I dreamed of you that evening;
all of the luster and intoxicating scent
and every smile was a subway token
and every story was a beautiful potted plant
on a windowsill,
halfway up a tall, tall mountain

And the ground opened up before me
and a Djinn appeared
and it stared in to my Immortal soul
and said not a word
and though it frightened
it did not deter
and I was stalwart when it bellowed
and I was unyielding when it clawed
and though it’s malevolence was immeasurable
and it’s breath too hot to bear
I did not flee or startle
for I knew that a Djinn,
powerful though he was,
was not a match at all
for reality

I cast my jacket to the ground
and walked on in the warmth
of the setting sun

When his thermometer read
each of those seventy-four degrees
it was disparity

His man had sworn it
not a notch past sixty-five;
his universe shattered

When I was 14 there were
a few small pieces of paper
that were everything and
it was phone numbers mostly
and one of them had those ideas
for that film I’d like to make
and then a list of singles
that I would try to download
as time allowed
through one of three peer-
to-peer file sharing networks
(fingers crossed they were clean)
and now it’s almost a decade
and almost the same amount of paper
but instead of folded neatly in
a corner of my wallet or wedged
in the back of a spiral notebook,
they’re all tucked away in Washington
and Goodness willing they’ll
stay that way and Goodness willing
this time next decade they’ll still
mean
something

And I say to you,
with the cloths tied in your unkempt hair
and your smug smile and your foul lips
and the swagger you seem to reserve for
every waking momen
and the lack of cash to fund you
and the lack of food to feed you
and the fact that these two truths stem
from a lacking in other parts,
I say,
What gives you the right?

This murder sits as a beggar’s banquet
waiting to be fed by those
who would give all of their love
If they had it to give

But I have fed these foul crows before
and though my coffers are full
These will get no charity from me;

My coffers are full but my patience
for animals,
for simpletons alike,
Has run as dry as Giza,
In it’s later years

their dowry is composed of stinging plants
and biting insects because these things are
all that they can feel in this world, really.

They scratch ’til they bleed most every night
and hope that everyone notices and scream
if anyone looks for too long or tries to suggest
that scratching was a bad decision.

They hold their bloodied bandages aloft in
the centers of busy shopping malls and they
announce that everyone is wrong because
it isn’t supposed to hurt when you scratch
that much.

And when nobody listens, they know
that they hare vindicated.

And God Forbid you recommend a different
sort of dowry.

Then again, at least their plants and insects
are readily available these days, else
these private martyrs would never have dowries
at all.

Faust played on the radio
As a green truck ran by
(It was an NPR station I’m sure)
And there I was
Standing in the street
Minding my own business
And some green truck blaring
Faust rolls by
And I was just minding my own
Business but
How am I supposed to feel
After all of that, anyway?

I was handed a key
previously
to a door I had yet to encounter
so I
stowed the key away
in a small box
and away it hid
beneath a stack of
old filings
in a desk drawer
and now
I am faced with a door
I have no key to
unless I go back and
dig under those filings
or at least
that’s how I feel
sometimes

Oh Mom
I’ve been watching the steeplechase
and I keep wondering
why the runner in the back
is getting such high marks
I mean this is a race,
that is, a steeplechase
and he’s running and all
and he just keeps getting such high
marks
and I’m just wondering, Mom,
how someone in the back can
come in second?
Why can’t they just let him race,
Mom?
Why can’t they just let him
lose?

It was like any other day
but the martyr refused to die
though his death would save
millions
and his fate was all but
assured
and it wasn’t even going to hurt
that much,
anyway,
and actually he didn’t even
have to die

I saw a sandhill crane yesterday
it flew with purpose and it
did not stop to look around
and it didn’t have to measure twice
before it cut once but I
am not a sandhill crane
nor can I fly nor can I exist
so precisely but I will
strive for both but I will
still measure twice every
time I’m about to make a
cut

She had a kind face
and was well-proportioned
and carried herself well
and talked shit about the
right kinds of beer
(and that’s important
this day in age, to a
gentleman of such fine
repute)
and maybe you know her
like you thought you did
or maybe it’s just that
she’s America’s Sweetheart
living and breathing and
all, but that truck got
you up there once, by God,
and it’ll get you back
up there again, by God,
and maybe she’d like
an evening out and a
nice, cold beer or two

I swear that I will live my life
with all the rigiditiy that an
18-year-old black Christian can
muster up, and I will love right
and I will think right and I will
never make fun of anyone unless
it’s as childishly as I am able
because that’s not completely
contradictory with everything else
I have to say, right?

I’m always a fan of a good cut
of beef or a batch of tenders
and I guess you’re not too
upset about either of them
what with your present tenure
and maybe you hate it but
maybe it’s alright if you
get to watch the Heat
every now and then

To be awkward in every photograph
or to understand the numbers but
not the score

and to be happy, mostly, about it

The Trombone Master’s is a lonely road
but keep on, at least in spite.
I couldn’t even sell the thing
if I tried.

And then there’s the door creaking
while she sneaks out in to the night
and there was just enough time to
scrape loose change in to a mason jar
so she could buy that ticket home

And thank her God it wasn’t all
his money, this time around. And
Thank her God it will all be over
soon. After all it was the both
of them, that did that awful thing.

And thank her God that hers is
a forgiving one, anyway.

And thank God he’s going to be
alright.

From the tall ships that would be so regal and true
were it not for the outboard motors pushing them down the lane,
to the mile of perfectly empty private beach,
or the water too cold to swim in despite the blazing sun,
or the raccoon, wet and delirious, clinging to the middle rung
of an emergency ladder on the pier, snagged by a DNR man with
a long snare on a pole and stuffed hissing and growling
in to a stainless steel carrying-box, where does one start?

Three Words, actually,
I think:

Fuck South Haven

IF I BREATHE A LITTLE HARDER I
THINK I CAN MAKE THE
sweat stop dripping but the
POUNDING IN MY CHEST IS QUITE
INDICATIVE OF A HARD GO
even if it wasn’t a long one
but that’s all I can really
PUT TO IT THIS TIME AROUND AND
I GUESS I’LL JUST HAVE TO
put a but more to it next time
around and then
MAYBE I CAN GUAranTEE THEre’LL
BE a TIme after THAt

(and with all the sweat
the fan feels that much softer
and with all the burn
in the throat and lungs
the water really does feel
like life in a bottle.

This must be what
Commander Keen felt like.)

You fight for all the things
that make you uncomfortable
but only
when you’re alone at night
and I wonder how much
you sob

Your heart must cry out
for every little injustice done
and your fingers must
clench so tightly

How much does it hurt,
really?
Or do you simply
hurt yourself, so at least
you have something

At lest you can tell your friends
that you’re a real person.
Some of them, why,
they might even believe it

But really your pockets are full
and if your point is proved
you’ll win whatever merit badge
there is to be awarded

and when they pin it on I
hope they slip and the blood stains
just enough to be embarrassing
and I hope the medal
wears a hole in your shirt and
and I hope the next time you clench
your fist, your fingers break.

I hope you break
every single one