Turritopsis Nutricula

I promise
to be always your lamplight.
Rooted outside your window even
when the cold is breaking me.
And always your room
will be lit by my bulb,
even dimly, sometimes,
but I will glow if I can, when
I can’t, I will flicker
your fingers and nightlight
your walk home. Though I
cannot claim to be
the brightest light you will find,
I will be constant, and will
be your window’s sunrise.
There will be days I may start
to burn you. I will try to
not be the fire and only
the light, I am sorry
when I don’t get that right.
And

I promise
to be always your window
I will show you
the most beautiful things.
Lay your head near me;
hear how easy you make
my wind breath. Let me
whisper you lilac, and
cool your pillow before
you sleep. I cannot claim
to be the world, but I can
show it to you, and what you
want to, you can see through me.
There will be
days when I will not open,
when the force of your
fingers even cannot pry
fresh air from me,
when this happens,
I am sorry. And

I promise
to be always your pillow.
Yes lumpy, yes old, yes
imperfect and feather leaking;
I know I am like this
in the same way I know I am yours.
I cannot claim to be the silk
or the dream, but I can always
try to help you to sleep.
You may rest your head on me
at the end of each long day,
I was made just to carry that weight,
I can promise you that.

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12.27.2012, Palm Springs

I want to lay down with you
the way the shadow of the cloud
lays down on the mountain. Gentle
as a sigh. The moon is bright, tonight,
brighter than I’ve ever caught it,
like a circle ripped out of the sky,
might it be that it shines to remind me
that you are shining, like always,
lighting my way to the sky.

11.21.2012

though my body makes
the crescent of moon
that is nightly
wrapped around you,
it is the night
of your sky, the bright
of your stars, and
the holy that fills
your heavens which
allows my sleeping moon
to shine while
waiting for your sun
to rise.

fool with telescope

more starfish than stardust, I’m
all limb and no magic,
bottom oceaned away from the moon.
even near the shore
I am more
sunken brig than fleet,
moored, now, and cleaning
off seamonkey cobwebs from
my stern,
with its eyebrows furrowed.
Encompassed, I face east
and play west on soft bells
just amber enough to hint
at stargazing, but
only secretly, and my
telescope is full of
fish anyways, so I
seasalt more brilliant
than those murky depths
and grasp at straw moons
that are already ablaze.
And here I am.
with all this water
but not a ship in sight
and so many miles away.

9.20.2012

For Tara 

even when our kisses 
are as brief and hard to catch 
as the sparrow landing on the branch
the bird song will whistle my heart beat. 

for the sacred drowning

Sometimes I am
the drunken sunrise painting of a man
yelling, blue fisted, in cigarette cheap beer knock-off ecstasy
at the parking lot of my stasis
even my well-rehearsed rooftop sermons
are somehow forgotten. I
have spent all my years trying to learn
to exalt and still struggle
to the sing the finish phrases of
hallelujah. I force out

Hallelujah,
for man-kind
Hallelujah
for beauty
Hallelujah
for love

I am gritting my teeth
on the precipice of an understanding
where I’ve stood for the bulk of
my elephantine lifetime
and lips parted been

BLOWN

back to the in-between a thousand times
Only to claw through the desert
back to the mountain
And still find no answers
No war calls, no prayers

And man-kind
sings in me
And beauty
sings in me
And love
sings in me
I still have not learned how to sing.

I would burn both my hands
and forswear all future holiness
to speak fully, once, and gut myself
just to meet the fire inside me,
fire of love, bellowing

HALLELUJAH

from the empty space
behind my impotent tongue.

Writhe tongue.

writhe,

writhe,

writhe unholy terror
behind tongue and clear out
with ash blockage clotting
the throat and lungs and
writhe blood clots stopping the
finger tips until

the fire, holy fire of love,
is clear of smock excrement
and can be released freely
and barrel forward at the
breakneck of intention
without burning
Intention of

Hallelujah
all man-kind
Hallelujah
all beauty
Hallelujah
all love, truth, holiness, hallelujah

I am the dirt of mankind,
but I sing praises to the faces
on mountaintops and statues,
hallelujah, from the rooftops,
exaltation and ecstasy
from the vagabond unshaved in
dying towers, hallelujah,
until we shout ourselves hoarse
and attain holiness
even just before death
And in dying holy, exhale,
truthfully
hallelujah
from our open mouths
before swallowing the rain
and drowning holy hallelujah
for the drowning of man-kind

Just to remember
Not to forget
The Fire.

