On the beach
By the stained shingle cottage
I hold a white seashell
And it sounds like
People clapping in a church
Full of ocean waves
And gulls
11.12.08
A Night to Remember
Women and children first
I loosen my tie and fill drinks for the band
Though the bass player is gone now
He and his slippery old shoes.
These are times that remind me
Of forest paths and other sounds
The sweat of a long walk.
The angles become steeper
And we bid farewell to the drummer
Along with his rolling clatter
Out of sight and returned to his humbleness
And I'm sure
I must look humorous
Smiling in a tuxedo
With a tilted Scotch.
I swirl the ice and then look off into the water
And though I can't hear it
While it froths and gurgles and consumes
The water is dark as eye sockets
And after I collect my coat
I will blink the dryness
From my own eyes
And start the night like so many others.
I loosen my tie and fill drinks for the band
Though the bass player is gone now
He and his slippery old shoes.
These are times that remind me
Of forest paths and other sounds
The sweat of a long walk.
The angles become steeper
And we bid farewell to the drummer
Along with his rolling clatter
Out of sight and returned to his humbleness
And I'm sure
I must look humorous
Smiling in a tuxedo
With a tilted Scotch.
I swirl the ice and then look off into the water
And though I can't hear it
While it froths and gurgles and consumes
The water is dark as eye sockets
And after I collect my coat
I will blink the dryness
From my own eyes
And start the night like so many others.
The Ferry
I am too tired not to believe
The moments of this day pass on like church goers
Like slowly turning pages of the old Book.
I listen to the still winter
And can only hear the low moanings of a ship's hull
In air I imagine is full of sea salt.
The creaking rivets keep not my ship afloat
But they keep me from the water
As I squint into the bright evening.
The moments of this day pass on like church goers
Like slowly turning pages of the old Book.
I listen to the still winter
And can only hear the low moanings of a ship's hull
In air I imagine is full of sea salt.
The creaking rivets keep not my ship afloat
But they keep me from the water
As I squint into the bright evening.
Arc, I’ve the Butterfly Wings on the Wall
I want a bottle of gin
And two soft hands
While I sit in the room full of butterfly wings
I’ve been up and counting
All night
With only my half open eyes, a pen,
And a crumpled yellow paper notebook
That looks like it belongs to a French sailor.
My words could never
Never ever
Never
Be like these once fluttering bright colors
With spots and stripes and poison
Some bright like Easter
And others incandescent
Like gasoline and gold fingers.
This room could use a record player
So many drawers and so much
Lifeless flight
A room so musty but not
A drop of nectar
Not a sight of her.
And two soft hands
While I sit in the room full of butterfly wings
I’ve been up and counting
All night
With only my half open eyes, a pen,
And a crumpled yellow paper notebook
That looks like it belongs to a French sailor.
My words could never
Never ever
Never
Be like these once fluttering bright colors
With spots and stripes and poison
Some bright like Easter
And others incandescent
Like gasoline and gold fingers.
This room could use a record player
So many drawers and so much
Lifeless flight
A room so musty but not
A drop of nectar
Not a sight of her.
1.9.08
Explaining the July Hiatus
There is something you can absolutely not prove
He said to me
And before I could ask
And what is that
He whispered every word to me
He said to me
And before I could ask
And what is that
He whispered every word to me
23.6.08
Taking a Screwdriver to the City of New York
One part vodka and tiny shards of broken glass
Then add both pathetic and preppy class
One part squeezed orange and then some money
You'll have to hold your nose but don't we all honey
tiptoe to the bar
you are the poison ivy
say your eh bee seize
Then add both pathetic and preppy class
One part squeezed orange and then some money
You'll have to hold your nose but don't we all honey
tiptoe to the bar
you are the poison ivy
say your eh bee seize
15.6.08
Scissors, Memories, and Glue
The piano key a note higher
Please please the high-knee cigarette
She's Muslim for the evening
No drinking
But later she'll countdown
I haven't held a pen in my hand
Since it was a cigar
And I was in Tokyo
And I helped you step down from the car
No photographs
Just whiskey hands held higher
And a summer without any shade
You and I will samba step to the quartet
So many strings
A Bossa nova marionette
I miss you
But tonight champagne chandeliers
Please please the high-knee cigarette
She's Muslim for the evening
No drinking
But later she'll countdown
I haven't held a pen in my hand
Since it was a cigar
And I was in Tokyo
And I helped you step down from the car
No photographs
Just whiskey hands held higher
And a summer without any shade
You and I will samba step to the quartet
So many strings
A Bossa nova marionette
I miss you
But tonight champagne chandeliers
8.6.08
Indian Summer
There is an Indian burial ground behind my house
Where the flowers bend and grass is green silent
A place for sun-brewed mint tea and the trees to keep their distance
And my brother preferred to play at the front of the house.
From the porch my mind can only bear the thoughts of rituals for so long
The smeared signs of sacred practice dancing against firelight
Grate like the lawnmower and hidden stones
When there is a break in the reassuring stream of cut blades.
After my family is fast asleep in summer’s humid stick
The yard is mine for eyes and dewy sock-less feet
And the grass comes fast and easy as the drums echoing from a muffled depth,
My hands in the earth, pantheistical and crazed.
I will find the buried hatchets
I will hold them above my head
I will run from the field and into the trees
And beat mud handprints onto my bare chest
And bring war to the shadows of each part of this horror
Where the flowers bend and grass is green silent
A place for sun-brewed mint tea and the trees to keep their distance
And my brother preferred to play at the front of the house.
From the porch my mind can only bear the thoughts of rituals for so long
The smeared signs of sacred practice dancing against firelight
Grate like the lawnmower and hidden stones
When there is a break in the reassuring stream of cut blades.
After my family is fast asleep in summer’s humid stick
The yard is mine for eyes and dewy sock-less feet
And the grass comes fast and easy as the drums echoing from a muffled depth,
My hands in the earth, pantheistical and crazed.
I will find the buried hatchets
I will hold them above my head
I will run from the field and into the trees
And beat mud handprints onto my bare chest
And bring war to the shadows of each part of this horror
18.5.08
Love Sunshine
I saw the sunshine today and it didn't mock me
And for once the earth said hello
And held me and said I love you
And for once the earth said hello
And held me and said I love you
30.4.08
The Shade of Palms
Count the number of broken pilot lights
Times any three of your fingers
Take the digits and make a paste
Add water and raspberries to make paint
Imagine a large white piece of bread
And lines of berry color
Eat the bread
Then feed it to your cat
Make the bread into balls
With bacon
Allow the cat to lick your fingers
Then count how many were
Write that many words in the shade
Stand up
But not too quickly
Allow the blood to rush to your head
Times any three of your fingers
Take the digits and make a paste
Add water and raspberries to make paint
Imagine a large white piece of bread
And lines of berry color
Eat the bread
Then feed it to your cat
Make the bread into balls
With bacon
Allow the cat to lick your fingers
Then count how many were
Write that many words in the shade
Stand up
But not too quickly
Allow the blood to rush to your head
Thomas Crown
Those are the patronizing eyes that speak
As one who knows she’s beautiful,
Short hesitating movements with fingers
Across a starched skirt
But intentional
Like the odds of a horse race.
The queen of Camelot
Might consider,
Sunglasses slid to the tip of her nose,
That the woman was pretty
Like sailboats or Hyannis
Though she would need a cocktail
Before ever revealing herself poetically.
There is jazz to looking at her,
The woman next to Jackie
There is something like olives
In holding this frame.
Setting down a sandwich crust
And trying the last chip
He slips her into his pocket,
Finishing his lunch at the café
He has an appointment to keep
As one who knows she’s beautiful,
Short hesitating movements with fingers
Across a starched skirt
But intentional
Like the odds of a horse race.
The queen of Camelot
Might consider,
Sunglasses slid to the tip of her nose,
That the woman was pretty
Like sailboats or Hyannis
Though she would need a cocktail
Before ever revealing herself poetically.
There is jazz to looking at her,
The woman next to Jackie
There is something like olives
In holding this frame.
Setting down a sandwich crust
And trying the last chip
He slips her into his pocket,
Finishing his lunch at the café
He has an appointment to keep
History
The atmosphere in the courtroom was dingy
Questions, questions
Questions to be asked and questions made of smoke
Hanging like elephants or paper cuts and bookshelves
Or a half-day of work on a Saturday.
Order screamed the judge in English
And this would be a day to line the holocausts up against the wall
To bear witness to a book as it was written
Its author dressed in the densest black
Words words and pen-like movements of the hand
The rest is fate, the rest is wolves and bloody meat
Questions, questions
Questions to be asked and questions made of smoke
Hanging like elephants or paper cuts and bookshelves
Or a half-day of work on a Saturday.
Order screamed the judge in English
And this would be a day to line the holocausts up against the wall
To bear witness to a book as it was written
Its author dressed in the densest black
Words words and pen-like movements of the hand
The rest is fate, the rest is wolves and bloody meat
A Call for Silence
The sky is full of white doves
Enter implied tears
Your experience for experience sake
So sad and white and wonderful
I want you to shut your fucking mouth
Enter implied tears
Your experience for experience sake
So sad and white and wonderful
I want you to shut your fucking mouth
The Sun King
The devil in the backwards of a song
A door framed in red
Like lipstick crimson
And lists of people on lists
Those lines and lines of black static
Marching like bayonets
Shaving razors for the soldiers
Smashed tomatoes and white starched pants
Sunday dress and Tuesday’s mood
When my wife asks for cutlery
And I only have hands to feed her
There will only be enough sweet smiles
To last the honeymoon
Quietly, quietly the birds
A door framed in red
Like lipstick crimson
And lists of people on lists
Those lines and lines of black static
Marching like bayonets
Shaving razors for the soldiers
Smashed tomatoes and white starched pants
Sunday dress and Tuesday’s mood
When my wife asks for cutlery
And I only have hands to feed her
There will only be enough sweet smiles
To last the honeymoon
Quietly, quietly the birds
23.4.08
With the Wind
The sharp tips of tall grass consider her whisper
The soft voice of late daylight while exhausted trees bare their fruit
And their arms filled with a yawn and the breeze
Of a child blowing soap bubbles, floating, sighing, hoping
The trees filled with blood like sap
They lean with the growing blue grey of dusk
Leaning like a row boat touching the line between water and dry
With the leathery faces of dead medicine men
Mouths opening and closing in selfish prayer
Like a porch screen with a broken spring or mouths
Before and after church, but only if it was
Painted with white paint that chips and only one pane
Of stained glass, which should sparkle in the Sunday morning light
Like the water and the tall green and yellow grass
Where dragonflies send loud communications and crickets lay down
To love this summer to love this south
To love their fathers and mothers and birthday cakes and sweat
That you can only get waiting in line for ice cream
Or pulling someone close under Appalachian trees
And between smiling tall grass that laughs like seashells
Like a mother with index to her mouth
“Shhhh”
The soft voice of late daylight while exhausted trees bare their fruit
And their arms filled with a yawn and the breeze
Of a child blowing soap bubbles, floating, sighing, hoping
The trees filled with blood like sap
They lean with the growing blue grey of dusk
Leaning like a row boat touching the line between water and dry
With the leathery faces of dead medicine men
Mouths opening and closing in selfish prayer
Like a porch screen with a broken spring or mouths
Before and after church, but only if it was
Painted with white paint that chips and only one pane
Of stained glass, which should sparkle in the Sunday morning light
Like the water and the tall green and yellow grass
Where dragonflies send loud communications and crickets lay down
To love this summer to love this south
To love their fathers and mothers and birthday cakes and sweat
That you can only get waiting in line for ice cream
Or pulling someone close under Appalachian trees
And between smiling tall grass that laughs like seashells
Like a mother with index to her mouth
“Shhhh”
She Said I Am The One Who Will Dance on The Floor in The Round
We have a 1980’s synthesizer love
Brown-eyed thriller zombies passing diner milkshakes
There are books to tell you what teeth are for
Books to carry home from school
Like tube sock walks and large black sunglasses
We are a tribute to hand holding
Living in one perfect day with no past
And a fluorescent color future
We’ll flirt in glances all through class
And the professor says “Bite marks
Were a sign of peace in this tribe”
Our love defined the lemming craze
And our looks changed with cans of Coke
Like one part fabric softener one part fading black denim
I’ll do one better than the poets
I’ll put her name in concrete
Then guard it with a broken bottle
Our love is dewy grass and a stereo held head high
Yelling “I love you!”
