Gilhooley had ordered a meeting
Everyone had to come round
St. Patricks day will be upon us
And a venue just has to be found

We have to find somewhere authentic
Our normal old pub just won't do
We can't celebrate with the punters
Where the beer isn't green, it's dyed blue

Gilhooley awaited suggestions
It had to be somewhere close by
There were all sorts of names on the table
So they decided to give them a try

It needed to be "somewhat old Irish"
with no dee jay, and a folky type band
they had to have red headed women
And a barman, with drinks poured and at hand

The first place they went was McKenna's
It seemed like a great place at first
but the service was slower than treacle
and a man would just die here of thirst

They found one that looked rather Irish
It was known as the new *** of gold
it had a rainbow outside on the awning
this should have been a warning fortold

the next one they tried was a classic
The green and gold tavern....a hit
but, it was booked on the day for a party
and this didn't please them one bit

they finally found one to their liking
full of guineess and pretty colleens
a punjabi bar by the  name of  ben doury's
where everything was curried and green

it was a party that no one remembered
that meant that it must have been good
nobody went to the jailhouse
even though three or four of them should

The beer and the curry were epic
the singing was like nothing we'd heard
a sitar and cymbal based trio
played so loud that nothing was heard

Gilhooley said next year we have to
come back here and do it again
It was the best St. Patty's ever
most of them passed out by ten

The next time you go out to party
call Ben Doury, the place is  spot on
the food and the beer are one colour
with a Punjabi Mumbai Leprachaun

Fleet Foxes are on, doing their melodic folky thing,
And I’m sitting writing here, taking large swings
of fire breathing liquor,
if only to forget her.
       And it’s alright,
       It’s ok.

We kissed on the mouth in the moonlight
during the 11th hour of the
11th day of the
11th month of the
11th year of the
twenty first century,

      And everything was alright,
      Everything was ok.

But now I write letters to you that you will never read,
That I’ll never even again, I may print and burn them
(If I ever feel the need),
But I think I’ll start writing to myself now,
At least I may listen and take heart to what I say,  
Anything at all to keep you and the demons away.

What a madness everything is!
I think so with a wicked smile.
If you’re the *** of the joke and everyone is laughing,
May as well laugh along.
But to tell you the truth,
The punchline,
We’re all in the same sinking life raft.
And the people who know  are considered the crazy,
The mad the suicidal the outcasts
But it’s obvious that they know they are on
A sinking life raft,
Why else would they panic if we shook the boat a little?

        And think of all the ethics, look at religion, philosophy,
I need an atheist Bible *******,
        One surely must exist,
Something nice to get a more concise
idea of this stupid world I’m trapped in,
Because I’m a sucker and I believe in my animal bones that things will get better
even though the evidence is all pointing in the opposite direction,
like how everyone believes that woman will want me,
Even though the evidence is pointing the other way.

      So **** it, I’m heading north,
      Get a job in Alaska and make money
      Even though I’ll have no way to spend it,
      Except maybe on hookahs and ****,
      Ha, what I stupid life that would be.

Isn’t it all rather stupid?
Philosophy is my only constant friend, and it believes
that we build things out of nothing, quantum things,
But I’m starting to believe that as human beings,
We do this to ourselves, we build nothing
out of something,
assuming we don’t blow it up
in the first place.

There is the woman
with reddened lips
her eyes are
little-black-dress-worthy
but the sequins on her jacket say
hello,
a beautiful, inebriated,
cherry-wine scented hello.

That folky
stone faced kid
makes potato-lentil soup
and he could
blow your mind
not because of the soup though,
that part tastes like dirt.

That girl wearing
a collared shirt
and thick dark glasses,
she is the human manifestation
of the other side of your pillow,
and she has no idea.

The ginger kid
understands more about
people than you
ever will,
which is how he was able
to make you shoot wine
out of your nose
that one time.

And the guy with the
scruffy beard
and the microphone
-well, he breaths funny
but the stagnation
in his voice makes
his poetry sound like
really
gentle ***,
every syllable
nibbling
at your inner thighs.  

And while you'r being whispered
into this false sense of security
theres a grumble
seeping
through the floor boards
from the guy in the shadow
with warm honey
in his voice,
and he doesn't pretend
to be free,
like the rest of us.

Everything reminds me of you,
From a stand of aspen trees- the ski trail where I first thought how beautiful you were,
From the light on the leaves- honey colored, like your hair in the evening sun,
From the house we passe by- it looked like yours, Midwest-y and rustic,
From the music- folky and country, like your favorite band (now in my top three),
From the blue sky- the shade of your eyes in candlelight,
From the pop music on the radio- like our prom's music, where you had no fun with me,
From everything, ******* - the air the dogs the water the STILLness of my heart up here, somethign I thought only you could ever give.
Oh what I'd GIVE to knwo you again.

me.gs

So many times in life
Have my eyes deceived
My heart has coerced me the wrong way
Down paths unyielding of self-deprecation
In eyes of pressured sight
concluding the colours of beauty
To be the ones I am told;
Not the ones I actually gape upon
Foreign film now dubbed in unpleasing vocal falsities
No longer subtitled
As music suddenly gleeful overtakes folky routes, now vanish

Where did I go to hide
Suspended space and time, for how long, I know not
Just waiting for someone to say
I will save you

And there you rose
To remind me that olive grey is my favourite
That the gravelly thump of blues can make me shine
That loneliness is never loneliness
When within your heart I stay