It Snow Matter

like many children do
while they are still soft headed and tender,
I once watched the world from my wet-toothless mouth
and lovingly slobbered the sensory beauty of all new things,
while tracing contours with my curious tongue
and probing names into walls.

Before I was taught the correct routes to seek knowledge,
I drunkenly learned, this way,
how the world is shaped.
But, in my unappeasable gigantic appetite for new wonders,
I blindly swallowed whole
something larger still than I exist
and, at too young of an age, got it violently stuck
in between my lungs and my throat. Now I choke
on my attempts to cough out simple truths and
have adopted meditation instead of saying anything,;
honesty
is more than I can chew.

Before they break surface,
the silk web you can see starting right
behind my tongue
catches full sentences and slows their forced movement
to the deliberate desperation of the last drop of tooth paste in a
four person bathroom. I
gasp through straws pointed straight at the sky
for the strength to say more than my silent internal can imply. Maybe I
am both the eye and the storm.

If that is indeed possible.
If not
why can’t I get this thunder out?

It snow matter.
Just the bellowing beneath me,
before I learn to speak.

Second Half of the Midnight Shift

how lucky we are, those
of us who get to watch
sunrises, especially those
of us who watch them
through the blazing frame
of recently cleaned windows
mounted daringly on top of
the world, or maybe just
on the 12th floor of a
building which clings like a
mother to midnight shifts
and claws late moons to half
dreamed ribbon and fills its
nest in this way. The sun

cut right through me today.

why write poetry

Amidst increasing hordes
of number faced suits who
can calculate at the speed
of sound and are ticker taken
by the handful and swallowed
or rejected by monolithic
buildings stacked on top of
each other, stacked on top of
each other in cities that more
and more look like and function
as circuit boards only
lighting up less and dimming down
more and more until each
city becomes another defunct
gigantic ATM, it has become
increasingly important to notice
rabbit tracks, and wonder
if snow hurts when it falls.

Cairo (Cay-ro, a small town in Missouri)

I’ve been kept up at night
with thoughts of Cairo,
such beautiful despair.
So far in nature from your
Egyptian namesake;
so quiet and so bare.

So tonight I won’t sleep
in honor of Cairo,
a town that’s slept too hard.
And blanket my body
in vines and rubble,
and lay out in the yard.

And if I grow old
I will grow old like Cairo,
so far from its own birth.
I’ll break down my buildings
and re-grow my weeds,
and sink back to the earth.

Greyhound, 7.12.2012

the first man
who wore a tie on the bus
was young but
dressed in a different era.
his white shirt
partitioned by thin blue lines
was yellowed
at the collar as if he
had been nervous
in this shirt many times before.
in his abstract print tie
(all pastels)
and impeccably shaped hair at
the nape of his neck
and back of his ears
I watched him fill forms out
and snack,
the whole bus ride
on raw

lettuce.

Fireworks Over Correctional Facilities, Omaha Greyhound Facility, 7.4.2012

The Santa Fe International Hostel has
a strict 1 bug per bedroom policy.
In some rooms, mine included,
this complementary beetle is dead.
This rule also extends to the bathrooms
(I learned at one in the morning)
and ostensibly the kitchen, lounge,
patio, front patio, upstairs bathroom,
etcetera.

A similar policy that the greyhound bus
service has enacted, states that
there must be at least one drunkard
per station. If not
one racist cop who suspects
one indian, native american,
mexican, hispanic, or generically
brown skinned person to be drunk.

During a 7 hour layover in Albuquerque,
I found that each time I
returned to the bathroom,
one more stall had been shut down,
slowly closing in on the single
stickiest and most terrifying toilet
in New Mexico, and possibly
greater North America.

