poetry

worms on the sidewalk

poetry

we went downtown and we made it happen
me, dustin, and brown boy went to an
unchristened skate shop to score some
of that ol’ pick-me-up-rocket-ship

we rode it back to locust and pine
where the drunkards were yelling

i was smashed and kind of on edge
facing face to face with faces
reminding them that johnny law
has an itchy trigger finger (ya dig?)

ms. white was in the closet talking
budgeting and finance, cogs and
gears and regicide and fire

we were howling at the lonely moon
wringing whiskey out of the night’s
spirit-soaked blanket
with jesus asleep on the couch
and
the sky had white clouds blocking
the stars just because

we had the tunes and the intoxicants
flowing like blood through the streets while
the men and women with twisted spines
were trying to sleep under itchy sheets with
the sound of our madness ringing in their
ears keeping their stupid dreams from ever
coming.

99

poetry

Ninety nine contacts
Scrolling up.
Center.
Past.
Gone.
Ninety nine names
With ninety nine voices
And flesh.
And blood.
And bone.
Ninety nine lives
Re /
duced
To ninety nine numbers.
(2 99 #’s)
Souls circulated like
Business cards.
Ninety nine entries
Of ninety nine strangers
And calling them friends.
Clutching this phone
Like my favorite sin.

technology, entertainment, design

poetry

i posit that all of this gas
and carbon nonsense is
the molecules within a falling
raindrop, electrons and
other scientific things popping
and fizzing as supernovas in
a black abyss. that chances are
we will be crushed on an umbrella,
that man will have spent all
of his time sitting in front of computer
screens, watching geniuses blabber,
positing about carbon and raindrops,
and plop,
right on some 9 year old’s hannah
montana umbrella. she’ll be livin’ like
us, ears closed, just like one big
epic irony. for feelings,
i guess.

It takes twelve minutes to boil an egg

poetry

It took Plath less than twelve to boil her head.
The skinny clock hand that creeps around so fox-like
Doesn’t care if you made it all the way to the
Platform, just one hair after the last train home
Slips away, slug in a rug, down the chimney tunnel.

And like the cheeky alarm clock that taps its little
Toes all night long, like the fractures that creep
Their way into bingo-playing bones, it’s coming for you.
While your tea turns to a swamp and your cornflakes
Turn to baby vomit in their bowl, it’s coming for you.

So kiss me harder next time, because it’s coming for you
And don’t let your beer go warm like you have done.
Because it’s coming for you, and there’s no way of stopping it.

By Extension

poetry

I never would have thought—
Wouldn’t even have thought to think
(And certainly didn’t)
A year ago—
That this is where we would be.

Now another year has passed—
And I can only imagine
(Just barely)
As the next one comes—
How much more awaits us then.

This gift, and I’m so undeserving—
I’ll never understand how it happened
(But it did)
And by extension—
I’m the luckiest man alive.

re-collection

poetry

on sweaty nights after a concert
where we wore sweat pants to
challenge the social norms
and wandered back on silent
roads made even more so by the
faint ringing in our ears turned
slow buzz in recovery from standing
in the front row hoping for a better
view of the band.

the stars were always out in
majesty on those
nights

Stars

poetry

There are stars
and they’re burning
somewhere, billions of
miles away, and
I see them.

But there’s a haze
(at least)
between us and them
and all things considered,
the red road flares
out-beautiful
the stars,
at least tonight.

Youme

poetry

Sitting alone on a coffee stained couch
The youme contemplates irrelevant things
And raps fingers against a wine glass
Till its sloshy contents near escape

The youme refuses dinner tonight,
No longer needing the things that
Normal people seem to need like
Sleep or regular daily activities

How long a youme could stay indoors
Is anyone’s ridiculous speculation
Days and months could sail past
Before reality becomes a necessity

Books become long lost friends
And films become anxious memories
What could a youme possibly know of time?
Other than that it is deceiving

And when all is said and justly done
Who should care for a youme’s fate
When cars rush by like bloodstreams
And people exchange one another like coins.

