For B.

Before we speak again
We need to acknowledge how precipice close we were
To kissing that night and
That we both wanted to know what
would happen

 

 

 

 

Had we let ourselves fall in

Fought tooth and claw for
a few bits of
scrap meat
and that dog is still
starved.

And now he’s
bleeding,
too.

And now he’s laying down
with that rasp
in his breath
again.

And he’ll get up
to fight
tomorrow.

Clock runs whether you want it to or not and I’ll
smile while it ticks and I’ll grin while it clicks
and I can hang forever, strong as these hands are
so I wouldn’t get too many bright ideas, yeah?

Snowdrifts are old hat, ice is just a challenge,
cold-starting amps this beater’s got for days
and the sun comes out sometimes to help anyway,
and the trucks do their part too, now and again

there’s always change to scrape when scraping’s
on the order, and I haven’t found it yet but I
know there’s an easier way to book a nice evening
so I’ll keep my ear to the ground ’til it shows

And I guess you can drive your 22 hours down yon
every now and then and just to see what shakes
what but I’ll tell you, there’s not much for it.
Strong as these hands are, I can hang and cows
come home.

My mother always asks me to write a poem about her
But it doesn’t work that way
And I told her that
And she continues listening anyways. She says
She’s going to beat up
all the women who have hurt me in my poems
And only half jokingly
And has learned the art of subtly asking who
each new poem is
about
And I don’t doubt that if she could
She would become words from my pen and
On my page
So that she could protect me
Without needing to get on a plane
And though it’s just love
Yes
It still makes me feel safe
And allows me to day dream twice as hard

The winter woods have always been my home.

They do not judge the girl who walks alone.

Their skyward branches lift my spirits high,

the snow is my white blanket when I cry.

The trees have heard my songs and seen my tears,

the rocks have felt my joy and know my fears.

The mountaintops have always been my stage,

they do not judge, or tremble at my rage.

The wind will stop and listen when I speak,

the forest makes me strong when I am weak.

The winter woods have always been my home,

for the embrace the girl who walks alone.

a seashell on a wooden table
inland
so inland you’d never buy sea food here
and you hold it to your ear
because you’ve never been to the sea
and don’t know a clam shell holds
no sound
and wonder at the sand
you’ve heard is like your dirt
but finer
cleaner
less dead-moth-ridden

a book of wisdom
filled with pages
of foolishness
in the hands of many
without hope for
more
basing every decision
on being better
when the best is
nowhere near good enough
when the best is
menstrual rags
before the only One
whose opinion matters

This man cuts delicately
and with purpose

This man has an art to him
and a sight in his eyes

His is a gentle way,
but a righteous way,

but he loses track
sometimes

We have begun counting
his steps down the stairs

We have tallied his
transgressions

He has two ticks on the board,
but the first is smeared a bit

It has been up too long to
remember where it’s counted from.

He smiles mostly these days,
and grips the banister loosely

He cuts with purpose.
He stays mostly on track.

He has two ticks
nonetheless.

He is named Vincent. Maybe 80.
With a voice carved out of cigar smoke
And skin like the bottom of a couch.
He sounds like broken accordion, with hints of beauty
That are subtle. Always subtle.

Everyone looks younger when they’re sleeping
When pleasant dreams settle over daytime woes
Like sunshine drying rain-soaked grass
As heavy eyelids search for peace and flutter closed
And daily worries and their wrinkles fall away
Everyone looks younger when they’re sleeping
When darkness overcomes the fear of night
No child or man can run or hide
From that gentle dimming of the light
As the sky falls from rosy gold to dripping black
Everyone looks younger when they’re sleeping
But everyone looks older when they’re dead

kingdom shakers
fumble when they shake your hand
their mouths don’t work quite
right, nor their memories
and despite their high level of
education they keep copious
notes because of an accident
they had in a car riding off the
side of a mountain 15 years ago
(and incident they don’t recall
personally at all, only what they
‘ve been told)
which left them with a perpetual
at-best three months of memory
but yet they shake
the kingdom at its foundations
and to have stood in the same
room with these people
(let alone to shook hand with them,
or worshipped alongside of them)
never fails to humble me.

I met you
in the parking lot
between the county court
and the CVS Pharmacy

I did not buy your wares.

I did not look you in the eye.

Your coat was torn
but I did not offer you
mine.

