the power went out
and for twenty whole minutes
we faced the thought of no
computers
internet
or even the ability to read
in our candleless
flashlightless
preparedless
world of electricity
and i was shocked
at how dark dark gets
i thought it poetic
but don’t own a non-electric
way to express what i thought
i will travel to the end and back
because it is fun for me no matter
how much matter gets taken or how
much matter it is, or bother, or does;
yet, i digress,
the interest you inject, warranted
or
not
into my mirrors (placed around
my tiny square home)
does not give you the right,
and to be very honest with you
i wish to no longer allow you,
to then get
yourself all
worked up in
your curious
little torrent
and expect me to
give you
the
time
of
day
nay,
i am a solitary man.
soggy and large
with determination snowflakes
surprised us
falling
before
the leaves.
blatant overthrowage
of something like power
(though much more at peace with the minions)
you realized
with one more tool
you too could conquer the world
with your words
preparing for bed
lights out and under covers
we hear a trumpet:
outside and darkly distant
weaving a blue narrative.
guppies are just like fish
but smaller
and your hand in mine
just like mine
though i’m taller and
you’re softer
but thoughts like these
are not more quiet
or more gentle
against the skin
inside my head
pressing to my skull
telling me that this design
is flawed from some ancient
ancestor
who was smaller
just like me
but smarter
and made mistakes much
bigger
It’s been a month
since the boys back home stopped
writing.
A god damned shame,
since all those boys back home
were god damned good at
writing
Maybe the post is slow this season,
for some reason.
Maybe nobody’s home this season,
for some reason.
Maybe, though
(just maybe, though),
the boys back home just
got sick of
writing.
A god damn shame,
since all those boys back home
were god damned good at
writing
.
We’ve contemplated many
variations on the same theme
theame
theeem
theim
thematic expressions, perhaps by
eye contact, or skin brushing on
skin passing just near enough to
feel each-other’s skin
The passing comments, too, help
when contemplating jointly. Could
we communicate? do we communi
cate? Have we communicate(d)?
Should we, all things considered (
and all things have been), commu
nicate? Does all this broken spee
ch make things hard to follow fo
r you? I know it does for m
e.
There’s nothing quite like the realization
That you have nothing left to say
That there isn’t anything left to say
Or never will be said.
But the only remaining option
Is to reconcile my capacity for edification
Though your fragile resplendence
this should
be absurd
these beasts composed
of giant, furry costumes
and CGI visage
but I’m crying
numerous times
since my proclivity
is sensitivity
to beauty and sadness
and i reclaim
my desire to
do the same
only with words
will i pierce
your hearts
and open your eyes
to light
until your tears of
sadness and tears of
joy mingle
to become indistinguishable
and inextinguishable
and you’ll look up
from the page
bewildered,
baptized.
we could live in fields of green
if we believed this was all there was
we could run in forests, climb hills
take in mountains
if this was all there was
better air could be breathed and
lives would matter so much less we
would enjoy them differently
if this is all there was
but if we believe there’s something more
life might look strange to those
if they believe this is all there is
DO YOU REMEMBER THE RIDE TO CRAIGS CRUISERS
WHEN IT WAS REALLY SUNNY
AND WE WERE PLAYING THE RADIO LOUD
AND WE HAD ALL OF THOSE TRAMADOL
THAT YOUR GRANDMOTHER LEFT YOUR MOTHER?
WASN’T THE SUN LIKE GOD AND
THE CLOUDS LIKE ANGELS AND
THE BLUE SKY LIKE HEAVEN?
REMEMBER GETTING HIGH RIGHT BEFORE
WALKING INTO YOUR PARENT’S HOUSE?
BECAUSE SOMETIMES BAD IDEAS CAN
BE GOOD ONES, TOO.
DO YOU KNOW THAT YOU HAUNT
ME?
OR I HAUNT ME?
OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT?
YOU KNOW, IN REGARDS TO THESE THINGS
BEING MEMORIES?
THE PAST FUCKING HAUNTS ME,
I GUESS.
AND SONGS LIKE “SHOULD HAVE TAKEN
ACID WITH YOU” BY NEON INDIAN
MAKE ME WANT TO JUMP OFF OF
MY SECOND STORY BALCONY TO MAKE
A POINT TO MYSELF,
OR TO BE HONEST TO MYSELF.
BECAUSE THINKING OF YOU MAKES
ME
DO
THINGS
LIKETHAT.
Where’s the music to these lyrics?
Where’s the rhythm to the drumming of my hands on the desk?
Where’s the beat in the neck-breaking of my head-banging?
Where’s the chord to the strumming of my air guitar?
Where’s the tune whistling from my lips?
Where’s the snap between my fingers?
Where’s the melody to this song?
Where’s the tapping to my feet?
Where’s the music to these lyrics?
They’re all in my head.