And we’ll smile to moon walks
Telling each other “She thinks I am the one”
Brown-eyed thriller zombies passing diner milkshakes
There are books to tell you what teeth are for
Books to carry home from school
Like tube sock walks and large black sunglasses
We are a tribute to hand holding
Living in one perfect day with no past
And a fluorescent color future
We’ll flirt in glances all through class
And the professor says “Bite marks
Were a sign of peace in this tribe”
Our love defined the lemming craze
And our looks changed with cans of Coke
Like one part fabric softener one part fading black denim
I’ll do one better than the poets
I’ll put her name in concrete
Then guard it with a broken bottle
Our love is dewy grass and a stereo held head high
Yelling “I love you!”
And we’ll smile to moon walks
Telling each other “She thinks I am the one”
19.4.08
Night Cap
In this dream there is a man
In a black suit, white shirt,
And black tie like a detective
But he promises in a deep voice
That he couldn’t even be a spy
If he wanted to.
There is a record player
Like the Sixties
And I sip a cold beer
Whiskey in his eyes like an old man
But the scene is irrelevant as bleach in a black hole
A hand grenade in a flower shop
Only his words, his words
His unshaved Kurtz rattle in a jungle
Made of lime and concrete
Remain on the jazz stricken side
Of my young mind
Lighting a cigarette with each new song
And winking at the well dressed waitress
He always said,
“A new south light and Jack
With a moustache and an erector set—
Just hear me out then
Here me out I’m getting
Away from the point—
It’s Broadway and the curtains part
A life in three acts but the stage is empty
And the playbill and shoeshine boy
Beg you to keep your seats
And silence.
I promise you before the night
Is up the streets and alleyways
Will yawn and spit
Like Champagne in the hands
Of last month’s silver centerfold
Singing happy birthday
Smiling and smiling and trying to smile.
The bubbles make a frame of gold
But not like the Louvre or Met
Just cellophane
And oh her calendar eyes big blue
Just looking at the camera flash bulbs
And mine like Russian space
Search the black between her iris
And I promise you will never
Come out
Like a pilot lost in a dark cloud
But not from rain
Or empty boxes inside others forever
And you’ll realize the water inside you is not alive
Faster than the wind could lift her skirt
Like a blinding light in a subway tunnel.”
In a black suit, white shirt,
And black tie like a detective
But he promises in a deep voice
That he couldn’t even be a spy
If he wanted to.
There is a record player
Like the Sixties
And I sip a cold beer
Whiskey in his eyes like an old man
But the scene is irrelevant as bleach in a black hole
A hand grenade in a flower shop
Only his words, his words
His unshaved Kurtz rattle in a jungle
Made of lime and concrete
Remain on the jazz stricken side
Of my young mind
Lighting a cigarette with each new song
And winking at the well dressed waitress
He always said,
“A new south light and Jack
With a moustache and an erector set—
Just hear me out then
Here me out I’m getting
Away from the point—
It’s Broadway and the curtains part
A life in three acts but the stage is empty
And the playbill and shoeshine boy
Beg you to keep your seats
And silence.
I promise you before the night
Is up the streets and alleyways
Will yawn and spit
Like Champagne in the hands
Of last month’s silver centerfold
Singing happy birthday
Smiling and smiling and trying to smile.
The bubbles make a frame of gold
But not like the Louvre or Met
Just cellophane
And oh her calendar eyes big blue
Just looking at the camera flash bulbs
And mine like Russian space
Search the black between her iris
And I promise you will never
Come out
Like a pilot lost in a dark cloud
But not from rain
Or empty boxes inside others forever
And you’ll realize the water inside you is not alive
Faster than the wind could lift her skirt
Like a blinding light in a subway tunnel.”
With a Mouth Full of Candy
He stands in the mirror
With a mouth full of candy
Like from Easter
And there is one from father
And several from his friends
Colors and shapes melting in his mouth
Which reminds him
Of summer afternoons at the pool
Grass stains in the shape of smiles
An itchy, salty back on return from the beach
When he got to sit in the front leather seat
Of the old Volvo next to Mom
And there was Maggie in the backseat
And a Maggie in the next passing car
With head and tongue out the window in dog’s dream
Colors mixing like sprinkles on ice cream
Like a room with kaleidoscopes as windows
Or a sidewalk painting under a funeral march
Candy from a movie from when he was younger
And leaving the theater shocked by the blinding brightness
Mom unlocks the doors and warm leather seats
The ride home is like popcorn in teeth and perfect forever
He doesn’t look at this in the mirror
But watches the sweating glass next to the sink
Sweating, imagining it going from completely full to half-empty
Deciding to give his sweet tooth a rest
Deciding to race the sun with a chocolate bar
With a mouth full of candy
Like from Easter
And there is one from father
And several from his friends
Colors and shapes melting in his mouth
Which reminds him
Of summer afternoons at the pool
Grass stains in the shape of smiles
An itchy, salty back on return from the beach
When he got to sit in the front leather seat
Of the old Volvo next to Mom
And there was Maggie in the backseat
And a Maggie in the next passing car
With head and tongue out the window in dog’s dream
Colors mixing like sprinkles on ice cream
Like a room with kaleidoscopes as windows
Or a sidewalk painting under a funeral march
Candy from a movie from when he was younger
And leaving the theater shocked by the blinding brightness
Mom unlocks the doors and warm leather seats
The ride home is like popcorn in teeth and perfect forever
He doesn’t look at this in the mirror
But watches the sweating glass next to the sink
Sweating, imagining it going from completely full to half-empty
Deciding to give his sweet tooth a rest
Deciding to race the sun with a chocolate bar
15.4.08
Delicatessen
There are two slices of tomato in my sandwich
Similar but different cuts
Sharing juices and mustard
Pushed together and in full of each other’s insides
The meat is at communion with the lettuce
Like a sea cow and its cud
Little is said
But no words are really needed
The bread is a wonderful metaphor
Which eludes me
And I can feel it smile
Like old wallet pictures
A cold drink completes the countertop
Like a sentry at a wedding
In a time of family war
It drools and yawns like an afternoon spent in company
I open my eyes
And another note has disappeared
From the desk in front of me
The ink is in my blood
The paper gone with heartburn
Similar but different cuts
Sharing juices and mustard
Pushed together and in full of each other’s insides
The meat is at communion with the lettuce
Like a sea cow and its cud
Little is said
But no words are really needed
The bread is a wonderful metaphor
Which eludes me
And I can feel it smile
Like old wallet pictures
A cold drink completes the countertop
Like a sentry at a wedding
In a time of family war
It drools and yawns like an afternoon spent in company
I open my eyes
And another note has disappeared
From the desk in front of me
The ink is in my blood
The paper gone with heartburn
A Deep Breath
My anger is the exit wound
In the backseat of an old car
With more than the usual amount of blood
Slowly dripping down the glass
I am screaming and begging
For them not to kill me
But my winking eyes
Betray my desire for a shattered mind
I am laughing just laughing
But no sound except
Broken teeth and
Happy gurgling gummy blood
My hands are woozy
But they are playing
With the slipperiness
Like finger-painting
The real Andrew
Is sitting with his hands
Folded across his lap
Being told to smile
In a room full of fools
By the kingliest fuck of them all
In the backseat of an old car
With more than the usual amount of blood
Slowly dripping down the glass
I am screaming and begging
For them not to kill me
But my winking eyes
Betray my desire for a shattered mind
I am laughing just laughing
But no sound except
Broken teeth and
Happy gurgling gummy blood
My hands are woozy
But they are playing
With the slipperiness
Like finger-painting
The real Andrew
Is sitting with his hands
Folded across his lap
Being told to smile
In a room full of fools
By the kingliest fuck of them all
5.4.08
The Longer You Stay
Nostalgia is a room just before you enter it
And it is dark outside and somehow you have already
Turned on the lights that are low and leave shadows in the corners
There is a song playing loudly around your arms and in
The veins in your arms which sounds like another time
Though you never knew it
Maybe earlier that day if that day were years ago
Mother would only let you swim after the sunset
And there would be something majestic about hearing nothing
Underwater, seeing the green pool light and thinking about a girl
With chlorine making your eyes red
The one night when dessert came first
And the boats were shifting in the ocean which was darker
Than all the melted chocolate and night mixed on the table
I’m in the nostalgic room right now with my eyes closed
And I am dictating this poem to the shadows that surround me
From time to time the pen stops and I ask what is the matter
Nothing says the darkness
The darkness says nothing and starts writing again
I can remember the desert of the southwest in this moment
I can remember how upset I’ve always been
Like when I read the wall in a the bathroom which said
“Blowjobs here Tuesday and Thursday at eight AM”
And just below those words in another color ink
“Thoughtful political conversation here Wednesday at five thirty PM”
The music that I bought at the small record stores in the southwest was angry
Like the dust of all the Indian ancestors stuck between the spaces of my sock
And the inside of my shoe or when the only word you could think of was “gun”
But that’s because you have tourettes and watched John Wayne movies after
You got your wisdom teeth pulled and couldn’t even call your girlfriend
From the gauze and spit and silly little thoughts
I’m dictating all of this in that room and the other part of me hesitates for a moment
Commenting upon the obvious writers block like communism but without the cay
Which has gone on long enough
Longer than a book but shorter than three abbreviated dusty epics in dead languages
And without colored pictures
Dizzy from the songs in my arms so I past out and went in
“God love him he tried his best” suggests the empty room around me
But I don’t listen because I pray everyday that walls don’t talk
Because then I would have five things more than none to worry about
If I had put a TV in that room
And I had turned it on, I can only be sure of one thing
It would be at that part just before something happens
When people are glancing at each other as the camera cuts here and there
And there are no audible words but just quick movements
Guns held at ready, shirts unbuttoned, slow motion choir hymns
And your heart is beating just as fast as those on screen
And you are scared
You are so scared
And you’re fumbling with the remote trying to change the channel
And just then you think you hear footsteps outside the door
Or maybe the handle turns
Or the sound is coming from just behind you
And there are suddenly a thousand warnings you realize you’ve ignored
And you are scared
You are so scared
You’re afraid that when this music finally reaches its climax
That nostalgia is just the strange misfiring of a dead brain stem
That reminiscing is just an unending sadness
Empty like why oh you
A darkness full with more monsters than the most pleasant memory can sustain
And it is dark outside and somehow you have already
Turned on the lights that are low and leave shadows in the corners
There is a song playing loudly around your arms and in
The veins in your arms which sounds like another time
Though you never knew it
Maybe earlier that day if that day were years ago
Mother would only let you swim after the sunset
And there would be something majestic about hearing nothing
Underwater, seeing the green pool light and thinking about a girl
