the sieve and the sand

Don’t you hate that feeling
as a blister is building
just below the protective layers
of leather and cotton and
you know the damn thing is going
to pop tomorrow, or maybe
the next day, but the point is
it’s going to fucking pop.

The juice will be everywhere
but more than that, the skin
beneath the skin is exposed,
when things like this happen,
and everything stings that much more.

Well, I can feel a blister rising
and while there may not be -much-
that I can do, at the very least
I’ll have to ask you to leave.

in the garden
a fallen tombstone–
foam painted grey.

Lilly pads on the lake bring out the hopelessness
I knew I was seeing in your posture on that bench.

You sit beside and watch the moss grow
instead of the fish swim.

And I know you’ll be here a while.

roaches run on dusty counter tops
fleeing the light i shine at them in my
perfect paradise of a home on the third floor
of my in a thirteen story building

And the brains are left to rot
up on the table, and under the windows,
and honey I think you
left some on the bed.

There’s a mess in the dresser
from the paint you spilled
so I think you ruined everything
but I can never be too sure.

I’ll scrape the brains tomorrow
and scrub the hardwoods
and maybe clean the sheets
but the paint’s not coming off.
No, I think you ruined everything.

There was man I never knew,
spoke to me when last we met
he had a nearly empty bottle
and a grin I won’t forget.
He tossed a newspaper aside
and lit another cigarette
before he told me to sit down
so he could try and learn me yet.

He said,

I think, therefore I drink
until I can’t think anymore
and I stack cans on the table
’till I end up on the floor.
Well all this time we spend together,
I can’t fathom what it’s for
so get all your shit together,
once you’re out I’ll lock the door

when I said I hadn’t known him
he replied that I was dumb.
He knew exactly where I’d been
and knew where I was coming from.
Then he made a sidelong motion
toward the doorway with his thumb
and swore, he’d never talk to me again
and neither, to his son

so I digressed and I departed
heading south, as was my plan,
wondering what I had just witnessed,
if I’d understood that man.
did he need those empty bottles?
why’d he keep all of those cans?
was he stacking them in towers
just like castles made of sand?

All the details swirled about me
but soon enough I did not fret,
for all the strange things that I’d heard
had dripped away like summer’s sweat
and as I traveled ever southward
that man was nothing, you can bet,
but a name I can’t remember
and a grin I won’t forget

Autumn brunette
A dash of burnt orange
Ripe pumpkin
And pumpernickel
Layered fallen leaves
Intertwining amongst
A clear complexion
Of fresh, marble corn
Dotted with
Sparkling blueberries
The face of a fall harvest
Of beauty so common
But that doesn’t mean
I want to look away

in your garden the plants
refuse to grow
and when you take a walk
the natural things they
wilt and bend
repulsed
almost magnetically
by your presence

your a fucked-up modern
day king midas,
man

your a modern day
fucked up kind of king
midas,
man

and all around you is an
invisible force that
turns things off and
makes them die,
and on your ride to work
and on your way home
destruction is all you see

and when you go out
and the pretty things
keep dying
destruction is all you
know

but when you see a flower
you still reach out to touch it
and the pain is anew all
the time.

you look for things you know hope you can do
seeking definition in your action
but alas
“homemade roach motels”
seems like a niche already spoken for.

for Randy

The cry of a man

Amidst the laughing kids

Alas, the seal song.

of this 16 year old guard
too smart for high school
but not bright enough to finish.

he works hard for $3 a day
and sits atop this bench.
his girlfriend visiting with a bowl of noodles
swinging his too-short-to-touch-the-ground feet
inches over the brick

and I’m lost for words at his hope.
too small to get me through till lunch,
but big enough to make him every day smile.
open and close the gate
420 times per day for the next 44 years
till his grandson does the same

well enough to support him.

swing your feet. enjoy your noodles.

a clicking sound in the distance gets louder
and louder and louder and all it is is clicking
but it does not seem to approach, only amplify,
so do we worry?

It is not, so far, tank tracks or mercenaries.
Not so far a civil, world, or cold sort of war.
However do we prepare?

Do we load the guns and arm the children?
Do we teach the women to fend for themselves?
How sharp are our teeth, really?
How long our claws?

And the clicking is louder, over treetop
and rooftop and blacktop and everything
but louder, never closer. Do we worry?

I have two locks on my front door, and
three on the back. I have two locks
and a door between it and I.
I have not a fear in the world.