I did not hear your sales
pitch or read your
convincing literature.

And now you’re off again
to find another buyer.

Good Luck.

It has been two years since I started burning the edges of my rope

In the impossible fear it may unwind

But I’ve only ever learned knots that are
Impossible to untie

sometimes we understand
sometimes we’re young
hearty and poop-pants full
sometimes we’re old with mossy feet,
lonely and lacking
sometimes we need someone to share rain drips with
sometimes we wait for things to make sense
sometimes we connect the dots or feel and see
that we’re unique but branded
that we’re neither dispossessed nor free
sometimes we’re full- we tolerate,we endure
sometimes we’re empty- we drain, we harm
sometimes we wonder if we’re good or good enough
if we’re alive or alive enough
doubts and insecurities afflict us
meadows and moonshines overwhelm us
we run,we hide
we wear different faces
we make excuses
we cut corners
sometimes we’re strong- we confront, we overcome
sometimes we’re blessed- we shine, we rise
we make decisions to occupy the hours
we build
we invite
we love
we suffer
we hold onto memories
we start all over
we forget
we think we choose
the roles we play
the rules we follow
the chances we betray
but when we finally realize
we’re not much of anything
to worry, to fuss so much
it’s already late
we’re out of time

Here, in room 2514, I light my bowl for the sun,

for the day,

for

my mind,

here in room 2514, I found my love,

my soul,

my sanity…

Before room 2514, before you,

there was nothing but blackness,

nothing but cynicism,

agony,

And even though I light my bowl, to escape,

to enlighten,

to expand,

I run to you.

In room 2514 I saw the sun rise,

for the first time,

in my 24 years,

for the first time,

in my existence,

there is light.

Today I
Wore the sun like a heavy wool on my
Long Island back
Remembering
That I am California childhood. mountain-painted, looking
like a seismograph chart and
bleeding grass blades between my toes
In any shoes that aren’t
bare feet. Feeling
the impossibly dense thickness of
Sunlight Bursting
Through my back and out my chest as I
Also radiate light, coming
through my fingertips

(and sometimes from them)

it used to be so funny

how I wanted to grow up

tall, dark, and handsome

surrounded by beautiful women and money

lighting cigars off the green backs

supplied by a playboy bunny

Now life passes me, us, by

and every truth ever told

has no value, doesnt sparkle like gold

lies were the truth to me,

its all I was ever told

they flowed like water from the nile

abundant as they were

they never really satiated us kids,

more,

 

Now its so hard to live without those lies,

covering up any insecurity, doubts, regrets

and everytime I see my memory

I laugh, and thank whoever it may be

that the lies set me up to fail

failure is hard, life is harder

but once you fall flat you can only look up, hope

thanks, mom, dad,

for such a wonderful life

some folks get all the attention
and some folks brew coffee
some folks go live on television at 9
some folks take out the trash at the tv station

some folks, they say, long to not be known
they sit in their cubicles, wait tables, laminate construction paper,
all for the greater good
and some, i hear, desire nothing more than a great name.
famous cubicle sitter, waitress extraordinaire, or THE construction paper laminator.

some folks get all the attention
but some folks just brew your coffee
or grow it
or produce the fecal matter with which your coffee is fertilized.

some folks get all the attention
but other folks have all the power

I pretend the pillow next to me still holds your shape.

I pretend that comfy mass is you, safely wrapping me up,

Enfolding me within you while I dream.

I pretend you still need me, or even want to

Need me. I pretend that you’ll wonder where

I am when we’re not together.

I pretend that all this is a joke,

And that whatever she says to you you spit

Back in her face.

I pretend I am different, that

I am not like all the others you’ve deserted only

So you can sulk in your corner, lonely

And bothered. I pretend

It doesn’t bother me when you act like I’m not

There. I pretend there’s

Still hope, when all there is is

Still-hope, stagnant.

I pretend you’ll come around

Soon enough, ready to take me in,

Drink me up with each kiss, each hand on my face.

I pretend these things are real,

And maybe, not just hopeless

Memories.

I can’t seem to feel my extem
ities as well as I once
had
but
that’s a matter of conj
ecture

For a moment I was fal
ling and for a moment I
was due to dro
p
and it was going to
hurt
I’m cert
ain

I was caught, though, la
st minute by the
belt by you and you said
you never were rea
lly letting
go

But for a mome
nt I
felt like I was
falling