With chlorine making your eyes red
The one night when dessert came first
And the boats were shifting in the ocean which was darker
Than all the melted chocolate and night mixed on the table
I’m in the nostalgic room right now with my eyes closed
And I am dictating this poem to the shadows that surround me
From time to time the pen stops and I ask what is the matter
Nothing says the darkness
The darkness says nothing and starts writing again
I can remember the desert of the southwest in this moment
I can remember how upset I’ve always been
Like when I read the wall in a the bathroom which said
“Blowjobs here Tuesday and Thursday at eight AM”
And just below those words in another color ink
“Thoughtful political conversation here Wednesday at five thirty PM”
The music that I bought at the small record stores in the southwest was angry
Like the dust of all the Indian ancestors stuck between the spaces of my sock
And the inside of my shoe or when the only word you could think of was “gun”
But that’s because you have tourettes and watched John Wayne movies after
You got your wisdom teeth pulled and couldn’t even call your girlfriend
From the gauze and spit and silly little thoughts
I’m dictating all of this in that room and the other part of me hesitates for a moment
Commenting upon the obvious writers block like communism but without the cay
Which has gone on long enough
Longer than a book but shorter than three abbreviated dusty epics in dead languages
And without colored pictures
Dizzy from the songs in my arms so I past out and went in
“God love him he tried his best” suggests the empty room around me
But I don’t listen because I pray everyday that walls don’t talk
Because then I would have five things more than none to worry about
If I had put a TV in that room
And I had turned it on, I can only be sure of one thing
It would be at that part just before something happens
When people are glancing at each other as the camera cuts here and there
And there are no audible words but just quick movements
Guns held at ready, shirts unbuttoned, slow motion choir hymns
And your heart is beating just as fast as those on screen
And you are scared
You are so scared
And you’re fumbling with the remote trying to change the channel
And just then you think you hear footsteps outside the door
Or maybe the handle turns
Or the sound is coming from just behind you
And there are suddenly a thousand warnings you realize you’ve ignored
And you are scared
You are so scared
You’re afraid that when this music finally reaches its climax
That nostalgia is just the strange misfiring of a dead brain stem
That reminiscing is just an unending sadness
Empty like why oh you
A darkness full with more monsters than the most pleasant memory can sustain
24.3.08
First Poem Written at a Baseball Game
The ice cream man at the baseball game
He's holding it over his head
And he's thinking
Buy this
Buy this because it's not beer
Buy this for your kids
And whether or not people are looking at him
They are aware of his presence
They are aware of something they can never get back
He's holding it over his head
And he's thinking
Buy this
Buy this because it's not beer
Buy this for your kids
And whether or not people are looking at him
They are aware of his presence
They are aware of something they can never get back
Second Poem Written at a Baseball Game
He's sitting there in the second row
Box-scoring
And he thinks there is nothing more beautiful
Than early spring grass stains
And a woman trying to hold three foot-long hot dogs
He's been doing this since before the war
Back when you could smoke in the stands
If he could hear I would want to ask him
Does the clay look the same color
Or was it really black and white
Box-scoring
And he thinks there is nothing more beautiful
Than early spring grass stains
And a woman trying to hold three foot-long hot dogs
He's been doing this since before the war
Back when you could smoke in the stands
If he could hear I would want to ask him
Does the clay look the same color
Or was it really black and white
Third Poem Written at a Baseball Game
On this day in baseball history
Very little happened
The sun sat at a similar angle
Sunburns had already been invented
And the umpires had the same
Chips on their shoulders
A ball was a ball
A strike a strike
And the world was still perfect
For nine innings worth of time
Very little happened
The sun sat at a similar angle
Sunburns had already been invented
And the umpires had the same
Chips on their shoulders
A ball was a ball
A strike a strike
And the world was still perfect
For nine innings worth of time
Fourth Poem Written at a Baseball Game
Sitting in the stands
I fell into a dream
Where the seats were filled with
Formally dressed Japanese women
Cheering for their favorite stars
They did so silently
Waving their hands and nothing else
Trying to smile
Too enthralled to succeed
The players couldn't move
Frozen in a miraculous montage moment
Like Cinderella but better
And all you could hear were
The bright lights buzzing
Go foul
Go foul
Please go foul
I fell into a dream
Where the seats were filled with
Formally dressed Japanese women
Cheering for their favorite stars
They did so silently
Waving their hands and nothing else
Trying to smile
Too enthralled to succeed
The players couldn't move
Frozen in a miraculous montage moment
Like Cinderella but better
And all you could hear were
The bright lights buzzing
Go foul
Go foul
Please go foul
20.3.08
On the Death of Arthur C. Clarke
The first crop circle will make me cry
And I will find it all the more difficult
Now
To believe in what I’ve never been able to see
Let hoaxes be our jokes
And mysteries the sound that wakes us from sleep
I know that you are still in Sri Lanka
That there is a wandering shadow
Is not just a coincidence
And now that I can’t
All I want to tell you
Is that there is a long hallway on the third floor
Where something is hiding in the sickly yellow light
And in my worst dreams
There is a large figure that changes shape
Grabbing at me from the darkness
Since my childhood
And a voice in my closet saying
Hello
Hello
Hello…
And I will find it all the more difficult
Now
To believe in what I’ve never been able to see
Let hoaxes be our jokes
And mysteries the sound that wakes us from sleep
I know that you are still in Sri Lanka
That there is a wandering shadow
Is not just a coincidence
And now that I can’t
All I want to tell you
Is that there is a long hallway on the third floor
Where something is hiding in the sickly yellow light
And in my worst dreams
There is a large figure that changes shape
Grabbing at me from the darkness
Since my childhood
And a voice in my closet saying
Hello
Hello
Hello…
12.3.08
Hypothesis
If the majority of people were exceptional
Then this wouldn’t be a poem
If the self-loathing I felt in large crowds was heat stroke
Then red lights and stops signs wouldn’t be so sure
If I could count the pennies in my pocket
Then I could make a fountain smile wide
If my anxiety was on fire
Then I would contribute to the loss of the rain forest
If the world were on its axis
Then there would be no dust
If there were punches
Then I would either fight or have a sip
If it all were boiled down
Then it would be no bigger than a street
If something ever happened to you
Then I would never be able to forget myself
Then this wouldn’t be a poem
If the self-loathing I felt in large crowds was heat stroke
Then red lights and stops signs wouldn’t be so sure
If I could count the pennies in my pocket
Then I could make a fountain smile wide
If my anxiety was on fire
Then I would contribute to the loss of the rain forest
If the world were on its axis
Then there would be no dust
If there were punches
Then I would either fight or have a sip
If it all were boiled down
Then it would be no bigger than a street
If something ever happened to you
Then I would never be able to forget myself
Birds of Prey
There is an island
Off the coast of a smaller island
And maybe it was once called
In a native tongue
The land where the ocean was created
But now if it were even on a map
It would say
A sad land like so many ice cream truck graveyards
Where whispers go alone
To live amongst the plagues
There is a small box
In the corner of every room that I don’t want to be in
Menacing me with times tables
And yearbook pictures
Were I to catch that box
I would open it slowly
With leather gloves
Making sure my shoes were tied
Making sure it wouldn’t get the better of me
Then I would fill it
With what
Only I know
There is a bird of prey
That I taught how to fly
And he thinks that I’m his father
And he’s flying
Toward the island
With my box
And after he’s dropped it
The box will sit amongst
Shrubs and shadows
And from a distance
There seems to be the faint sound
Of drums
But now I’m feeding
My bird of prey
Pieces of meat
And watching myself
In the reflection of his eye
Off the coast of a smaller island
And maybe it was once called
In a native tongue
The land where the ocean was created
But now if it were even on a map
It would say
A sad land like so many ice cream truck graveyards
Where whispers go alone
To live amongst the plagues
There is a small box
In the corner of every room that I don’t want to be in
Menacing me with times tables
And yearbook pictures
Were I to catch that box
I would open it slowly
With leather gloves
Making sure my shoes were tied
Making sure it wouldn’t get the better of me
Then I would fill it
With what
Only I know
There is a bird of prey
That I taught how to fly
And he thinks that I’m his father
And he’s flying
Toward the island
With my box
And after he’s dropped it
The box will sit amongst
Shrubs and shadows
And from a distance
There seems to be the faint sound
Of drums
But now I’m feeding
My bird of prey
Pieces of meat
And watching myself
In the reflection of his eye
11.3.08
An Utter Lack of Disrespect (or Mary Shelley)
I sat at a bar
Sipping high-balls with Jane Austen
Jane Eyre stumbled out of the
Bathroom
She had visibly been doing cocaine
"I've run out of
Makeup" she said
I suggested that she
And Miss Austen
Kiss
There was no hesitation
Sipping high-balls with Jane Austen
Jane Eyre stumbled out of the
Bathroom
She had visibly been doing cocaine
"I've run out of
Makeup" she said
I suggested that she
And Miss Austen
Kiss
There was no hesitation
5.3.08
Dante II
Milton would say
They nourish the earth
While their souls let fly to Heaven
Though the grass is dead
Where bodies lay blocking the sunlight
And the sky is filled with nothing
Save for clouds and bombs
The first ring of Hell
Is the interior of a cardboard box
Filled with healthy kittens
And unbelievable static electricity
Shiva with his many hands
God with his many misdeeds
And Buddha with his clean-shaven face,
Fine tailored suit and top hat
All sit cross-legged
Awaiting the sunset, absorbing the afternoon glow
Awaiting the dawn
Of the fall of the sun
All with crossed fingers
Awaiting the tax-free holiday
And so it would go
The second ring of Hell
Is in the handle
Of a too-heavy spoon
Which splashes soup and makes a fool
Of both linens and China
Milton would suggest
That the pink unburied flesh
Might, by the plucking of birds,
Be borne onto Heaven
But there is something in the sulfur
The tinge of lead
That fends the flutter
Of even the most ambitious wings
The third ring of Hell
Is the back when looking in a mirror
For unlike the unseen side
Of the moon
The tuxedoed dark side
Is mirthlessly there
And unobserved
The gods drink sake
From brass bells
While John prepares the toast and marmalade
And George notices
The floors need sweeping—
Shiva quickly deals poker
And Buddha’s eyes hide
Behind binoculars
The fourth ring of Hell
Is scarcely larger than a large mouse
Or a small cat
It’s there
And it’s always there
Milton opens his mouth
As if to say something before closing it once again
Buddha hands him a flask
From his breast pocket
And there is no doubt
That the night will be dark as whiskey
And longer than any can imagine
So God tends the coals of the fire
And Shiva’s eyes linger across the expanse
As he tends the smoke screen
The last five rings of Hell
Are fingers
Fingers that don’t know
What they do
And that are slowly counting
Down from five
To three
To none
