again,
not for the first time,
nor for the last time,
knowing this to be
merely a state of being
that will go on,
and on,
ad infinitum;
so pour another drink
my imaginary friend,
and let’s sit together
and talk about the past,
regaling each other
with memories
of who we once were
and who we used to be,
laughing and crying
all at the same time,
in the presence,
of good company.
on the last day before i’m the father of a two year old
(a title you never get back)
i feel i should commemorate
sure i’ll remember this day as day four without
a solid stool
or i’ll remember it as 29 days since i was
the brunt of a well played ‘fool”s joke’
but will i remember the night before sheer
terror? the first of its kind until the night
before i’m the father of a teenager
have i fallen so fast? college was yesterday
and high school last week, wasn’t it?
on this, the last day before i’m the father of a two year old
i feel i should commemorate
with a song
“oh kid you bring me joy
i know there are better words
but i cannot find them to employ
oh kid, my lovely kid, you bring me joy”
flares are amazing tools to light the way in darkness. like a flashlight they bring light, but unique to a flare is the fact that you can throw it ahead of you. throw it into water and bring light to not just damp but wet places (should said flare be oxidized of course).
i lack the language to bring illumination
the darkness you bring to the table needs
a special light my AA batteries cannot
tackle. one i can pull from my back pocket
and show you page by page. but don’t get
too close, it burns like a flare
some brilliances
easily covered
with a thick sheet and
a roll of gray duck
(duck)
(duct?)
(duck)
tape. Some
brilliances impossible
to shade.
Acquaintances waiting with friends waiting to catch trains
Husbands waiting in cars
Massaging steering wheels
Thinking, waiting for something to happen
But not sure if it ever will
The lines striking skimming starred chords and rain drops
Dipping into the latter without division
Is it really happening or not?
The neighborhood tree fell down
Was that change, was that why we were waiting?
A robin mourns her young
The taxi swerves to the curb
The green leaves blend with green grass
The tree’s naked soul exposed
And so far as we are waiting, so good
Tariff tax toll or time cannot dissuade
The shuttle will arrive eventually
Passenger’s anticipation brimming over the levee
Through the lapping,
salty sheets I fell.
Deep and deeper into
the soupy blue-green blood.
Past whispering barnacles,
and seaweed that reached out
with skinny desperate arms
and shredded
legs.
Deeper, even deeper,
under silent coral the
color of brain-matter and rocks
with faces.
It wasn’t cold down there,
among the little aluminum
fish and psychedelic crabs.
It was warm and balmy.
These slippery creatures passed
each other so calmly,
like old, fragile men.
Stopping only to talk about
the weather.
Stopping only to
stop.
Nothing really happened down
there- were you expecting something
to happen?
I threaded my way back up again,
kissed the air, wrung out my hair
and waited for the
serotonin.
one two three four five six seven
there’s eight if you look close enough
yellow green orange purple
that last one is my favorite
blue is always the best flavor
ice cream soda sucker
pick blue pick blue pick blue
sometimes green is yummy mint
sometimes green is yucky pistachio
keys balls cars trains trucks
push and pull and build and drive and turn
baby mommy daddy big sister
horse bee cat chicken bird ant
barn sky sun moon up up up up!
deleting poems about snake oil
pant-less, dead bodies piled in
my closet. sniffing residue off
of the facts, and thinking about
throwing them out. writing the
letters about this period, cursing
because i haven’t thrown the
facts out the window yet. they cry,
i laugh. bought a skin cream
called “the darkness” and it
makes my skin seem ten fucking
years younger but i’m afraid
that it’s sinking into my soul,
also one of the ingredients is
snake oil. i can’t tell what
genre of humor the mind’s
assumptions fall under, and i
laugh but i don’t think that’s
right either. i think that there
is no need for searching
because all of the truth is
hidden under your nose.
turning around in my computer chair
thinking nothing.
there is a desert in every soul.
A barren spot where tumbleweeds
tumble like a cheap prop in an
old Italian-made
Americana piece.
Where animals scratch and paw
the other animals’ burrows,
intent on only consuming so they
may live another day to
consume.
The sun never sets, but it
is a cruel sun. It burns and
boils the skin and blood. It
feels no compassion, and
knows nothing of the truth.
It does not rain here. It only
damps the flesh so the dust
can coat more thoroughly.
There is no respite in these sands.
Mirages hover in every distance
whispering softly of memories past,
making claims on futures will
never come.
It is here I next will meet you.
It is here I see you yet.