On my sweet
How we watch this world through Paris eyes
Two minds wrapped in one another
I never sleep without you
For even in loss you appear in dream.
Wonderful points in which we change
Change in self-awareness
Confidence in portraits we paint each other
Hold me in your thoughts
For with you I cling to love

here is something i would love to tell ten-year-old me:

stop. take a minute. look at your parents. look at how much they love you. sure you are young, but god, Kira, you've always understood deeply. and i know you can understand this.

love them hard. love them outright and outspokenly and through good conversation. love them by being utterly you- but a little less complaining. love them by hiking up that mountain with a smile on your face because they'll be so proud. and their pride is all you want.

but most importantly, you'll have so much less time with him.

at eleven:
go out to the garden he's building, help. or just sit on the deck and talk about your day. talk about how you remember writing the song about Addie. talk about your favorite color and how it brought you and April closer together. talk about how much you love annoying mommy. talk about how one day the boys will be in college and it'll just be you three at home and how you can knock the wall down between your closets and have two rooms. just talk, Kira, talk, and talk and talk.

at twelve:
when he reads your poems, explain. tell him how you agree the pain was partly diffusion. that surely you're so empathetic you took on the sadness. but also it's real. what you feel is valid and explain. tell him sometimes it hurts so much you really don't want to live. but you agree. that it didn't really affect you until she said something. that it really didn't need to affect you at all. cry into his chest and let him hug you. let him solve all the problems you can think of with his presence.

at thirteen:
when he explains his religious views, understand him. ask more questions than you thought you needed. let the conversation go into his childhood and learn about that. experience peace rallies and disappointed parents and how that turned him into an atheist. let those ideas influence you. let his, maybe not award winning but still pretty intelligent, words influence your own thoughts.

and at fourteen:
when he takes your picture, smile. he wants to document your middle school graduation. he wants to see you with the people you've grown up with and stood out from. he wants your walk down the elementary halls to be meaningful because he knows it is. when he calls you beautiful, it's because you are. it's because your his daughter and his muse and his reason for protecting and pushing.

at fifteen:
when he's playing the music, listen. get off your phone. ask him questions. ask him what his first concert was. ask him when and who he went with and what he did. ask him who he first fell in love with. just because you'd like to know what life was like before mommy. just because you'd like to know everything about his life. ask him why he loves the folky songs he does. what it means to him. what a song with a story means to him. when he's playing the music appreciate that his hands work, and his breath isn't fake, and his body can move. ask for a beer so you can have one together.

and then:
when he's in the hospital, tell him you love him. don't cry. don't whimper and pity. don't think about whether or not he's in pain. just speak. just say it all like you should've throughout your life. tell him how grateful you are, how excited for summer you are, how much you love him and love him and love him and love him and how much you hope he knows. when he's looking at the boys in their prom tuxes, say that'll be you in a few years. make everyone groan. do your 'little sister' bit. he smiles at that. make a funny face, kiss his cheek, remind him you love him so so sos ososososos much, say it more even after it becomes cheesy. say it so much it doesn't sound like a real word anymore. say it so much you have to get dragged out of his room. say it for every day of your life, every birthday, every minute, every important event he was there for and everything he has to miss.

just be there. be present. be real, Kira.

our sixth anniversary at Highland Manor Apartments

Subtitled: The perspective of one festive folky fellow
friendliness ofttimes prompts me
when crossing paths with another to say “hello,”
whose demeanor trends toward being mellow
courtesy about eight medications
unaffected whether weather overcast
or sunshine reigning down bright yellow.

Our present habitat digs,
(per this mister and his missus), a psychic boon
dock - located at geographical coordinates,
(circa 1684 folks wove cocoon)
40.2562° North, 75.4638° West,
out of ****** forests log cabins hewn,
still a vestige of Pacific rural life lock,
especially fauna and flora abounds
during month of June.

Across American landscape
usurped from indigenous peoples,
underming storied traditions in cold blood
eponymous namesake affixed
to honor exploits of “European Outsiders”,
co-opted land sinker, liner, and hook
with each constituent treaty a dud
mortgaged to industrialization
contributing to lowlands to flood
comprising one of many complex edifices –

at latitude and longitude not prone to flood
this repurposed elementary school
into affordable housing sans low income good
lee managed by Grosse and Quade,
which facility nestled far from any hood,
gang or  foo fighting beastie boys
lacking manners with actions lewd
thus within the pastoral enclave
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
there prevails a tranquil mood

with concomitant safety,
such that an inhabitant can patter about
(in their apartment) ****
though prudish older occupants
may object, and especially be *****
dish, snapping, popping and moaning
with unsolicited mutterings mostly rude
claiming to lack comprehending the habits
of younger generations 'liberal at tee tude
nonetheless, the sprawling range “Penn's Wood.'”

Eager immigrants brought native  
brought seeds of white lily to transplant
preserving vestigial tidbits
******* quoted in text books
writ from a biased Western European slant
rightfully, the Elysian Fields of lush,
resplendent and transcendent hue Kant
argue against snatched, stolen
and swindled with hollow promises –  
immediately nullified treaty(ies)
relegated inhospitable land extant
with absolutely zero compensation
given, where prevaricated misdeeds
against slandered “red men”
intruders did chant.

Twas plain and simple genocide
whereat spirits of vanquished
“noble savage –  in spare copse hide
to borrow a tagline from
Jean Jacques Rousseau – predating inside
edition (which if fair), would waver
to admit how fore parents lied
and long entrenched perspective
adopted, viz pilgrims and/or puritan pride,
parcelled of acreage courtesy
how average male didst stride
yet this passive quintessential renegade scrivener
senses ghosts of “Indians” swoosh at high tide
unseen immortal souls corporeal essence
long since trampled world wide.