They nourish the earth
While their souls let fly to Heaven
Though the grass is dead
Where bodies lay blocking the sunlight
And the sky is filled with nothing
Save for clouds and bombs
The first ring of Hell
Is the interior of a cardboard box
Filled with healthy kittens
And unbelievable static electricity
Shiva with his many hands
God with his many misdeeds
And Buddha with his clean-shaven face,
Fine tailored suit and top hat
All sit cross-legged
Awaiting the sunset, absorbing the afternoon glow
Awaiting the dawn
Of the fall of the sun
All with crossed fingers
Awaiting the tax-free holiday
And so it would go
The second ring of Hell
Is in the handle
Of a too-heavy spoon
Which splashes soup and makes a fool
Of both linens and China
Milton would suggest
That the pink unburied flesh
Might, by the plucking of birds,
Be borne onto Heaven
But there is something in the sulfur
The tinge of lead
That fends the flutter
Of even the most ambitious wings
The third ring of Hell
Is the back when looking in a mirror
For unlike the unseen side
Of the moon
The tuxedoed dark side
Is mirthlessly there
And unobserved
The gods drink sake
From brass bells
While John prepares the toast and marmalade
And George notices
The floors need sweeping—
Shiva quickly deals poker
And Buddha’s eyes hide
Behind binoculars
The fourth ring of Hell
Is scarcely larger than a large mouse
Or a small cat
It’s there
And it’s always there
Milton opens his mouth
As if to say something before closing it once again
Buddha hands him a flask
From his breast pocket
And there is no doubt
That the night will be dark as whiskey
And longer than any can imagine
So God tends the coals of the fire
And Shiva’s eyes linger across the expanse
As he tends the smoke screen
The last five rings of Hell
Are fingers
Fingers that don’t know
What they do
And that are slowly counting
Down from five
To three
To none
1.3.08
Dante
People are on fire
Burning to a high degree
And there's music
And all kinds of light
Orange blossoms
Embracing napalms
Hand in hand
Pigs for the slaughter
Kites stuck in trees
Litters of kittens
But this is not a car bomb
No, no
It's a disco inferno
Burning to a high degree
And there's music
And all kinds of light
Orange blossoms
Embracing napalms
Hand in hand
Pigs for the slaughter
Kites stuck in trees
Litters of kittens
But this is not a car bomb
No, no
It's a disco inferno
Six and Nine Make Fifteen Line
Though it is night
Hair on ends toward the sun
A mixture of points
And warmth
Ears connected
To the base of the spine
Breathing like talking
And movement
To cover the eyes
With empty hangers
And a floor made
Of clothes
Cream taken with
Sugar taken
With coffee
Hair on ends toward the sun
A mixture of points
And warmth
Ears connected
To the base of the spine
Breathing like talking
And movement
To cover the eyes
With empty hangers
And a floor made
Of clothes
Cream taken with
Sugar taken
With coffee
Shiva the God of Death
This small infinity
In the slaughter of imagine
And create
As binding as the rack
As salty as a knife
In the slaughter of imagine
And create
As binding as the rack
As salty as a knife
29.2.08
Guilty by Association, Cooperation, and Orchestration
Cigar smoke hangs quietest on back porches in Missouri
In a twilight that can only have blue eyes
While Jesse James cleans his revolver
And smiles wide like an ice cream parlor
Jesse James was present at my birth
Holding me high over his head and hat
I was still covered in blood
When he told my father I was his boy
He told me a man is defined by his first bank robbery
And not by the size of his coffin
He told me when a man kills a woman’s husband
He should send her orchids and not sunflowers
The clerks and patrons are holding their hands over their heads
As if they were holding me on my birthday
And I can think of nothing finer
Than being shot in the head by Jesse James
In a twilight that can only have blue eyes
While Jesse James cleans his revolver
And smiles wide like an ice cream parlor
Jesse James was present at my birth
Holding me high over his head and hat
I was still covered in blood
When he told my father I was his boy
He told me a man is defined by his first bank robbery
And not by the size of his coffin
He told me when a man kills a woman’s husband
He should send her orchids and not sunflowers
The clerks and patrons are holding their hands over their heads
As if they were holding me on my birthday
And I can think of nothing finer
Than being shot in the head by Jesse James
Drywall
Your house has only three hung paintings?
So I was right
There are things alive in your walls
And you think you know the sound of the air conditioning
But they’re crawling and scraping and grinning
By now you can surely note
That the edges of your reality—
Yes stand just like that and look straight ahead
—They are pulling apart like an unfastened tarp
In the North Sea
And between the folds
There is blackness like frostbite
Your eyes don’t deceive you like your mistress
And turning off the lights
Can only make the walls hungrier
Doors have larger eyes than windows
And you’re a better fool than a window
So I was right
There are things alive in your walls
And you think you know the sound of the air conditioning
But they’re crawling and scraping and grinning
By now you can surely note
That the edges of your reality—
Yes stand just like that and look straight ahead
—They are pulling apart like an unfastened tarp
In the North Sea
And between the folds
There is blackness like frostbite
Your eyes don’t deceive you like your mistress
And turning off the lights
Can only make the walls hungrier
Doors have larger eyes than windows
And you’re a better fool than a window
26.2.08
A Canary Cage and Mustard Gas
Once every two months
I have to take a room at a hotel
“Your highest room”
And I carry my own bag
Counting each step in the fire escape stairwell
Every inch away from the ground
And all of it
Every half-inch of all of it
Up on this height in my room
I move toward the large window
And I can’t stop looking
And I can sense that it has followed me here
With the knocking on the door
“House keeping” but it’s a lie
Scraping at my door
My door that I deadbolt in my room in my height
I re-fix myself on the window
Then reassure myself by going through the channels on the TV
And refilling the ice bucket which I put
By the window
Knocking again but this time fainter
While I carefully stack the hotel’s monogrammed stationery
Into my bag
I lean close to the window
To steal a little fresh air
And the trees blur
With the reflection of skyscrapers and my humidity
Suddenly I want to write a poem or
Watch a film or walk
Because now I’m smiling against the glass
In my smile and in this height
What troubles you and I are bloodhounds
And while I may hide quietly in a sidewalk crack
I can feel the weight of others’ feet upon me
And I make many remarks toward the lack of air.
My scent is sweet and distinct
Like a woman behind closed wooden doors
Left behind in every word
Every imprint of my shoe
And it can follow
They can follow in stride.
“Your highest room”
So I can look out the window
While my trail disappears
And my scent begins to fade
Leading them astray to courtesans
Or dinner theaters
And I, now but a whisper of cigarette smoke
To dangle out above the city in our height
And rest inside a warm love
When the buildings sleep as well
I have to take a room at a hotel
“Your highest room”
And I carry my own bag
Counting each step in the fire escape stairwell
Every inch away from the ground
And all of it
Every half-inch of all of it
Up on this height in my room
I move toward the large window
And I can’t stop looking
And I can sense that it has followed me here
With the knocking on the door
“House keeping” but it’s a lie
Scraping at my door
My door that I deadbolt in my room in my height
I re-fix myself on the window
Then reassure myself by going through the channels on the TV
And refilling the ice bucket which I put
By the window
Knocking again but this time fainter
While I carefully stack the hotel’s monogrammed stationery
Into my bag
I lean close to the window
To steal a little fresh air
And the trees blur
With the reflection of skyscrapers and my humidity
Suddenly I want to write a poem or
Watch a film or walk
Because now I’m smiling against the glass
In my smile and in this height
What troubles you and I are bloodhounds
And while I may hide quietly in a sidewalk crack
I can feel the weight of others’ feet upon me
And I make many remarks toward the lack of air.
My scent is sweet and distinct
Like a woman behind closed wooden doors
Left behind in every word
Every imprint of my shoe
And it can follow
They can follow in stride.
“Your highest room”
So I can look out the window
While my trail disappears
And my scent begins to fade
Leading them astray to courtesans
Or dinner theaters
And I, now but a whisper of cigarette smoke
To dangle out above the city in our height
And rest inside a warm love
When the buildings sleep as well
Sur La Table
The day is a well set
Dining room table
Falling off a
Twenty-four-hour-high building
And there is something
Exceedingly curious
In the silence of the silverware
Not unlike
The romances of older women
Who mortgage children
And launder husbands
To pay for half-bottles
Of pinot noir
And stalk like jawless beasts
Through the farmer’s market
And I can sense that
The table cloth is white
Not as an irony
But of bleach
And the salty tears
Of freshly beached whales
Wincing and sputtering
Like a Sunday morning
Without the traces of whiskey
That cling to the eyelashes
Of my better-halves
“Try to imagine that if
There were a slight breeze
Coming from the northeast
There’s a chance
That the glassware
Might not mix
With the potatoes”
Says the tablecloth
Ironically very
Unironically
But while it loses
Itself in the metaphor
Of the potatoes
The tide slowly recedes
On the Thames
And you can’t help but
Imagine how many atoms
Are in your espresso
Or in the girl you loved
Or the other over there
From a distance
I’m sure
It all looks like an angel
Falling from a tall building
And in that day
You’re like the wishbone
Of the falling turkey
Or angel
And all you can imagine
Is what will happen
When the bone hits the
Ground below and breaks
And maybe you’ll get lucky
But the angel lands
Upright
And you’re sure
At one point
It all just got mixed together
Like if you played Pet Sounds
All at once
On different record players
And the volume on seven
Or eight
But when the legs of the table
Hit the ground
I can see a neatly arranged
Dinner for four
And it’s your dining room
The sun has just set
And suddenly as always
You haven’t got a fork.
Dining room table
Falling off a
Twenty-four-hour-high building
And there is something
Exceedingly curious
In the silence of the silverware
Not unlike
The romances of older women
Who mortgage children
And launder husbands
To pay for half-bottles
Of pinot noir
And stalk like jawless beasts
Through the farmer’s market
And I can sense that
The table cloth is white
Not as an irony
But of bleach
And the salty tears
Of freshly beached whales
Wincing and sputtering
Like a Sunday morning
Without the traces of whiskey
That cling to the eyelashes
Of my better-halves
“Try to imagine that if
There were a slight breeze
Coming from the northeast
There’s a chance
That the glassware
Might not mix
With the potatoes”
Says the tablecloth
Ironically very
Unironically
But while it loses
Itself in the metaphor
Of the potatoes
The tide slowly recedes
On the Thames
And you can’t help but
Imagine how many atoms
Are in your espresso
Or in the girl you loved
Or the other over there
From a distance
I’m sure
It all looks like an angel
Falling from a tall building
And in that day
You’re like the wishbone
Of the falling turkey
Or angel
And all you can imagine
Is what will happen
When the bone hits the
Ground below and breaks
And maybe you’ll get lucky
But the angel lands
Upright
And you’re sure
At one point
It all just got mixed together
Like if you played Pet Sounds
All at once
On different record players
And the volume on seven
Or eight
But when the legs of the table
Hit the ground
I can see a neatly arranged
Dinner for four
And it’s your dining room
The sun has just set
And suddenly as always
You haven’t got a fork.
In Memoriam A.S.