My united states
has always been untarnished by
incompetent bus drivers who break
their glasses thus forcing
day long delays. And previous
to this week, I could not claim
any friendships with former
meth addicts, convicts, Canadians,
or people with face tattoos.
But this fourth of July,
I watched fireworks over a correctional
facility next door to a bus station
in Omaha, Nebraska and felt
a startlingly strong kinship
with the grab-bag mix of
tired, poor, huddled masses
who were all heading buckshot
across these fifty states. America,
you are not the golden coastal
cities I was grown in, with
their discreet poverty and
painted skies.
You are vast expanses of
aluminum plate houses and fields
of empty nothing dotted with
more motels than your inhabitants
can fill. Still
when the fireworks started
for a holy second
we all
caught our breath
and watched the sky
hopeful as our forefathers
And dreaming of the possibility of new life.

Santa Fe #2

the juxtaposition
of classic rock
and jarring mariachi
that he plays
synchronizes perfectly
with the street performer’s
tuxedo print shirt
and well tailored suit.
A combination
which could only be so perfect
on a street like this
where the sunlight
seems to radiate from
the trees themselves
considering skies so grey.

Filling opera houses is impressive
but making strangers
stop walking, and sit
and smile
Is a special brand of holy.

Santa Fe

for Tara

you are so sunlight
so sunrise
so sun. I
am sometimes the moon
but usually the dreamcatcher
though never the dream.

I will be grasshopper
to your lightning bug.
Listen carefully
even now
hear my heart chirp.

Beauty begets Beauty

For Tara

I wish I could capture
the beauty of California
for you
and the romance
of the weeds which
make knots of themselves
and boomerang green
chasing yellow flowers
which will explode
into dandelions, Someday.
Knowing only how to exist,
so simple, yet
unteachable.
I want to thread lavender
and mint between
your fingers and trace
your lips with
lemon leaves
and show you where the
grass grows even under
dead trees.
I want to kiss the spot
where the ocean meets the
rocks with you.
And plant gardens
and grow love in
abundance.
I’ve seen the sun play miracles
against your eyes
It’s undeniable.
And here
where the sun is already kind
I’d like to see the magic
you would bring.
In the meantime
I stitch post cards and photos
skintight on to my chest and
imagine holding them strong
against you. I pray
for the sun to love us both
unsparingly and rename
the prettiest days
after you and
where daydreams are always beautiful
I always dream of you.

He gets through the day

Each morning
as he wakes up
he breathes the knots
out of his back and
wonders how his body aged
40 years over night.
He has a way of finding
deep tragic humor
in counting the places
his body holds aches
each morning. In fact
he finds a wealth
of humor in
all his deep tragedies
How to else to escape those
unexplained imperfections
than to laugh? It’s
the unexplained
that scares him most
The small constellation
of circular scars on
his arms that he
remembers dreaming
but can still find with
his fingers and eyes
closed. If not by
smiling to them
so hard
his cheeks press his
eyes tight
how else to avoid
counting them and
confirming there are more?
He will tell you
if you press this issue
that it is a pity
to pity oneself.
He has yet to be told
it is equally pitiful
to ignore
one’s own mortality.
He’ll tell you
if death were
a real person
like in stories
he would like to smoke
a cigarette with death
It’s clear
he doesn’t get the irony yet.
He is
like smoke, and claims
all people are.
Beautiful
because he is transitory;
changing shape for the
duration of he existence
and riding the wind into
non-being. He
loves the ride.
By the time he lies down
at night, he will have shed
the weight of age that wakes him
and feel helpless as if
new born. He fears this
more than waking up forty
years older than he should be.
And when he washes the dishes
he whistles and wishes
to sleep easy that night
but never does.

Something simple to cleanse the palate, Part 2

Now that one that could never be, is.

When I first thought I had love
I looked for it in wax
But melting is destructive
and wicks cannot grow back

The second time I sought love
I found it in the flame
All heat, but short of substance
and quickly growing tame

And when I thirdly felt love
The smoke was where it lay
But without wick or fire
I lost it in a day

Now finally I know love
And chide my foolish soul
Not wax, nor smoke, nor fire, but
the Candle as a whole

a screech right outside of my living room at 1:30 in the morning

on the black garage roof
thrust into the sky by
the black garage walls all
covered in trees was
a single black cat. Solitary
on the roof top like
the last piece of ice at
the bottom of the glass which
I left inside as I ran
out the door the moment I
heard it. A single black cat
playing with the shivers
on my spine with his
viciously sorrowful night howls.
Dear big eyes,
I saw the reflection of you
looking at me in
the flashlight. Right
at me. How did you know
how alike
we are
?