In this desert of my soul
I will leave you to be buried
under years of rolling sand.
with flowers springing
ever which way
leading to joy, happiness,
serendi-piteousness;
all along the streets
suddenly they appeared,
as if out of nowhere,
coming forth from their dark confines
experiencing the outer-airs
with thoughts of “this is the life”
and unspoken thoughts,
even to themselves, of
“things are going to change,”
leading to springing dreams
of quitting it all,
returning to the wild,
as they cut their grass
trimmed their hedges and
kept the wild at bay,
except for in a memory
of a time when coming over the mountain
they saw a valley
filled with flowers
“red and yellow black and white
they [were] precious in” their sight
and through the flowers flowed
a stream from which they drank,
without fear or tablets,
and felt the icy cold water flow,
making their teeth hurt again
even in the memory
of the water rushing down,
down, down, down, down
through their depths
washing away the inner accumulated filth.
Already I am thoroughly inspected with expectation or exultation
My peers and elders have placed me on pedestal and under microscope,
Are in the offing.
My acquaintances and teachers are amiable or understanding
But skepticism is skepticism.
It is a clement atmosphere,
The authentic evaluation.
I am not misled however, the season has altered.
Because temperature and tongues continue to swell.
It is ignorance gone that I see, it is innocence gone.
The sweet stares fragment and sweetly glare,
The faces forgetting their praise and yielding to scrutiny.
It is a thin veil. The vision is hazed
I am aware there is wary anticipation
There is an amorous embrace
That is fashioned with high regard.
I am soliloquy in this solitary monologue
Whose interplaying stichomythia scatters interminable dialogue.
I am a man, and redeemed, still wading through a past.
I am a man whose prayers are anxiously knocking.
Papered invocations muffle a screaming penchant
Desert and uphold my sweet surrender
Come: this bleak acquiescence is only a corridor
And leads to the flowered portico with you, master, victory
From all. And cups I decline to drink,
Consult a dual deliverance. Whether to shout
In patent disregard or to accept in humble triumph.
Somebody inflated the jury? Somebody will adjourn the court.
I sat here to live unwittingly
to front only the inessential whims of my ego
and see if i could not waste away,
and,
when i came to die,
discover that i had lived.
domino like,
one thing lead to the next:
from the spilled coffee
to the fear
to the looks
that turned into glances
and finally into whispers,
followed by giggles
which only lead to stammering,
stuttering,
hemming,
hawing,
lying,
and intellectual posing,
driving home my dominance,
driving home their ignorance,
counting the moments
until I was done
and could escape back
to the safety of my office
secure within my
collapsible,
impregnable,
fabric fortress
where it all ended,
once again,
in tears
because it’s hard to make it
and even harder to fake it
when i’m wearing my confidence
on my coffee stained sleeve.
in front of him bagumbayan field lies still
the sun still low in the east
casts long stone shadows from tall green leaves of rice
spiky shadows from silent green palms
gentle parabolic shadows from horizon hills
all standing still undisturbed by time
sensing it’s time inhales (deeply)
damp shadowy green morning air
imagines the frozen shadows he can’t see
(those of the men and women lined up in his periphery
those of the eight filipino soldiers behind him (or of their rifles)
those of the eight spanish soldiers behind them (or of their rifles))
his hands reach to his neck
straighten the tie he bought in madrid
both hands then brush his once black suit
grayed and frayed from lack of light
and too much dust these last few days
(inside breast pocket still holds her desiccated sampaguita)
he grips the brim of his hat tips it slightly in the fashion
raises his chin lengthens his shadow
sees in the distance farmers watching
(standing still hands on hips casting shadows)
he feels a breeze gather on his right cheek
watches the world wake from its shadowy sleep
the green rice field now sways in slow undulations
green light green green light green green
hears then sees the rustling palms soft rustle
the farmers (now bored) bend low return to work
a pair of kingfishers flit by in sharp arcs (one chasing the other)
the unset shifting shadows stripped of their permanent sense
wind then whips his hat off his head he hears a shot
then feels it (a sudden burn (like all his favorite lines of poetry))
then feels nothing but sees the blue–more red but still blue–sky
without a cloud to cast a shadow.
The little sexy bee glances and averts
her brown eyes in measured shiness-
her skin bounces honeyed light,
and we feel moth
drifting in a hot midsummer night.
I will cheat when we play board games
and I will eat the last piece of cake
(even though we made it for your
birthday)
I will park like a jackass just to
see you
roll your eyes,
and I will forget to pick up milk
/eggs
/bread
/soda
every time I come home. Ever.
But I’ll never ask for that lunch
you owe me, and I’ll
never charge gas for that ride
to Chicago and back.
I never remember the two bucks
of mine it cost for those
cigarettes of yours
(but you’re god damn right
I’ll bitch when you smoke them)
I’ve never been good with
mathematics, but I’ve always
had a decent eyeball for things,
and things seem to line right up
to me.
But hey,
feel free
to check my work.
Sdlay,
Teh sreect cdoe
Dndit saty sreect vrey lnog.