I wasn’t there
But I’m sure you wouldn’t describe the hole
In the windshield
Pretty as an openmouthed smile
“When they ran up
They couldn’t find him
He had flown” that far
That far
Maybe in a field
But not like a scarecrow
I wasn’t there
But I wonder if the car stereo
Went on playing
Like the band
As the Titanic slipped back home
I wonder now
If I knew you that well
Because you’ve flown
And yesterday
You smiled
And thought about things
All the same
And maybe you’re a virgin
And maybe we’ve both smoked before
And maybe your mind thought right
And right hand thought left
And maybe some people never cry
Yet you’ve left the world
Aware of its lacking
And I hope the smile amongst the glass
Was there
Because I wasn’t
And you’ve flown
And we can’t find you
And we’ve checked all the nests
In the neighborhood
For your blue egg smile
And we’ll keep looking
Until the sunsets
And our moms call us in
For warm apple pie
And Nat King Cole
But I’m sure you wouldn’t describe the hole
In the windshield
Pretty as an openmouthed smile
“When they ran up
They couldn’t find him
He had flown” that far
That far
Maybe in a field
But not like a scarecrow
I wasn’t there
But I wonder if the car stereo
Went on playing
Like the band
As the Titanic slipped back home
I wonder now
If I knew you that well
Because you’ve flown
And yesterday
You smiled
And thought about things
All the same
And maybe you’re a virgin
And maybe we’ve both smoked before
And maybe your mind thought right
And right hand thought left
And maybe some people never cry
Yet you’ve left the world
Aware of its lacking
And I hope the smile amongst the glass
Was there
Because I wasn’t
And you’ve flown
And we can’t find you
And we’ve checked all the nests
In the neighborhood
For your blue egg smile
And we’ll keep looking
Until the sunsets
And our moms call us in
For warm apple pie
And Nat King Cole
13.2.08
The Vestry
Men burning alive in a church don’t bleed
They burn
The bells ring out slowly, meditatively
Through the cold still air
And you can see the soldiers
Rifles over their shoulders
Worn soles disturbing the fresh snow
Rolling the last of tobacco and lint
From the corners of their pockets
Chapped and bleeding lips
Full of blue exhaling haze
There is no one to kill
As they slowly die
And their lives are a film
Black and white and full of church bells
They burn
The bells ring out slowly, meditatively
Through the cold still air
And you can see the soldiers
Rifles over their shoulders
Worn soles disturbing the fresh snow
Rolling the last of tobacco and lint
From the corners of their pockets
Chapped and bleeding lips
Full of blue exhaling haze
There is no one to kill
As they slowly die
And their lives are a film
Black and white and full of church bells
On the Rusted Gears of an Abandoned Gin
There is a quiet field somewhere
That doesn’t move
Like the city
When I saw it today
And it was all blue
Even the black was
Like the mismatched socks
In my drawer when you did my laundry
Which now we only
Hang one another
Out to dry
And the radio plays the same songs
Something is different
But not with the songs
They rustle the windowpane
And chipped white paint
The field would only have one tree
And in the frozen dusk
The sun already has forgotten
Where it lent its rays
Like the loneliness
Of a bullet leaving a six-shooter
Finding no flesh
To be this alone
Would be to lose the thought
Of my distant field
Or to learn that love
Is an animal carcass
Turned inside out
By the bloody jowls
Of hungry mountain cats
That drip the full sun
In and out of existence
This darkness grows
With their hungry empty stomachs
From the corners of my eyesight
There is everything
In the darkness
That should frighten you
Like nothing
Or if nothing was obliterated
Then dressed in its Sunday best
Given a name
An awkward smile
Then held your hand
That doesn’t move
Like the city
When I saw it today
And it was all blue
Even the black was
Like the mismatched socks
In my drawer when you did my laundry
Which now we only
Hang one another
Out to dry
And the radio plays the same songs
Something is different
But not with the songs
They rustle the windowpane
And chipped white paint
The field would only have one tree
And in the frozen dusk
The sun already has forgotten
Where it lent its rays
Like the loneliness
Of a bullet leaving a six-shooter
Finding no flesh
To be this alone
Would be to lose the thought
Of my distant field
Or to learn that love
Is an animal carcass
Turned inside out
By the bloody jowls
Of hungry mountain cats
That drip the full sun
In and out of existence
This darkness grows
With their hungry empty stomachs
From the corners of my eyesight
There is everything
In the darkness
That should frighten you
Like nothing
Or if nothing was obliterated
Then dressed in its Sunday best
Given a name
An awkward smile
Then held your hand
Were I To Write What She Will Read
The paper folded in such a way
That would make one blush
Or kiss your wet
Wet your red blush
The note, were it a bird,
In your hands
Would be like a wedding
Flower
Purring in your wet
Your hands
Wet from the garden
And roses
Your slightness
In that dress
Or the late nineteen
Thirties
And I’ll play a record
On my new
Country styled gramophone
Let’s dance with folds
Of paper for blinds
And curtains made
Of mustard colored
Sapphires, rubies
In the sky of diamonds
And please, pleasure,
Please kiss me in my
Dreams, wet,
Dream like paper in static violence
Against the love
In your garden
I kiss your
I’ll kiss your
Sweet
Let’s dance to the typewriter
Your shoulder blades
In the candle and light
Is like a note
Read till read
Then red
And love all day
Like so many fancy
Dinner parties
With my eyes closed
Lips to paper
And then
“In my dreams
I kiss your
Cunt.”
“In my dreams I kiss your cunt, your sweet wet cunt. In my thoughts I make love to you all day long.”
-From Atonement, by Ian McEwan
That would make one blush
Or kiss your wet
Wet your red blush
The note, were it a bird,
In your hands
Would be like a wedding
Flower
Purring in your wet
Your hands
Wet from the garden
And roses
Your slightness
In that dress
Or the late nineteen
Thirties
And I’ll play a record
On my new
Country styled gramophone
Let’s dance with folds
Of paper for blinds
And curtains made
Of mustard colored
Sapphires, rubies
In the sky of diamonds
And please, pleasure,
Please kiss me in my
Dreams, wet,
Dream like paper in static violence
Against the love
In your garden
I kiss your
I’ll kiss your
Sweet
Let’s dance to the typewriter
Your shoulder blades
In the candle and light
Is like a note
Read till read
Then red
And love all day
Like so many fancy
Dinner parties
With my eyes closed
Lips to paper
And then
“In my dreams
I kiss your
Cunt.”
“In my dreams I kiss your cunt, your sweet wet cunt. In my thoughts I make love to you all day long.”
-From Atonement, by Ian McEwan
22.1.08
The Sound of Music
There was once a time
When the concern was not
About feelings being hurt
But rather their collecting.
Wordsworth would lead you to his parlor
And with a sweeping gesture
Delight you with all his feelings amassed
In clean glass cases like intricate butterfly wings.
Oil paintings and photographs
Yellowing cracking and fading in your lifetime
But your mother keeps the urns in her closet
Of your first puppy
In which you should dig your nose;
These feelings that smell unfamiliar
But write the secrets of your blood.
Poachers kill feelings;
They write magazines and books.
I do not live in New York
But if you come I will
Take you on a tour of Wordsworth’s feelings
At the Museum of Natural History.
The dog bite display is not so different
From the whiskers and kittens exhibit
As with William’s orange juice
In which extra pulp was added
“And pulp,” he said,
“Is allowing feelings to be hurt,
And the more cushy”
Life becomes the worse
Our bulimia becomes and our girlfriends
Are great first Impressionists with warm smiles
That wrap us up just like the crazy they hide
But I’ll remind you
That all walls, edges, and sharp corners
Are equally padded.
Just before the Precambrian room
I can see his happiness
A pen a pad and some tinsel
“The actual thing is what you see
And not a rear view mirror
Image. If I wanted a replica
I would have left a book
Of poetry or stolen toilet paper”
Read the worn marker
Surely left by him himself.
The rest moves past
Like a storybook in a breeze
As if William were puling you
By the most ironic part
Of your shirt sleeve
Then he stopped
Before you got to the wooly mammoth
And said “let me prick your hand
With my pocket knife”
And
“Yes it will sting but not
Like a bee because you aren’t
That lucky to be getting a natural
Experience for we are
Indoors and they didn’t have
Air conditioning back when I lived
In the Upper East Side”
And
“If you let me prick you
I’ll pay your way
On the Coney Island Ferris wheel”
But he had already done it
And later when I watched
The city lights
He was gone again
Just like he always was
And my hand was bleeding
“Just in the shape of
Orion’s belt on
A Wednesday evening.”
We laughed together
And then stillness that was…
The last thought before my brainstem
Is wishbone broke
Is nothing but a snow filled mountainside
With just the idea of myself and
A breeze that is like third grade November
When I only knew few things so I listened to the breeze.
The snow is cold and with no food for days
My bony ribs could be a pretty girl’s.
I imagine birds chirping and the sun and silence
Are a perfect finish for my display case.
When the concern was not
About feelings being hurt
But rather their collecting.
Wordsworth would lead you to his parlor
And with a sweeping gesture
Delight you with all his feelings amassed
In clean glass cases like intricate butterfly wings.
Oil paintings and photographs
Yellowing cracking and fading in your lifetime
But your mother keeps the urns in her closet
Of your first puppy
In which you should dig your nose;
These feelings that smell unfamiliar
But write the secrets of your blood.
Poachers kill feelings;
They write magazines and books.
I do not live in New York
But if you come I will
Take you on a tour of Wordsworth’s feelings
At the Museum of Natural History.
The dog bite display is not so different
From the whiskers and kittens exhibit
As with William’s orange juice
In which extra pulp was added
“And pulp,” he said,
“Is allowing feelings to be hurt,
And the more cushy”
Life becomes the worse
Our bulimia becomes and our girlfriends
Are great first Impressionists with warm smiles
That wrap us up just like the crazy they hide
But I’ll remind you
That all walls, edges, and sharp corners
Are equally padded.
Just before the Precambrian room
I can see his happiness
A pen a pad and some tinsel
“The actual thing is what you see
And not a rear view mirror
Image. If I wanted a replica
I would have left a book
Of poetry or stolen toilet paper”
Read the worn marker
Surely left by him himself.
The rest moves past
Like a storybook in a breeze
As if William were puling you
By the most ironic part
Of your shirt sleeve
Then he stopped
Before you got to the wooly mammoth
And said “let me prick your hand
With my pocket knife”
And
“Yes it will sting but not
Like a bee because you aren’t
That lucky to be getting a natural
Experience for we are
Indoors and they didn’t have
Air conditioning back when I lived
In the Upper East Side”
And
“If you let me prick you
I’ll pay your way
On the Coney Island Ferris wheel”
But he had already done it
And later when I watched
The city lights
He was gone again
Just like he always was
And my hand was bleeding
“Just in the shape of
Orion’s belt on
A Wednesday evening.”
We laughed together
And then stillness that was…
The last thought before my brainstem
Is wishbone broke
Is nothing but a snow filled mountainside
With just the idea of myself and
A breeze that is like third grade November
When I only knew few things so I listened to the breeze.
The snow is cold and with no food for days
My bony ribs could be a pretty girl’s.
I imagine birds chirping and the sun and silence
Are a perfect finish for my display case.
