Hereafter

poetry 
There is no darkness, no cold
in this ungoddened place
and  when I drift unmoored 
I do not suffer nor dream

in this infinity 
the light can not find me
love is hardly a memory
you are a stuttering moment 

and I am an effigy here
with dry hay stuffed down my back
and no fire to light it
useless to the last

Perceptibly In Motion

poetry 
It keeps turning I guess
kinetoscope
or a celluloid reel 
or a magnetic tape cassette 
pinned to a motor 
whirring and clicking 
on and on and on and on
unbroken unchanging 
and to stop would be
catastrophe
half  ice age that never melts away
while the other half bakes
in the nuclear heat of the sun
and I guess what is the lesser
of the horrors to face
as the show goes on
in its wretched way
or eventually that
the movie finally

if time could travel backwards part 9

poetry

i worked on the computer all day
while she sang opera
i had 3 cats who i treated like children
i drove a 2014 toyota rav 4

i want to go back i want to go back

there was love in the house at all times
like being alone and together at the same time
we practically radiated love
as if you could see it in the air
i want to go back

i want to go back i
want to go back

even if i would get distracted
or angry about something
it was like playing pretend
because we were always safe, together

completely safe and comfortable

comfortable and how we would touch
as a family would, a deep kinship
and consistent like how a clock works
how i want to go back

i want to go back
i want to go back, i want to go back
i want to go back
i want
to go
back
i want to go back

i even knew then, that i’d want to go back
it only gets worse from here
it only got worse from there
from then on
it only got worse
and i would want to go back

i was making enough money to keep them off my back
she was doing what she loved
and we loved each other
i am certain of it
and it’s a time that can only happen once
you’ve got a narrow window to not fuck it up
and if you don’t fuck it up, anyway
it will get worse

and you will want to go back
you’ll want to go back

you’ll want to go back want to go back
want to go back
want to go
back

to subtle purrs and snoring and a clicking ceiling fan as the saturday morning sun peaks through the window
and you eat german breakfast while staring out the window as the world just flashes by you like a montage
until you look back and it becomes different, somehow
any, how

and you’re going to want to do it all over again
you’re going to wish you could go back
and do something different
be better somehow
breathe deeper somehow
chew slower
think deeper
kiss longer
somehow

you’re going to want to go back
and that’s the one thing you cannot do

The Science of Bleeding Out

poetry 
You found me in the corner
fading fast while the lights flickered
and there was a big engine idling
outside, a wrecker or an ambulance
that somebody must have called
while I clutched my guts and I
tried to keep them in

and there was music playing
a little too loud
in the other room
and I clutched my guts
in the corner where you found me
while the big engine idled
and you tried to move me
but I was fading fast

and the lights kept flickering
as more and more of the blood
ran out but I could only clutch
so hard I guess and the music
kept playing in the other room
while my hands began to slip
and the song was singing to me
you've got to stem the evil tide
and keep it all on the inside
Mary you're nearly a treat
but you're really a cry

this terrible language

poetry

it hurts me to think i’m stuck using this language built for precision over poetic nature. perfect for history books, math, and logical arguments. lacking horribly for rhythm, vague nuance, dualistic meaning, sing-song tones, or painless alliteration.

somehow i am born in to a world doomed to be obsessed with poetry and devoid of a mother tongue to make it.

Maintenance

poetry 
It's such a cold custodial feeling;
the incessant push of care
against the unstopping rash 
of filth and oxidation

So I answer every text
as if it will make a difference
this time

and now and then I brush
through the crust of mildew
to see the white of tile 
but by the time I drink my water
and readjust my rubber gloves
the stains have come again 

and even though it's 4am
I return your latest call
and I refill the chemicals 
in my various spray bottles
until the emulated ringing sound
stops chirping in my ear
and I guess I have to leave
another voicemail


This is what it feels like to talk to God

poetry 
The Angels were calling to me
that night, through the frozen still 
as the street lights made the glaze
of fresh snow glow like magic 
and I was dross in a Pontiac
a bunched up whopper wrapper
jammed between the seats
praying to unfold enough 
to wait until the door swung wide
and flutter unnoticed 
out on to the icy drive
where maybe the Angels 
would find me, and cast me
not into the garbage heap

Body

poetry 
Like a rotting corpse
you follow me
and I without a word
step carefully
through damp woods
far enough from the freeway
where you can't hear cars

and I'll find a place
to rest and begin to dig
pressing a spade
in the soft earth
but the smell of turned soil
simply can't compare

when I am deep enough
I beckon you to the edge
and you only groan a little
as my Red Wing finds you
and there is no ceremony here
when the fresh dirt
starts to fill you in

and by the time I find the freeway
as the sun goes down
The stench has cleared my nostrils
and I can hardly even remember you
dead or alive or at all