I dnot konw hwo tehy fuiregd ti uot ehietr
Btu ti wsa lkie they culod
Raed ti wthoiut eevn tniryg.
damn it.
I think I left it
in my other pants…yep.
in the right front
pocket with my credit card
and just a little
bit of lint.
well, can’t go
back and get it
now. I guess
I’ll just make
the best of of it
hope I don’t get
tested. hope I’m
strong and good
on my own…you know,
capable.
I mean, it’s a big
busy world out there
and it swallows us all
up without even
thinking.
I wonder if anyone’ll
even notice. People
must forget theirs
all the time…
you waste your words as breath as though
you’ve an infinite supply waiting on your
every subconscious as though you could write
in your sleep (unless you have a cold of course
in which case you’d need vicks vapo rub or
something to aid the writing so you don’t get
clogged up) unintentionally coughing up
masterpieces but you’re full of it i tell you
you’re absolutely full of it
There is something wrong
with this picture. It hangs
at a slant, the glass is
broken, with chips out of the
frame here and there, not
to mention the split across
the bottom from the
last time it slipped from it’s
hook and hit the floor
because the nail was never
set quite right (the
holes in the wall can
tell you all about that).
Oh, but the sun in the
clear blue sky, and the
old blue truck with the
topper on, those look
alright I guess.
And me and you out
front just smiling.
That part looks just fine.
Perhaps we’ll keep this
hanging after all.
every step we take back to the hotel after this meeting tells me
you’re crazier than i remember
socially awkward (understated)
maybe i’m someone else’s weird
you drive me nuts sometimes
and it’s a privilege to stand here next to you
There’s a girl in the corner
in the back
she’s the only one that’s dancing
but she’ll dance all by herself
and all night,
I would wager,
(Well, I’d probably lose that
bet on a technicality, but still)
and I’d put a lot of money down.
and it’s a funny thing, that
she’s the only one who’s really
moving,
‘cuz she’s the only one I’d
like to dance with anyway.
There’s a certain sort of freedom
being the only one in a
crowded show and
dancing.
I won’t dance with her.
I wouldn’t want to ruin it.
As the world rotates he mutters incantations:
Poised (while nearby, people splutter
And mumble) he observes their demonstrations
And flicks a cigarette to the gutter.
Collar stiff, stubbled, alert, he muses
Of lonely nights in brothel-lit bars
Where brave thoughts came to bruises
And sodden heads watched passing cars.
The fire inside him has no destination
Or place to go where fuel is cheaper.
The days are a spoon-fed lamentation
That blur and flex toward their reaper
But life is his game with its daily grind
He paints its tones with his body and mind.
You spread out my bones on the church’ s floor, and cry I did not do. You heard the future whisper, and left me alone in the shadows; you stole my sparks, and burn I do not do.
Yet there you are … knees knelt, teareyed and candles lit, looking back at me when all I want is to forget you.
You have pulled me in by the last thread, I shall no longer watch you ebb at the break of the day. Or wonder in sadness as you turn me into a dagger for your heart to stab.
Across the frontier of you and I, beyond memories and darkness, I shall light up into a thousand of fires and plane over your sins and virtues.
Three hundred and sixty-five days later
And still here.
Still going strong.
Better than ever.
With probably a thousand pieces
Of improbable prose behind us.
(Holy crap, that’s a lot!)
A troupe of awesome men
(and one women)
Putting the pedal to the metal
Or more like, pen to paper,
Or actually, fingers to keyboards
Churning out poem after poem
After poem after poem:
The good (a buttload)
The great (a few)
The bad (no one asked you anyway)
The ugly (that’s the way we like ‘em)
And as it’s been said before:
“Hemorrhaging brilliance daily.”
So though it’s needless to say,
But I’ll say it anyway:
It’s been an honor to share this
Pixilated plane of poetic interweb
Known on the streets as “the Sieve”
With you
Twisted,
Hilarious,
Ridiculous,
And ingenious,
Gents.
You guys (and gal) rock!
(bum bum bum)
there are thirty people in a basement
heads banging, fists pumping, guitars
screaming far too loud for the concrete
and old mattresses to handle so well
(bum bum bum)
But here I sit just watching, arms
crossed, headphones on, box of
donations for the bands in my lap,
and I only have one thought to think:
This is what music
is all about.
(bum bum bum)
swimming in a man-made lake
on my plastic factory break
“oh god!” i say feeling like a snake
after i intake the toxic rape
of the buildings cutting in
to the sky’s real estate
oh the m t p streets covered
in feces and empty seeds
all signs hiding an awful
deceit, promising weight
behind the word compete
feeding an off-tempo beat
to the hungry and weak
but the whistle blows and
i suppose i should put on
my clothes and be composed
for my home groans for the
oil and bones and keeping it
fed is part of a human being’s
growth (or a human being a ghost).