My Wife
My return to land
See the sails and mast
As the hull hits the sand
And the anchor is cast
I bound to the beach
With my lady on arm
To whom I will teach
Of the Courtier’s charm
What her mirror sees
I’ll short describe
Nor birds or bees
Did not I bribe
To give this love
Whom I adore
Alights this dove
On this warm shore
Let’s start with eyes
That on her face
Give silent sighs
Though stay in place
Yet go around
To spy her hair
And you will astound
By another stare
Two eyes she keeps
On the back of her head
To catch what creeps
Or else be dead
With this four sight
But just one nose
She knows at night
Where lover goes
Her tiny hands
Are somehow sharp
But make demands
She play the harp
The music made
Is of her choice
Though solely swayed
With just her voice
The notes on key
And never flat
She sang to me
And that was that
She had my heart
With time to kill
Though just the start
I fall yet still
Her teeth are white
Like this fine sand
Though none will bite
The feeding hand
These pearly gates
Were diamond cut
Poor breeding mates
The English mutt
At dinner time
She sits and waits
As food sublime
Will fill our plates
But at the bell
To bring the meat
She will not smell
Nor even eat
I ask her if
Her hunger grow
She answers stiff
Someday I know
And then she kiss
My rosy cheek
And just for this
My body weak
At this I grin
Her figure slight
Look just as thin
A fair queen might
Though better yet
Than any royal
And too I bet
She more loyal
With beauty great
Her love is too
My new first mate
And jealous crew
Who point at wings
And call a bird
Though well she sings
I hate their word
For I have found
A better name
That speaks of sound
And beauty same
With whom I share
My secrets all
And whom I dare
A siren call
And you may ask
From where she came
Or ‘twas a task
For you to tame
To this I show
Upon a map
Where I did go
And found her trap
It is an isle
Odysseus went
Within a mile
No time there spent
But there I sail
To lose my life
But I did fail
And found a wife
Our wedding day
The time is set
The first of May
Before the wet
And when it comes
Her eyes I peer
For wed cake crumbs
A hunger clear
See the sails and mast
As the hull hits the sand
And the anchor is cast
I bound to the beach
With my lady on arm
To whom I will teach
Of the Courtier’s charm
What her mirror sees
I’ll short describe
Nor birds or bees
Did not I bribe
To give this love
Whom I adore
Alights this dove
On this warm shore
Let’s start with eyes
That on her face
Give silent sighs
Though stay in place
Yet go around
To spy her hair
And you will astound
By another stare
Two eyes she keeps
On the back of her head
To catch what creeps
Or else be dead
With this four sight
But just one nose
She knows at night
Where lover goes
Her tiny hands
Are somehow sharp
But make demands
She play the harp
The music made
Is of her choice
Though solely swayed
With just her voice
The notes on key
And never flat
She sang to me
And that was that
She had my heart
With time to kill
Though just the start
I fall yet still
Her teeth are white
Like this fine sand
Though none will bite
The feeding hand
These pearly gates
Were diamond cut
Poor breeding mates
The English mutt
At dinner time
She sits and waits
As food sublime
Will fill our plates
But at the bell
To bring the meat
She will not smell
Nor even eat
I ask her if
Her hunger grow
She answers stiff
Someday I know
And then she kiss
My rosy cheek
And just for this
My body weak
At this I grin
Her figure slight
Look just as thin
A fair queen might
Though better yet
Than any royal
And too I bet
She more loyal
With beauty great
Her love is too
My new first mate
And jealous crew
Who point at wings
And call a bird
Though well she sings
I hate their word
For I have found
A better name
That speaks of sound
And beauty same
With whom I share
My secrets all
And whom I dare
A siren call
And you may ask
From where she came
Or ‘twas a task
For you to tame
To this I show
Upon a map
Where I did go
And found her trap
It is an isle
Odysseus went
Within a mile
No time there spent
But there I sail
To lose my life
But I did fail
And found a wife
Our wedding day
The time is set
The first of May
Before the wet
And when it comes
Her eyes I peer
For wed cake crumbs
A hunger clear
My Old Kentucky Home
Christopher Columbus
Killed all the Indians
Before they could pass on
The mountains,
My starving ancestors
Left to a widow of a land
That was no one’s.
Around obvious campfires the chief
Would have explained the dance
The dance with the mountain
His love and mother.
“Men climb mountains
because they feel they are
mountains but their skin
is made of sand and
buzzards will pick out their eyes.
The mountain is a woman
with embracing arms.”
But Papaw couldn’t hear him
And Mamaw could only smoke tobacco
And make apple pies.
John Smith wiped the blood
From his bayonet, the blood
Of the chiefs.
My people married the empty Appalachia
And forewent the first dance
Though they’ve made it work,
Mortgages in place of alimonies
And alcoholic funeral processions.
They borrowed coal
In exchange for their dead
Buried children.
Mamaw’s emphysema is that of the land’s
The warn down and mist exhaling mountains
That wait on the far side of the floor
Staring across waiting for a dance.
River’s will be dammed
And the land of my people
Swallowed by a reservoir
Of all their back porch smiles.
In the blue evening smoke
When the cicadas fall silent
A banjo still rings out
Calling stray dogs home
And the people who made my blood
Roll cigarettes in the fading light.
In this twilight
The chief dances
His shadow stretches longer than the earth
And he moves quick to the beat of a whisper
“There is light in the heir
of this land like the reflection
of a slow river where the mountain lion
takes a steady drink.
Remember every stone turned
on its side creates
another mystery.”
The chief was with the land
When wood met iron
And he would have told
The Spanish Conquistadors
“He will prosper
who lets the dragonfly
close to his stream.”
I stand in what can only be
The ghost of a perfect stillness
That lies in the unmarked graves
Alongside Mamaw and Papaw
Who made it up top
On account of good behavior,
A fair hand with the belt,
And no fear of the pain after death.
“This is gonna to hurt me
more than it’ll hurt you”
Said yellow Mamaw
Before the earth
Gave her the only hug that could hold her.
The holler my grandfather
Walked down as a boy
Is where I sit now
Staring into the green forests
That hide the mountains
And the chief would have told me
That they were the piled
Bones of our ancestors.
I am crying as I extend my hand
To the bluegrass mountains.
My mother is crying.
The mountain is crying.
My grandfather’s blue eyes fill with tears.
Killed all the Indians
Before they could pass on
The mountains,
My starving ancestors
Left to a widow of a land
That was no one’s.
Around obvious campfires the chief
Would have explained the dance
The dance with the mountain
His love and mother.
“Men climb mountains
because they feel they are
mountains but their skin
is made of sand and
buzzards will pick out their eyes.
The mountain is a woman
with embracing arms.”
But Papaw couldn’t hear him
And Mamaw could only smoke tobacco
And make apple pies.
John Smith wiped the blood
From his bayonet, the blood
Of the chiefs.
My people married the empty Appalachia
And forewent the first dance
Though they’ve made it work,
Mortgages in place of alimonies
And alcoholic funeral processions.
They borrowed coal
In exchange for their dead
Buried children.
Mamaw’s emphysema is that of the land’s
The warn down and mist exhaling mountains
That wait on the far side of the floor
Staring across waiting for a dance.
River’s will be dammed
And the land of my people
Swallowed by a reservoir
Of all their back porch smiles.
In the blue evening smoke
When the cicadas fall silent
A banjo still rings out
Calling stray dogs home
And the people who made my blood
Roll cigarettes in the fading light.
In this twilight
The chief dances
His shadow stretches longer than the earth
And he moves quick to the beat of a whisper
“There is light in the heir
of this land like the reflection
of a slow river where the mountain lion
takes a steady drink.
Remember every stone turned
on its side creates
another mystery.”
The chief was with the land
When wood met iron
And he would have told
The Spanish Conquistadors
“He will prosper
who lets the dragonfly
close to his stream.”
I stand in what can only be
The ghost of a perfect stillness
That lies in the unmarked graves
Alongside Mamaw and Papaw
Who made it up top
On account of good behavior,
A fair hand with the belt,
And no fear of the pain after death.
“This is gonna to hurt me
more than it’ll hurt you”
Said yellow Mamaw
Before the earth
Gave her the only hug that could hold her.
The holler my grandfather
Walked down as a boy
Is where I sit now
Staring into the green forests
That hide the mountains
And the chief would have told me
That they were the piled
Bones of our ancestors.
I am crying as I extend my hand
To the bluegrass mountains.
My mother is crying.
The mountain is crying.
My grandfather’s blue eyes fill with tears.
Storming the Beaches of Normandy in the Dining Room
Across the table my wife stirs in her chair just momentarily
Keeping her implied focus on the newsprint
But I can still follow her advance.
She passes the orange juice to the
Cuckold, smiling.
I can see them on the far shore
The sand white like picket fences
And the water boils bellow the surface
Foaming and turning over
The telegram in my hand
Like so many prickly Morse code thorns.
It is not the sound of the guns firing
That makes the heart drop
But that of them winding into place.
Why do I know the taste of the sound of their drums
The bloodiest day that you still managed to smile.
The scenery is emerging like heavy piano chords
Violent strings echoing toward you at the bottom of a well
Where the bride threw the flowers of her wedding day and
I put my silence and rhinestones.
My heart is sinking with the roll of the ship
And the sun is full of blood
Like the mouth of a wolf or a grapefruit
But my veins thick with clicks and stops
Diffusing from the unread pages of the telegram.
I can still see them on the far shore
Why are their teeth so white
In their happy smiles full of pampered knives
Why are their movements so delicate
When the day is so bright and grisly?
“We prepare the cannons” I announce
“No lead left sire, the crew has drowned itself”
Then “fill them with us then!”
In the mirror I can see in my eyes
Where scars were meant to be placed by pretty bayonets
And my bones are turned to jello made of fire.
I’m not going to read this telegram
“Then you’ll be spared”
“So will you sir” but he was
Talking to himself like a sunken ship. I tell myself, not him,
That I’ll stop. But the drums are ceaseless
For a reason and red wasn’t always
My favorite color, but it’s what I see
And the cannons are full and I can feel that
Myself is pulled between a multitude
Of tiny jawless blips on the radar
Each with my name and time of death.
The cuckold grins and gets his coat for work
He walks through the front door of the house
He built, the dog barks and the orange juice is
Fresh squeezed. His mother loves him.
This cuckold walks out the front door.
Keeping her implied focus on the newsprint
But I can still follow her advance.
She passes the orange juice to the
Cuckold, smiling.
I can see them on the far shore
The sand white like picket fences
And the water boils bellow the surface
Foaming and turning over
The telegram in my hand
Like so many prickly Morse code thorns.
It is not the sound of the guns firing
That makes the heart drop
But that of them winding into place.
Why do I know the taste of the sound of their drums
The bloodiest day that you still managed to smile.
The scenery is emerging like heavy piano chords
Violent strings echoing toward you at the bottom of a well
Where the bride threw the flowers of her wedding day and
I put my silence and rhinestones.
My heart is sinking with the roll of the ship
And the sun is full of blood
Like the mouth of a wolf or a grapefruit
But my veins thick with clicks and stops
Diffusing from the unread pages of the telegram.
I can still see them on the far shore
Why are their teeth so white
In their happy smiles full of pampered knives
Why are their movements so delicate
When the day is so bright and grisly?
“We prepare the cannons” I announce
“No lead left sire, the crew has drowned itself”
Then “fill them with us then!”
In the mirror I can see in my eyes
Where scars were meant to be placed by pretty bayonets
And my bones are turned to jello made of fire.
I’m not going to read this telegram
“Then you’ll be spared”
“So will you sir” but he was
Talking to himself like a sunken ship. I tell myself, not him,
That I’ll stop. But the drums are ceaseless
For a reason and red wasn’t always
My favorite color, but it’s what I see
And the cannons are full and I can feel that
Myself is pulled between a multitude
Of tiny jawless blips on the radar
Each with my name and time of death.
The cuckold grins and gets his coat for work
He walks through the front door of the house
He built, the dog barks and the orange juice is
Fresh squeezed. His mother loves him.