Read Me Your Poem

poetry

I like phrases with repetition
that sing-song even without
any music at all, and I
like when it almost says
the same thing twice,
but it reads completely
different, and I like
when your eyes roll back
and you imagine to me
your own grand majestic
hymnal, in your 3am voice
on the telephone. and
I don’t care if you
spell anything right,
even in the repetitions,
because I like when it
almost says the same
thing twice, as long
as you write it down

a loneli ness

poetry

sounds of bugs and birds chirping
as the sounds of plants growing

look for food until
you get tired
look for sleep until
you fall into it

thoughts chattering in the meantime

whether your imagination lives in the ancient language of metaphor
or not

whether superpositioned wormholes allow for space travel
or not

it does not matter

there is nothing
for you
to do

Scalpings

poetry

what’s another rock I thought
as I cast a chipped hunk of granite
in to the dark pool at the bottom
of a long-flooded quarry

I watched the water break and ripple out
filled with industrial runoff
and whatever eggs had been left
by insects hardy enough to venture there

it was half-past midnight I guessed
in that moonlight in that springtime cool
picking up another stone
and wondering if I should call
or if it was still too late
even with the time change

a plop and another set of ripples
and the stars that much further
across the sky, Eastern or Mountain
it made no difference

If I’d only a bit more wasted rubble
I could have kept that water broken
until all the heavens had spun
and come almost back around

but with all the other rocks, I thought
in the dark pool at the bottom
of that long-flooded quarry
I must have thrown my phone instead

it’s like listening to emo when you’re happy

poetry

the world burns
and don’t ignore the fact that the world fucking deserves it
that motherfucker knew exactly what it was doing

yet i’m sitting in my very not-metaphorical hot tub
late
in the evening
gazing at the flames off in the distance behind the show-covered trees

and i’m happy damnit

not with the outcomes. or the fires. or the inevitable impending doom

but with this. right now. right here. things are fucking good. and fun. and there are so few moments where my own shit isn’t on fire i simply must take what i can get.

even death cab can be enjoyed with a smile.

it’s weird though.

A Wish

poetry

Everywhere you are
Is paradise

Every breath you take
We take together

Every dream with you in it
Is a wish

Every moment with you
Is forever

I will be here with you
As long as I am alive

And always I will keep you
In my heart and in my mind

Every day a wish fulfilled

america

poetry

i thank sc johnson
for the clean smelling shirt
as i fly over the yellow sea
with munitions to erase
the human mind
and lucky me that
my prayers kept the cancer
(colon, esophageal, pancreatic, et al)
at bay, long enough
and at least for these few more hours
to reflect on where
romance lives, far away
probably, with the pain
that started all of this

131

poetry

I have a terrible day-dream
and I am speeding down a highway
but the day-dream has me
so I hardly notice the cars
that beg to merge
into a southbound lane

and we are on a great golden cloud
flying over the Andes
or the Himalayas
or the Ural
or perhaps even the Appalachians
and the air is so cold and perfect
and cold
and we are gliding forth
impossibly

Look! There’s God! you say
when suddenly we arrive
on the highest peak on the range
and the great golden cloud
evaporates

We are just below the apex point
a hundred yards or so
but we can not see the top
God’s up there! you say and wave
and point and wave
the air is thin for us I think
but not for God I guess
as you start to climb

When you notice that I do not follow
you stop and turn and shout
Do you refuse to meet God?
This can not be god, I say.
God does not simply fetch you
up the mountain. How could you come
to know God, without the climb?

you shout again as I turn and leap away
in to a dark chasm down below
and I consider my fate as I fall
for what seems like a lifetime
as your voice echoes away
Better to perish in real darkness,
I think, than incinerate in some false light

and perhaps I die then, but I never know
for the awful day-dream always seems to end
as the fuel light chimes on

Outside

poetry

The rain is coming harder, now,
surging the storm drains useless
rattling the roof apart, it sounds like
and the power has flickered twice

so you keep packing your clothes
rolling and stuffing in to that ratty duffle

Modest Mouse is blaring on your stereo

and I am standing under the vestibule
glad for the cool that the storm pulled through
until the humidity kicks up
but I’m dry enough now looking in

and you fold your plastic poncho in half
so it will just fit in the side pocket
the rain will be gone soon, I guess

there’s the drip though, sneaking down
from some thin crack in the vestibule
to tap me on the bicep now and now
and Modest Mouse is blaring on your stereo
and I guess I’m dry enough

basest creatures

poetry

name it and give it rules
so that in the future you can replicate
something similar, but not the same
a soulless and shallow masked figure
with just you underneath
you

you you you

reify, hyperbolize, generalize
trick your god into believing
that you love him
so you can make it a part of
you

you you you

i am driven but not driving

poetry

i am driven by something foreign
like an alien-human body
stumbling around target

i am driven by a 2.5 litre 4-cylinder
engine made by toyota across
a bridge built in the early 1960s

where it smells like death
when the air gets stale
next to the garbage plant
of course it does

of course it does
dead dinosaur bones pile up
by the side of the road
and no one picks them up