i live for moments
where (like right now)
my heart is beating
slightly too fast
and i’m just a little
faint as the wind blows
through the window
across my face and furls
my brow but i don’t notice
because i’m completely
wrapped up in what’s
happening and awaiting
my chance to say something
i hope is profound
but will probably just
be profoundly stupid.

i live for moments
like these, where my
pulse is near-to-death-inducing-freedom-from-this-world

if there is no skin
if we’re all just the same
then why don’t i hear
you crying my name
when you sit on the pulpit
your eyes all aflame?

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.

the room fills slowly
with eyes roaming to and
then slowly back again
while mouths stay shut
and people sit anxiously
trying not to wiggle too
much or to avoid having
to re-cross their legs
and thus re-adjust their
junk in the midst of mixed
company where the conversation
topic will be anything
but comfortable while
all will nonetheless agree
about it’s importance to
their everyday lives and
their thoughts though
the teachers may do a
downright terrible job
and therein lies the rub.

are you here for what
i have to say? or what
the one in charge will teach
you.

there will be a dramatic difference.

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.

i spit in to this river
because we all must.
to add our little bit
to the bowl of bacteria
in hopes someone downstream
will drink.

you indignant monster
maybe you are green
at the towns-folk for
their primal jeers

conversly

they hear your cries
echo through the valley
and are angered and
who is the chicken?

I SAY BOTH

I SAY

AFTER THE MELEE

WITH THE PITCHFORKS
STREWN ABOUT

WITH THE BLOOD ON YOUR
GREEN SKIN

YOU’RE ALL CHICKENS
AND THERE ARE NO EGGS
AND I HEAR YOUR CRIES
DOWN THE VALLEY STILL

and i will meditate
on your tears.

i’ll record this conversation
a record for my books
a place to keep my thoughts
away from dirty looks

this guy with whom i’m talking
doesn’t even open his mouth
but i see him in the mirror
the best looking in the south

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

a smile for a sitting friend
walking through the park
in the middle of the city
streets surrounding people’s
lives changed day in and day
out of the country, towards
the city with lights and friends
and the promise of the lack
of loneliness, though you quickly
find it’s an empty promise a
promise you never will leave
me alone in such streets as
these where the only green is
isolated to a small square a few
blocks from here, a park
with police of it’s own. a park.

there is no human in us anymore
our arms are in need of refinement
with them we cut through our surroundings
like drops of oil in water

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.

clouds move in
and the sky, blue/darkblue/simply
dark
now

you’re not overwhelmed
but you are literally
being smothered by the cold the
rain has brought. and the reminder
that this week you are no longer
the invincible young’n you were
last week.

in the parking lot like
a pile of garbage
there lies the baby bird
who fell from his nest
gruesomly reposed
permanently although
you only see him on
your ways in

out

and you note “oh, poor
thing is still there”

but he’s been there every
aching moment
getting ground by feet
and wheel and
turning slowly into dust
and
getting eaten by bacteria

he won’t move unless
something moves him

it’s
invisible in plain sight
no one wants
his unfortunate
circumstance
on them

and the bacteria add
to the illusion
that every aching moment
doesn’t ache at all
and that things just
disappear.

a line
here
to distinguish
from it’s friends
above and below

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.

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

Ha! Cataclysm. Abstractionism.
Death by boredom. Babyism.

I do not do what I promise to do.
Unless, my promises are to you.

But if my promises are nerves on
tightropes, choking, babyblue —

Then here’s a predicament. Set
like an old watch, whose arms

grew and grew. Set like a footpath
under winter’s slimy rot. Wretched.

Like a stomach flu. A list of words
sit upon the desk, each one a tiny star

in a Universe of rain and fire and
blistering light. Each one screams

out for something useful to do.
Here’s yours, Ms. Hopscotch —

A fat tick in all the boxes; the final
one says Who? Who, my dear, are you?