This cuckold walks out the front door.
Toin Coss
We would like for him to shadow again
Because he doesn’t recognize
All of his lower case letters
But are we not allowed
To make normative statements
Someone’s whispering, whispering in my shirt sleeve
Around the world, around the world
I’m in a cab in London with Timmy
And he’s the voice but he isn’t
Because I could be dead or waking up
King Lear it’s been a pleasure
Serving you today; tell us about
Batman and octopuses
Come and play football with us!
King Lear how would you like your meat?
Please stop need to stop his shadow
Wildfires are causing the icecaps to melt
And the penguins! “It looks like you’ve
Blown a seal” crude and no
Country for old men. King Lear
And the opera Macbeth in a pub
Performed by drunken women
With an infection of lidocaine
Don’t smoke tea Lear
“I can’t smile” he said
“They all sound the same on the phone she
Wasn’t comfortable with me sleeping
In her bed she always had to drink
Sprite and bacon in the morning” oh my
I can’t smile oh my
Call it
God oh my
Coin toss god
I can’t can’t
Smile can’t have my own parade.
Remember because she lost an arm.
This game’s gone on five hours
Royal football. My bed has no
My head has no sheets. Fetch.
This dog has downs syndrome
And my head has no
I’m going to take a shower
Bath pill sip vacation break my time
“What time is the parade?”
Common slang would be trolleyed—
“I haven’t had a crush since
I was fourteen when I
Could find myself in
The rainbow reflection of the screen
I’m more interested in long term cuddles
Rather than just
A night at a time or in the grass
Oh and it was pouring”—
Maybe you’ve made it too personal
Like writing characters in turbulence
Or phone sex. “Hello” “Yes?”
I can hear those muffled whispers
The shadows of coma my coma.
Why is King Lear still here
Wearing Bob Barker’s face he tells
Me “I can never die the world is round
The world is” mine.
King Lear
She is a musician the other a poet
One good with hands
The other with words
And tongue. We put a duck
Inside our turkey, then we put
A chicken inside the duck
I mean dick and fuck
My bed
Has no sheets. Don’t make eye contact
Please my bed is full
Full and full
Of cupcakes
The whispers are no longer muffled but
Real voices
I burst to the surface of the sea.
King Lear is a play.
Common slang would be psychotic.
Why am I cuddling with the radiator
Around the world, around the world
No alone in my room.
King Lear is only paper
This isn’t a legacy.
I’ll play tug-o-war between
Realities. My priorities are
Now lucid
In focus. Focus.
Steady now.
“Hello?”
“No.” Static.
Dial tone.
“Which side of your personality
Am I speaking with is this
Mean Andrew or happy Andrew?”
King Lear and I are on horseback
Riding into the wildfire sunset
Because he doesn’t recognize
All of his lower case letters
But are we not allowed
To make normative statements
Someone’s whispering, whispering in my shirt sleeve
Around the world, around the world
I’m in a cab in London with Timmy
And he’s the voice but he isn’t
Because I could be dead or waking up
King Lear it’s been a pleasure
Serving you today; tell us about
Batman and octopuses
Come and play football with us!
King Lear how would you like your meat?
Please stop need to stop his shadow
Wildfires are causing the icecaps to melt
And the penguins! “It looks like you’ve
Blown a seal” crude and no
Country for old men. King Lear
And the opera Macbeth in a pub
Performed by drunken women
With an infection of lidocaine
Don’t smoke tea Lear
“I can’t smile” he said
“They all sound the same on the phone she
Wasn’t comfortable with me sleeping
In her bed she always had to drink
Sprite and bacon in the morning” oh my
I can’t smile oh my
Call it
God oh my
Coin toss god
I can’t can’t
Smile can’t have my own parade.
Remember because she lost an arm.
This game’s gone on five hours
Royal football. My bed has no
My head has no sheets. Fetch.
This dog has downs syndrome
And my head has no
I’m going to take a shower
Bath pill sip vacation break my time
“What time is the parade?”
Common slang would be trolleyed—
“I haven’t had a crush since
I was fourteen when I
Could find myself in
The rainbow reflection of the screen
I’m more interested in long term cuddles
Rather than just
A night at a time or in the grass
Oh and it was pouring”—
Maybe you’ve made it too personal
Like writing characters in turbulence
Or phone sex. “Hello” “Yes?”
I can hear those muffled whispers
The shadows of coma my coma.
Why is King Lear still here
Wearing Bob Barker’s face he tells
Me “I can never die the world is round
The world is” mine.
King Lear
She is a musician the other a poet
One good with hands
The other with words
And tongue. We put a duck
Inside our turkey, then we put
A chicken inside the duck
I mean dick and fuck
My bed
Has no sheets. Don’t make eye contact
Please my bed is full
Full and full
Of cupcakes
The whispers are no longer muffled but
Real voices
I burst to the surface of the sea.
King Lear is a play.
Common slang would be psychotic.
Why am I cuddling with the radiator
Around the world, around the world
No alone in my room.
King Lear is only paper
This isn’t a legacy.
I’ll play tug-o-war between
Realities. My priorities are
Now lucid
In focus. Focus.
Steady now.
“Hello?”
“No.” Static.
Dial tone.
“Which side of your personality
Am I speaking with is this
Mean Andrew or happy Andrew?”
King Lear and I are on horseback
Riding into the wildfire sunset
The Founding of Child Psychology
I blame the smallest puppy in the litter
For the worst word in the English language
And I recently broke the prestigious glass
Around “fuck”
And there were little kittens inside.
I found frightened rabbits
In wedding beds
And there were scores of ponies
In the tears of strippers.
A reel of pornographic tape
Is the only forest left
For Bambi and the bears.
I gathered all these little
Creatures into my basket,
All 101 damnations,
And started a pet store.
Christmas, Chanukah, when beach houses are bought
And the little animals
Got into their heads.
Suddenly they are the fish flushed down the toilet.
ADD doesn’t mean one
Plus one but two
Little pills
That have the boogeyman inside.
For the worst word in the English language
And I recently broke the prestigious glass
Around “fuck”
And there were little kittens inside.
I found frightened rabbits
In wedding beds
And there were scores of ponies
In the tears of strippers.
A reel of pornographic tape
Is the only forest left
For Bambi and the bears.
I gathered all these little
Creatures into my basket,
All 101 damnations,
And started a pet store.
Christmas, Chanukah, when beach houses are bought
And the little animals
Got into their heads.
Suddenly they are the fish flushed down the toilet.
ADD doesn’t mean one
Plus one but two
Little pills
That have the boogeyman inside.
Orpheus
The underground is dark and humid
From the wet eyes of lost souls
Flowing past with empty eye sockets
That they fill with chewing gum
And New York accents.
The way is bogged down
By the melting asphalt
Under their feet and shoes and soles.
The city cop and his K-9
Stand guard over the flock
Like the pig next to the hotdog
And I descend the stairs with my own humidity
Fumbling poetry in my hands
Onto this scene of fluorescent mire.
She saw me first
And I felt the cold
Of a skeleton hand, a sacrifice to Anorexia,
Surging like the freeze of a snakebite.
Had she left three years ago
Or only minutes before
Nestled amongst genuine handbags
In Chinatown’s agora?
We begin to celebrate for the finding
Of those lost things
Which should never be found.
She asks for gum
And finds the poetry inside
Which I begin to recite and make
Those first vibrations that are for
Words that I promised her once
That I would make and afterwards
Seal with a kiss.
These are the words that I wrote
As if I were the old man in the subway
With a fishing rod and a dollar
Trying to save save save
Not money not time not green
But something not lost but stolen,
Telling yourself that the only reason
She can’t pick up
Is because she might have lost her arms.
Her eyes and dimples wait for the rhymes
And lyrics and song and harp
While the words amass along
The border of my trembling lips,
Marching in pink ant lines
Saying love like they do.
If I had read ahead
I would have known
That my words were sweet
And her steps would fall
In time with mine.
But don’t look back
Don’t look back.
May the Devil…
Don’t look back.
This being so Hades smiled
But just ever so slightly
As if it were nearly a smirk
Or even a confused frown
That wrought no disasters
No plagues nor fires nor recalls.
Just enough to where
The wallpaper comes undone
Around the edge or when
The glasses aren’t half empty
But just empty.
From the wet eyes of lost souls
Flowing past with empty eye sockets
That they fill with chewing gum
And New York accents.
The way is bogged down
By the melting asphalt
Under their feet and shoes and soles.
The city cop and his K-9
Stand guard over the flock
Like the pig next to the hotdog
And I descend the stairs with my own humidity
Fumbling poetry in my hands
Onto this scene of fluorescent mire.
She saw me first
And I felt the cold
Of a skeleton hand, a sacrifice to Anorexia,
Surging like the freeze of a snakebite.
Had she left three years ago
Or only minutes before
Nestled amongst genuine handbags
In Chinatown’s agora?
We begin to celebrate for the finding
Of those lost things
Which should never be found.
She asks for gum
And finds the poetry inside
Which I begin to recite and make
Those first vibrations that are for
Words that I promised her once
That I would make and afterwards
Seal with a kiss.
These are the words that I wrote
As if I were the old man in the subway
With a fishing rod and a dollar
Trying to save save save
Not money not time not green
But something not lost but stolen,
Telling yourself that the only reason
She can’t pick up
Is because she might have lost her arms.
Her eyes and dimples wait for the rhymes
And lyrics and song and harp
While the words amass along
The border of my trembling lips,
Marching in pink ant lines
Saying love like they do.
If I had read ahead
I would have known
That my words were sweet
And her steps would fall
In time with mine.
But don’t look back
Don’t look back.
May the Devil…
Don’t look back.
This being so Hades smiled
But just ever so slightly
As if it were nearly a smirk
Or even a confused frown
That wrought no disasters
No plagues nor fires nor recalls.
Just enough to where
The wallpaper comes undone
Around the edge or when
The glasses aren’t half empty
But just empty.
Low Light
The sun is thrifty on cold winter days
Moving so quickly
The day becomes a sunset.
Dark creeps between the alley cats
And in trees where the sunlight slowly dies
But though the sun leaves our city a cuckold
Pieces of the day are caught like fireflies
In the eyes of a girl and the cigarette
She only smokes when she drinks.
The light is held in the corners of the room
And shuffles quietly past lovers
Who have yet to share
Details that are shadows
Which only whiskey can reveal.
The room is jumping in candlelight
Against the walls like a seasick canvas
And I imagine the low light
And its large belly which swallows
All else in sight
Except her subtle eyes
That cannot blink.
My imagination thrives in such dimness
As if I were asleep.
We are invisible in this low light
We are in love
Let this day never die
Nor wake.
Moving so quickly
The day becomes a sunset.
Dark creeps between the alley cats
And in trees where the sunlight slowly dies
But though the sun leaves our city a cuckold
Pieces of the day are caught like fireflies
In the eyes of a girl and the cigarette
She only smokes when she drinks.
The light is held in the corners of the room
And shuffles quietly past lovers
Who have yet to share
Details that are shadows
Which only whiskey can reveal.
The room is jumping in candlelight
Against the walls like a seasick canvas
And I imagine the low light
And its large belly which swallows
All else in sight
Except her subtle eyes
That cannot blink.
My imagination thrives in such dimness
As if I were asleep.
