that’s all that’s left of her
that’s what’s left of our
love

the box sits now
watching
sternly sending
me a simple
message

you will face me

you will put an end
to this

and it waits for me
to take that box,
full of what’s
left of
her and I,
and go give
it back
to her

because,
in the end,
all these things belong
to her
and,
in the end,
they must eventually
be returned

so many people,
like ants,
waiting
for god’s
magnifying glass
have made me realize
how lucky I am
to ever have been happy
to ever think I may be
happy again
and
to ever realize
that life
is something
that with a
quick mind
and
little luck
I just
might
be
able
to conquer it
at last

I think I let it go today

there was an agony
living under my skin
and whatever it was
whatever creature
lurked just
beneath
prying at my heart
and devouring my mind
is gone now
and
I hope
will
not return

I think I let the pain go
today

though there was no one moment,
a transformation from sick to well,
I sit with myself and feel somehow:
better

I think I let it go
today

I think tomorrow is a good day
to begin again
and
maybe
I’ll do
just that

riding a rollercoaster
and losing your shoes
in the chasm below

sneaking out to a concert
and meeting your parents
there

trying new food
in a hole-in-the-wall
restaurant

picking up a guitar and
playing till your fingers
hurt

saying hi to the new kid
every day until he isn’t
new anymore

writing poetry about watching cats
or drinking soda or driving at night

watching the end of your favorite movie
and thinking of all the things you want in
the sequel

yelling till your lungs hurt
and crying till it doesn’t hurt
anymore

eating ice cream at
two in the afternoon

watching the sun set on the beach

forgetting about your uncomfortable chair
because the book your reading is just that
good

finding meaning in simple things

shaking somebody’s hand
when you know they’re proud
of you

walking around
in a new pair of
shoes

getting in a fight with a plastered guy
in a tiny theatre because he you couldn’t
hear the actors over his yelling

doing something you should never do
again and again and again

not being happy,
always

finally asking out the girl
you’ve been crazy about
for seven years

doing something stupid and
brave and messing up, big
time

listening to a song
and
feeling your heart soar

eating **** because you
****** up

rising up from pain and agony
and forgetting it, swallowing it
whole and breathing out all the
emotions that boil out

carefully holding your new-borne child

smiling

these are some moments
in a good life, not entirely
my own

may you fill your life with some of these
or fill in these pages with a few moments
of your own

I am sitting
with some good
advice tonight

we’re drinking some nice beer
and he’s trying to tell me something
but the beer is too good
and my mind is too hazy
to get what he means

something about waiting
something about not jumping too soon
something about what’s best
and what’s good doesn’t come easy
and something about me being an idiot
to even chase this in the first place

but the beer’s just too good I guess
and we’ve already drunk so much

I decide I’ll listen to him
another day

tonight I want to drink with him
till my vision goes to zero
crawl into bed in a comfortable haze
and wake up tomorrow slowly

then I will do the thing I want to
the thing this good advice is warning me
against

then I will step forward,
jump to battle,
try my luck

and if my best option
was to not even try it:

I guess I’m just not one for good advice

they looked like mangled
silver dollars

shells split into fifty pieces
arranged as the were
like a blue print
for god to try and
reassemble

there were so many
I didn’t count
but there were many,
many dead turtles
strewn
across the
road
and
as I walked along
I tried to avoid
them
but
sometimes
there were three
or four in a row
and
it was really
hard
to
avoid
them

like life,
life is hard,
hard like a turtle’s shell
cracked into fifty
pieces

a week of pain,
terror,
and fear
has yet to make
me write a
poem

last time,
I couldn’t stop

everything inspired me
everything made me
write

but now,
nothing

I sit here,
uninterested and
unfascinated
with
everything

dealing with the pain fine
and needing no outlet

an island of perfection
in a sea of needless life

I am tired
and must continue
to heal

I’m surprised

I did more
then I thought
I would

I took a hike,
saw a show,
threw a party,
did something bad,
did something for
the last time,
and
certainly thought
of at least fifty
more things to do
once I’m better

I never kissed her though,
which is a shame,
because that I was the one
things I really wanted
to do

guess that’s just the way
the world is, just the way
things are

nothing is perfect,
but then again,
why must it
be?