But God and Everything, I worry.

about you but i wont tell because you
made me promise i’d hold it as a secret
close to my heart. so i act like i care.

i act like high schoolers in love and think
it’s so real. it was real wasn’t it?

And the earth has no idea where it will sleep you,
you must find that place yourself.
Perhaps you will be lucky to dig a hole
beneath a great apple tree, and there
you can sup and rest and live your life exactly.

Perhaps there are no trees left, or
no trees worth digging under. Perhaps the
apples are hard-fought and bruised in the end
beside, so that oranges would be the better bet.
Where does one sleep when the Earth
does not know where to sleep them?

The pitch:
lofts high,
dips low,
and hangs.

The swing:
precision words,
a comeback,
to cut like scythes.

The hit:
blood flushed,
incising enmity,
stranded on first.

green grass under my newly shod feet
brought me wonder at the improvement
in my soccer in the purchase of soccer shoes.

black pavement under my newly equipped feet
brought me wonder at the improvement
in my skateboarding in the purchase of a real board.

and today i looked to you anew
i shook from bed to floor in your presence
and standing in awe saw an ever so subtle
change, enough to bring a reality check to this day.

knowing i am small. so very very insignificant
without something bigger for which to live.

|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|A n |_ L |_ s |h a |p e |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |A n |_ _ |_ _
|u n |d e |r l |i n |e _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|P r |e s |s _ |r e |p e |a t |_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ R |e w |i n |d
|F a |s t |_ _ |_
|_ _ |f o |w a |r d
|I n |f i |n i |t y |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |F i |n i |t e |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _
|I n |f i |n i |t e |s i |m a |l _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ I |t s |_ a |l l |_ t |h e |_ _ |_ _
|s a |m e |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _
|I t |s _ |n o |t h |i n |g _ |a t |_ a |l l |_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_

We spoke twice today.
I feel you didn’t listen.
I didn’t have much to say
so I guess you didn’t miss much
but I missed you,
every day this year.
A shame, a god damn shame
but I hope to never drop a tear
at least not in your name again,
but hope is only that
and sometimes that’s just not enough
and it’s a shame, a god damn shame
but here I am and acting tough
at least, I am
until the moment passes.

The cool fresh air and things roll easily
down every and any city street, except
for the ones near the reclamation center,
then the smell of fried chicken is
all you can really taste as you’re
driving.

There is a constant push for more air
escaping the stench, avoiding the
creeping choking terror that haunts
the East Side.

There is some respite, though,
with that cooking chicken. And
some days you can
even smell the fish.

ha!
you filled my mind this morning with dreams
of sheer terror and loss only to find myself
waking in a cold sweat finding she’s still here.
she hasn’t left me.

i awoke – due to dread – overwhelmed with
thanksgiving and remembered my life’s call
is to hear from you. implement. move forward.

as a soldier to not be caught up in civilian affairs
but to seek to please you. my commanding officer.

knowing my dreams are too small and my pride
always begs for fame i pursue things half heartedly
fearful of the praise inflating my head like the
last helium balloon of the batch. you know the one
where they just keep filling it to see how long it can
go before it pops?

that one.

but lo! an old fashioned ha! you woke me from dreams
of sheer terror. and i stepped into the day
steeped in, overwhelmed with, wrought with,
thanksgiving

Old records and the
sweet fresh air outside
the danker atmospheres
found elsewhere.
And late we consume
too late we consume
teeth ripping in to the
fleshy parts of you
and I and
you mostly.

These places are few and far between
and between what? and oh so few and
I can never find the roads to follow,
and the darts I’ve thrown at my map
always bounce off, or stick in to walls
and now where do you go when even
the most basic system seems to fail you?

But I am not discouraged.

I will draw a line with a big fat black
permanent marker, from the dot that
says ‘you are here’ to the dart that
says nothing, but sticks about six inches
from the edge of my map. I will cross-
reference, and from there, I’ll book my flight
to whatever part of China I’m bound for.

At least I hope it’s China,
and not the South China Sea.

She sits a pew closer
- to God, I don’t know.
A sister, much older,
Enough to be my grandmother.
She wears a pink hat
Salt and pepper curls sprinkle her shoulders.
Passing her the offering plate, she doesn’t see.
I waggle to dish, gaining her attention,
Immediately feeling rude, irreverent and impatient.
Shortly she turns to show me the correct hymn,
Then before prayer, lovingly grasps my hand
- swathing blue veins on her aging fingers.
And I know all is well.

the fire is throwing light
that bounces off your fair
skin and you are a glowing
vision in the night driving
engines inside of me in the
wrong direction.