We are invisible in this low light
We are in love
Let this day never die
Nor wake.
Your Mother Always Told You Not To Take The Last One
There is far more anxiety in the last time
This last one
Than in any of the fourteen virgins in heaven
Who by now are bored and thirsty
With lips as dry as stone.
The first is clearly marked on the map
Go three miles turn left
At the gas station
Then sigh and check the time
And it’s the first.
The mind can only remember
The first and the last
This one is important
Not like your driver’s test
More like your wedding pictures.
It’s not going to hurt
And the risk is to follow the well-worn path
Your age relies on muscle memory
And there is no creativity in a jungle
When there is no need for a machete.
In a world based on first impressions
Who’s there to help the florist
Clean the ruined stalks and scattered petals
May the last impression
Be the reflowering.
He takes a breath
Then sips the cup of coffee
He
Then sits the cup of coffee.
This last one
Than in any of the fourteen virgins in heaven
Who by now are bored and thirsty
With lips as dry as stone.
The first is clearly marked on the map
Go three miles turn left
At the gas station
Then sigh and check the time
And it’s the first.
The mind can only remember
The first and the last
This one is important
Not like your driver’s test
More like your wedding pictures.
It’s not going to hurt
And the risk is to follow the well-worn path
Your age relies on muscle memory
And there is no creativity in a jungle
When there is no need for a machete.
In a world based on first impressions
Who’s there to help the florist
Clean the ruined stalks and scattered petals
May the last impression
Be the reflowering.
He takes a breath
Then sips the cup of coffee
He
Then sits the cup of coffee.
I Swear I Don’t Obsess About This
My wife is sleeping with another man
Because we have not met and I
Myself am, mind my French,
Currently a fiancée
But it’s like your Christening or Bar Mitzvah
When mother brings a “you two should meet”
She brings a brace-filled vice of a mouth
She brings you a girl
But it’s the wrong one and you’ll
Never know.
I know she is eating
At a restaurant downtown
The one you would’ve taken her to
And she and not you are
Sharing their appetizers
Their froie grois and sipping wine.
She smiles and touches his leg
Under the table to remind him
Of every skin on skin.
“I love you.” but it’s too sweet
And you wish as you watch them eat
That in her eye
There would be the slightest doubt or flinch
That everything would be all wrong
And she’d never be happy again
Until you bumped into her at the bookstore.
I wonder what it feels like
For my wife
When I’m not the one doing it
Or when he passed the salt
At a family Sunday brunch.
Please let her be faking it.
Smiles holding hands and kissing making plans.
Will our tenth anniversary be
Ours or just hers and her
Husband who at the end of the
Day won’t know if it’s possible for others
To really care about their others
Or had I just been more aggressive
In my loving.
All of this I am watching and still
I want to know what
What changes in a held hand
From one to the next and I’m sure mother
It has nothing to do with
Chemistry.
My wife is sighing and admiring the pouring
Of a cup of coffee
Though none of this belongs to me
And I wonder when things are
Bought resale are they intact
And what’s my discount
Because the only person you can’t read
The mind of is the one in your arms.
When you’re the last person
She meets is it like when
No one wants to be it
Their hands sliding across the table
As they ignore the waitress and
Make keylime pie in their giddy
Sidelong glances.
I swear I’ll hit not me
Mother I’ll hit him if he
Touches her again.
And my lover sees all this in my eyes
As she kisses me open mouthed.
Because we have not met and I
Myself am, mind my French,
Currently a fiancée
But it’s like your Christening or Bar Mitzvah
When mother brings a “you two should meet”
She brings a brace-filled vice of a mouth
She brings you a girl
But it’s the wrong one and you’ll
Never know.
I know she is eating
At a restaurant downtown
The one you would’ve taken her to
And she and not you are
Sharing their appetizers
Their froie grois and sipping wine.
She smiles and touches his leg
Under the table to remind him
Of every skin on skin.
“I love you.” but it’s too sweet
And you wish as you watch them eat
That in her eye
There would be the slightest doubt or flinch
That everything would be all wrong
And she’d never be happy again
Until you bumped into her at the bookstore.
I wonder what it feels like
For my wife
When I’m not the one doing it
Or when he passed the salt
At a family Sunday brunch.
Please let her be faking it.
Smiles holding hands and kissing making plans.
Will our tenth anniversary be
Ours or just hers and her
Husband who at the end of the
Day won’t know if it’s possible for others
To really care about their others
Or had I just been more aggressive
In my loving.
All of this I am watching and still
I want to know what
What changes in a held hand
From one to the next and I’m sure mother
It has nothing to do with
Chemistry.
My wife is sighing and admiring the pouring
Of a cup of coffee
Though none of this belongs to me
And I wonder when things are
Bought resale are they intact
And what’s my discount
Because the only person you can’t read
The mind of is the one in your arms.
When you’re the last person
She meets is it like when
No one wants to be it
Their hands sliding across the table
As they ignore the waitress and
Make keylime pie in their giddy
Sidelong glances.
I swear I’ll hit not me
Mother I’ll hit him if he
Touches her again.
And my lover sees all this in my eyes
As she kisses me open mouthed.
The Boy I See Walking to School Each Morning
He’s dying
Not metaphorically but literally
His eyes sink.
He’s too young
But why doesn’t he speak
His insides
Leaving and left
Not right
Wronged.
He is dying
I can’t stop his fever.
Not metaphorically but literally
His eyes sink.
He’s too young
But why doesn’t he speak
His insides
Leaving and left
Not right
Wronged.
He is dying
I can’t stop his fever.
Everland
Have you heard of Peter Pan
Who killed the boy and now a man
Walks London’s streets in bowler cap
From low-lit pubs this grown up sap
Knows only the bell of old St. Paul’s
His evening friends like painted dolls
Who rubbed from eyes the pixy dust
And money short they spit and cussed
Who killed the boy and now a man
Walks London’s streets in bowler cap
From low-lit pubs this grown up sap
Knows only the bell of old St. Paul’s
His evening friends like painted dolls
Who rubbed from eyes the pixy dust
And money short they spit and cussed
Eight Lines on My Mental Status
April’s day of fools conceive
Then born in time on New Year’s Eve
His tongue was made to build the rhyme
To sting the eyes with lye and lime
With words already in his mind
As they emerge his thoughts unwind
Like limbs askewed in some great wind
Which reason break and crazy bend
Then born in time on New Year’s Eve
His tongue was made to build the rhyme
To sting the eyes with lye and lime
With words already in his mind
As they emerge his thoughts unwind
Like limbs askewed in some great wind
Which reason break and crazy bend
Cream and Sugar
The waitress refilled his cup of coffee
He winked and she frowned
His friend had asked for decaf
And swiveled a little in his diner chair.
The waitress and the friend had no idea
They could not see it
They didn’t know
There was the pie and there the salt
And yet he was still there
And they couldn’t feel the earth
Slowly slipping off its axis
Because of the way the sun angled
Through the windows
They couldn’t feel their memories
Slowly evaporating with the coffeepot steam
Because they kept family pictures in their wallets.
No one could believe
No one could have known
That he was pouring cream and adding sugar
He was slowly dismantling the universe
One appendage one atom at a time
With no feeling but fury
With his eyes calm and open.
The waitress and the friend
Couldn’t know they were hollow
For the pie and cigarette smoke
Even the nothing taken out of them
And sidewalks cracking, the world unwinding
As his spoon keeps stirring.
If they had any chance
To see before the flame
They missed it in a flutter.
All is gone in a wink,
A twinkle of the eye.
He winked and she frowned
His friend had asked for decaf
And swiveled a little in his diner chair.
The waitress and the friend had no idea
They could not see it
They didn’t know
There was the pie and there the salt
And yet he was still there
And they couldn’t feel the earth
Slowly slipping off its axis
Because of the way the sun angled
Through the windows
They couldn’t feel their memories
Slowly evaporating with the coffeepot steam
Because they kept family pictures in their wallets.
No one could believe
No one could have known
That he was pouring cream and adding sugar
He was slowly dismantling the universe
One appendage one atom at a time
With no feeling but fury
With his eyes calm and open.
The waitress and the friend
Couldn’t know they were hollow
For the pie and cigarette smoke
Even the nothing taken out of them
And sidewalks cracking, the world unwinding
As his spoon keeps stirring.
If they had any chance
To see before the flame
They missed it in a flutter.
All is gone in a wink,
A twinkle of the eye.
Belly Button
I awake suddenly
Like the protagonist
In an erotic nightmare.
She lies there still
Dreaming of edible rose pastures
And wedding rings,
The waist up
Of her world
Bared to the low light.
I admire the valley of
Her chest
And her thin figure
Though drawn most
To the button of her bell.
Even God needs a place
To tie off his human shaped balloons
And accursed lint needs a spot
Other than pockets to hide.
It is a crater, a trench
In the landscape
And it spirals down
A tornado of odd skin
That draws me in.
This is the last sign
That her parents had sex
And I can put my finger into it.
Unlike a red button
Nothing happens
If I press this one
Though I’m glad to know
That if it were undone,
Some things would come out
But not her heart.
This is the axis
Where we align ourselves
When we align
And I could fill it
With wine.
The belly button prevents
Her from being turned inside out
The way wine does.
She doesn’t wake
Even as I kiss it
For this is not
The first time.
Like the protagonist
In an erotic nightmare.
She lies there still
Dreaming of edible rose pastures
And wedding rings,
The waist up
Of her world
Bared to the low light.
I admire the valley of
Her chest
And her thin figure
Though drawn most
To the button of her bell.
Even God needs a place
To tie off his human shaped balloons
And accursed lint needs a spot
Other than pockets to hide.
It is a crater, a trench
In the landscape
And it spirals down
A tornado of odd skin
That draws me in.
This is the last sign
That her parents had sex
And I can put my finger into it.
Unlike a red button
Nothing happens
If I press this one
Though I’m glad to know
That if it were undone,
Some things would come out
But not her heart.
This is the axis
Where we align ourselves
When we align
And I could fill it
With wine.
The belly button prevents
Her from being turned inside out
The way wine does.
She doesn’t wake
Even as I kiss it
For this is not
The first time.
Afternoon
The needle is still moving on Hemingway’s record player
And the French doors to the veranda move gently in the afternoon breeze
A glass of whiskey, which he poured
Sweating in the sticky heat
The unbearable smell of wet paint
In this summer of wisteria
Southern shadows stretch eastward
And a watch still ticks in the neatly folded room
Aside picture frames and books
The dust invisible in twilight
No living human could make this quiet
This stillness of an Indian summer
Exhaling amber light into autumn
Like quiet pages of scripture
Or the gallows on Sunday
What if the phone rang
And the mockingbird chorus with the hum of heat and cicadas
Reached your ear
Though too late to turn back
Suddenly as surprised as everyone else
And the French doors to the veranda move gently in the afternoon breeze
A glass of whiskey, which he poured
Sweating in the sticky heat
The unbearable smell of wet paint
In this summer of wisteria
Southern shadows stretch eastward
And a watch still ticks in the neatly folded room
Aside picture frames and books
The dust invisible in twilight
No living human could make this quiet
This stillness of an Indian summer
Exhaling amber light into autumn
Like quiet pages of scripture
Or the gallows on Sunday
What if the phone rang
And the mockingbird chorus with the hum of heat and cicadas
Reached your ear
Though too late to turn back
Suddenly as surprised as everyone else
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