there is nothing
left except the rain,
the page, and my
hands

still writing
still driving
still searching for the
meaning or the purpose
or the reason or
whatever
it may
be
that finally
saves me from
myself

I have eaten
many strawberries
today

small and
red with
green leaves

they taste sweet
and ****
and remind me
that it is summer time
and that I should
enjoy myself

so I eat another bowl
of strawberries

small and
red and
****

waiting for the feeling
of summer to finally
sweep me away

I get it.

you’re not looking now
or you’re not interested
or maybe you just think
I’m a *****
or maybe I’m too white
or maybe I’m not white enough
or maybe it’s because I don’t have a god
or that I only want in your pants
or that I don’t do drugs
but I do stupid things
or maybe you’re just a *****

I get it,
I get it just fine

I’ll wait and
you’ll wait
and one day you’ll
come around
or maybe you
won’t
maybe I won’t be interested
then anyways
maybe then we won’t care
or we will still care
but in between I’ll get up to bat
and swing and miss and
feel bad and write poems
about it and go to sleep angry
and wake up alright
and walk up to some new lady
and ask if she’s up for a little
fun

I cannot decide
what life
is
about

whether it is about living
or
living in the best way
possible

should I act boldly
or cunningly?

are risk irrelevant
because mere action
is priceless in
itself?

these things I wonder
as I sit alone
after doing something
neither bold
nor
cunning

but it was fun

and that, perhaps,
is what life is all
about

it is late
and
dark
and
the trees are
silhouettes
against
the lightness
of the evening sky
and
as I look up
at the one or two stars
that gleam out
from beyond the human mess
I wonder why
it is taking me so long
to ****

it did not rain today
and that is a surprise
because it rained
the last three days

especially yesterday
it rained really hard yesterday
a really douser
I had to drive in it
and ****
I would never
do that
again

but it did not rain today
and that’s a surprise
but I guess I didn’t have to drive
in it and that’s okay
that’s okay

it was hot today
so the roads were hot
and the air was hot
and all the water
evaporated into dark
stringy clouds
and when it rained
the mist floated up from the road
and my headlights reflected off it
and made the most interesting
shapes in the evening sun
when I went out to buy
groceries for a party
tomorrow

now the clouds bleed light
from bright pink wounds
and the rain is done
and the sun is
done

now we turn the lights off
and drink a nice tea
and read a good book
and turn on the radio to
classical music
with no words and
no point

tomorrow the end is coming,
and what a beautiful last day
it has been.

they’ve been calling
from Kentucky
a lot

maybe it’s because
my uncle is getting a divorce
or maybe
it’s because my dad
just had surgery
and they don’t know
that those aren’t
all that scary
back
in kentucky

I know when I got sick
they called and called
and sent blankets and bears
and when I went to visit
them afterwards they
hugged me very tightly
and seemed surprised
and relieved to see
me

guess we are all limited somehow

but they’re calling and calling
from Kentucky and maybe it’s
because of my uncle or maybe
it’s because of my dad or maybe
it’s because I have another surgery
in a little over a week

but I wish they would stop,
I can’t get any sleep

there are still bits of
her about

a dress in the closet,
an apron in the kitchen,
notes she wrote me
posted on my desk,
a jar of letters,
a karma sutra book,
and not to mention
all the memories

can I exorcise that?
I can throw out the papers
and give back the clothes
but after living here for
so long:
can this place exist
without her?

I sit alone,
unsure of what to do
with these totems,
these idols to a false
god

thunder crackles outside
as it begins to rain

a curved knife lays on the table
as a fire crackles
and the wood-smells
fill our mind

the cold looks into our home
with disinterest

you lay
stretched out in the bed
a woolen blanket wrapped
around your form
and
I cannot see your
face

I see this scene
as clearly as I see these
words flow from my
fingers
but I cannot
see your face

maybe there’s reason
for this

I look at the log walls,
the books stacked on the
book shelf made of raw
timber,
the pattern in your quilt,
your face

but I cannot see it,
I cannot remember it

I wonder constantly
when this picture shall
be complete