just another day

poetry

hit the alarm clock like it’s a cockroach
approaching my child and
snooooooooze
just to wake up still far too early
to have a moment where the house is my
own, where i’m the king of the castle.
if i’m lucky, breakfast proceeds this way.
take my kids out. wrestle. feed. wrestle.
run out the door by 9 and school followed
by lunch with folk. spicy. often painfully
so. but diarrhea was part of the job description
i knew when i signed on. tea. not british
pansy crap. real fantastic, chest hair growing
tea. with people. anyone really. are you willing
to talk? yea I’m american. please don’t ask me
about politics.
i don’t carry a business card. no i can’t tell you
what i do. you want to die? you wanna go to
prison for a very long time? i thought not.
more school. a book here. maybe one there.
home. wrestle, tickle, wrestle the two year old
hit the streets with a double stroller.
i’m a family man.
dinner down your face, down your throat,
NEXT.
and hit the couch with reason.
television numbs some pain. books do too
but unless it’s harry potter i’ve read too much all
day. yea, it’s english this time, but come on.
then beer (if it’s the weekend). and bed….
prepare to whack the cockroach, tomorrow
looks the same.
from here the view is fantastic. holy crap
i get paid to do this?

alone

poetry

again,
not for the first time,
nor for the last time,
knowing this to be
merely a state of being
that will go on,
and on,
ad infinitum;

so pour another drink
my imaginary friend,
and let’s sit together
and talk about the past,
regaling each other
with memories
of who we once were
and who we used to be,
laughing and crying
all at the same time,
in the presence,
of good company.

this to close the month

poetry

on the last day before i’m the father of a two year old
(a title you never get back)
i feel i should commemorate

sure i’ll remember this day as day four without
a solid stool
or i’ll remember it as 29 days since i was
the brunt of a well played ‘fool”s joke’

but will i remember the night before sheer
terror? the first of its kind until the night
before i’m the father of a teenager

have i fallen so fast? college was yesterday
and high school last week, wasn’t it?

on this, the last day before i’m the father of a two year old
i feel i should commemorate

with a song

“oh kid you bring me joy
i know there are better words
but i cannot find them to employ
oh kid, my lovely kid, you bring me joy”

dry miserable dry spell of dryness

poetry

flares are amazing tools to light the way in darkness. like a flashlight they bring light, but unique to a flare is the fact that you can throw it ahead of you. throw it into water and bring light to not just damp but wet places (should said flare be oxidized of course).

i lack the language to bring illumination
the darkness you bring to the table needs
a special light my AA batteries cannot
tackle. one i can pull from my back pocket
and show you page by page. but don’t get
too close, it burns like a flare

Falling into the sea

poetry

Through the lapping,
salty sheets I fell.
Deep and deeper into
the soupy blue-green blood.
Past whispering barnacles,
and seaweed that reached out
with skinny desperate arms
and shredded
legs.
Deeper, even deeper,
under silent coral the
color of brain-matter and rocks
with faces.

It wasn’t cold down there,
among the little aluminum
fish and psychedelic crabs.
It was warm and balmy.
These slippery creatures passed
each other so calmly,
like old, fragile men.
Stopping only to talk about
the weather.
Stopping only to
stop.
Nothing really happened down
there- were you expecting something
to happen?
I threaded my way back up again,
kissed the air, wrung out my hair
and waited for the
serotonin.

children’s book. sans illustrative aids

poetry

one two three four five six seven
there’s eight if you look close enough

yellow green orange purple
that last one is my favorite
blue is always the best flavor
ice cream soda sucker
pick blue pick blue pick blue
sometimes green is yummy mint
sometimes green is yucky pistachio

keys balls cars trains trucks
push and pull and build and drive and turn

baby mommy daddy big sister
horse bee cat chicken bird ant
barn sky sun moon up up up up!

re: Desert

poetry

deleting poems about snake oil
pant-less, dead bodies piled in
my closet. sniffing residue off
of the facts, and thinking about
throwing them out. writing the
letters about this period, cursing
because i haven’t thrown the
facts out the window yet. they cry,
i laugh. bought a skin cream
called “the darkness” and it
makes my skin seem ten fucking
years younger but i’m afraid
that it’s sinking into my soul,
also one of the ingredients is
snake oil. i can’t tell what
genre of humor the mind’s
assumptions fall under, and i
laugh but i don’t think that’s
right either. i think that there
is no need for searching
because all of the truth is
hidden under your nose.
turning around in my computer chair
thinking nothing.