I drink my fine wine straight from
it’s un-stoppered, long-necked bottle,
and I don’t abide by those cheep
hot dogs, or fail to spring for extra
croutons on my Wendy’s Side Salad.

I’ll play all the songs I write on a
dime-store guitar from the sixties and
tune the strings with a pair of pliers
while swearing up and down (and
all too often) that Fender Telecasters
are the way to go.

I’ve driven American all my life
and done so far too late and
far too fast and far too often
for my health and wallet to
warrant, all for the thrill of watching
the speedometer go up while
the gas gauge goes down.

And finally, when all is
said and done, I’ll probably sit
down late one night.

And over
the course of a couple of hours,
between sips of wine and bites of hot dog, just before I tune my guitar
(only a bit after I turn off the car),
I’ll write about it.

Mostly, it’s been
somewhere else, with
largely dis-proportioned, backwards
reasoning that gets between the
bits that seemed important just
a moment (or two) ago.

Meanwhile, Certainty
only lasts as long
as one can remain certain that their
certainty is certainly
well-placed, while
continuing to remember that
only fools are certain.

Everyone knows, though,
exactly what it’s all about, and
and everyone, though certain,
certainly has their doubts,
even in the foggiest of
particularly foggy situations.

There’s a great deal of fog
somewhere else.
Apparently.

Even if
beauty cannot heal the hand that bleeds
in self-helplessness
a compass cannot delineate the reach of
self-conflict
I cannot wear the skin I am in
with a red lipstick smile
Do not leave me behind

Even if
high heel shoes make the world taller
hateful eyes spin their dark
love loses elasticity and heart
Do not make me so old

if you are happy and you are aware of it put your hands together
if you are happy and you are aware of it put your hands together
if you are happy and you are yourself aware of it
and you are desiring to have someone with whom
you can share it with
if you are happy and you yourself are quite aware of it then quit
standing around and put your hands together in a noise making
fashion

this will demonstrate your happiness

we make ripples
pathways of stone through serene grass
to avoid filthy mud

I knew it, I blew it,
but perhaps all is not lost, judging
from the lines on the bit that
doesn’t exist, (the lines are there,
just the bit is missing).

Triage is the next step,
weighing options, measuring
wounds, taking vitals and
writing everything on a big clippy-clip
board to be mulled over by the men
in my head with stained white
coats and thick-rimmed glasses.

What to do, if anything.

just look around you
and find inspiration i think
but then find it must come
from within me
(rather than without)
for it to be of much worth

awhackinstein
is a beautiful thought from within
but where to go from there…..

Herein lies the remains of my
latest bout of uninspiration,
muscles sore and mind on fire
learning things about things I
never new I had to learn before
and it is glorious. Or rather, not
so glorious, as immensely, immensely
satisfying.
Herein lies the crusted bits
from around the outside
of a fully-beating heart

to write a poem
about leaves falling
fluttering fragments
of the sky

but instead
i’m thinking about
what to write
on your parents’ sympathy card
choosing words to
express how blessed i feel to have met
you
and how badly i feel this world’s been fucking
robbed.
and i’m
trying not
to offend their grief,
oceanic and black as india ink,
by claiming to possess even
an ounce.

i suppose it’s time

but instead
i’m keeping my eyes open
until i fall asleep
because i know
in darkness i’ll think of you
and then cry
again.

(i’d like to understand this world
as temporary, a lightning strike–
but it’s so fucking hard to see eternity
with these weak eyes.)

a thief broke through
my truck window
when the door was unlocked
and that hole where the lock
would have been

(came out on a first date
i walked up to the door and
put my key to open it for you
proud of my chivalry i shuddered
when the lock came out of the door
stuck to my key)

could have been opened just
by sticking your finger
through the hole and pushing
down

but you shattered my window
ripped off my dashboard and stole
the stereo you sold to me (probably already
stolen)
you told me it was one brand and gave me
another a week later.

you liar. signed the waver “p. diddy”

so here i stand in a junk yard
pulling apart pre-’85 chevy trucks
and removing windows then doors
then dashboards and discussing the price
of a car which runs but is worth very little
more than the $125 you get for turning
it into a box of scrapped metal

and i feel at home in your junk yard
across the street from where they’ll
open the wal-mart next week if everything
goes to plan and

the world (and your shack of a house) slowly moves
out of focus as i realize

your hot pants dont make me feel awkward
in the least

My
Fingers
Ache
wanting nothing more than
dancing over valves
along a saxophone.
But if I were at home alone,
The ache would
blow away,
Most likely in the
key of Bb Minor.

i will never, ever
revise a poem after i
have dropped my pen
(or saved the document)

a poem is a moment in time
even

if

you spell
or punctuate it improperly

even if you fuck up on
some simile or metaphor
and none of it sounds
the way you’d intended,
because

chief

that’s the poem!
that’s life!
you do not have a time
machine so do not pretend
you do and rewrite what
has already been done
the best you can do
is make amends with
what just happened and
try and correct it at
the moment it goes wrong
but don’t you dare touch
my reality after it’s
been done unless you’re
willing to show me

notarized

documented

undeniable

proof

that you are,
in fact,
in possession
of a time machine.

on hedges where the green
grows so short it’s truly a green

and while

we dont play golf but we pursue
peruse the grounds smoking cigars
wearing jackets and beards we look
back on in our later lives
and think

“i have a mancrush on me in former
days. damn i looked good”

and we smoke ourselves into the floor
because thats what we do
we pursue excess as we peruseOURworld