It’s all in my head.
if confucius
was alive to-day
i bet he’d know
he’d be a hack
in the now,
mary. yet you
mis-quote his ancient
and relative
words/concepts
on your little
reminders,
taped to the
wall just like
your employees,
mary. and though
ritual propriety
is nice,
and so were the
things that kongzi
said, i doubt,
very firmly,
that he’d have
much to say
of the modern world.
even less of your
chinese restaurant
and the misdeeds
you’ve done to his
words and concepts,
mary.
Bird is dead.
The sordid utterances harping on
the statement written fifteen feet high
on a school building’s brick facade
don’t change anything
Bird is dead.
The countless articulations scattered
through Main Street America, or
just the parts that give a damn,
can’t bring anyone back to life.
Bird is dead.
Body buried, coroner clocked out,
and countless tributes and tears
mark the facts as true ones.
But when that record spins
and that needle hits
and that baseline kicks
and that sax starts to blow,
Bird Lives,
And there’s nothing you can do about it.
i don’t know what to do,
sitting here,
dazeduncertainlyspaced,
eye-lids dropping,
feeling drunk
without having a drink,
light headed,
hoping to pass out soon,
escaping into an unremembered dream,
but nice nonetheless
and over too soon
when i once again awake
to start another long day,
another sixteen hours spent
looking forward to bed.
the last three months
have translated into
three funerals,
making me wonder,
will i go twelve for twelve?
on sunday
i watched my little girl run and play
then buckle and seize before my eyes
the fear that gripped me
the picture that will never leave
i’m sure would be poetic if i could
conjure it up with words
instead of mere shudders
i thought, bri
efly of killing
my0
self
after that lo
ve poem
i wr
wr
wrote you
just to make a completely and all-together somewhat opposite kind of point
and
i sup
pose that is the pa
rt of me that
ne
ne
ne
ne
eds to die,
isn’t it
darling?
I drink my fine wine straight from
it’s un-stoppered, long-necked bottle,
and I don’t abide by those cheep
hot dogs, or fail to spring for extra
croutons on my Wendy’s Side Salad.
I’ll play all the songs I write on a
dime-store guitar from the sixties and
tune the strings with a pair of pliers
while swearing up and down (and
all too often) that Fender Telecasters
are the way to go.
I’ve driven American all my life
and done so far too late and
far too fast and far too often
for my health and wallet to
warrant, all for the thrill of watching
the speedometer go up while
the gas gauge goes down.
And finally, when all is
said and done, I’ll probably sit
down late one night.
And over
the course of a couple of hours,
between sips of wine and bites of hot dog, just before I tune my guitar
(only a bit after I turn off the car),
I’ll write about it.
What happened to a time when we disagreed,
We did something about it?
When did we lose our backbones?
When did we start letting this happen?
When did we stop standing up?
When did we sit down and resign?
And sign our voices over?
Where did representation go?
What happened to rising up?
Sticking it to the man?
Being a little rebellious?
Engaging in some debauchery?
When did we become so passive?
So docile?
So weak?
Let’s throw a damn tea party!
Let’s toss this cowardice overboard.
Let’s make this oppression walk the plank.
there are electric storms
birthed by chemical wars
that are caused by electric storms
birthed by the very same wars
and so on,
and so forth,
they come from my eyes
when i see your lips,
face,
legs,
thighs,
emotions which
can
not
be
wise
are now driving my extremities
i now feel i’m in my seventies
looking out the window dreaming
of being touched somewhere
inappropriate for once
because i
love
women
too
much.
Mostly, it’s been
somewhere else, with
largely dis-proportioned, backwards
reasoning that gets between the
bits that seemed important just
a moment (or two) ago.
Meanwhile, Certainty
only lasts as long
as one can remain certain that their
certainty is certainly
well-placed, while
continuing to remember that
only fools are certain.
Everyone knows, though,
exactly what it’s all about, and
and everyone, though certain,
certainly has their doubts,
even in the foggiest of
particularly foggy situations.
There’s a great deal of fog
somewhere else.
Apparently.
Even if
beauty cannot heal the hand that bleeds
in self-helplessness
a compass cannot delineate the reach of
self-conflict
I cannot wear the skin I am in
with a red lipstick smile
Do not leave me behind
Even if
high heel shoes make the world taller
hateful eyes spin their dark
love loses elasticity and heart
Do not make me so old
if you are happy and you are aware of it put your hands together
if you are happy and you are aware of it put your hands together
if you are happy and you are yourself aware of it
and you are desiring to have someone with whom
you can share it with
if you are happy and you yourself are quite aware of it then quit
standing around and put your hands together in a noise making
fashion
this will demonstrate your happiness
About to lose my mind
Head spinning with unsaid words
Where did this go wrong?
we make ripples
pathways of stone through serene grass
to avoid filthy mud
