poetry

There is a place not far from here
where the wind whips fiercely and
the sand and dust flies in your faces
so that you can not even think to go
further

The water is cold on this ill-tempered
beach and the ships have all come in just
to stay alive amidst a red-flag warning
and water was boiling and everyone was
cold and alone and etc etc etc

so we walked streets that offered nothing
and we saw ships that we fancied all the same
for different reasons. We watched the ducks.
You shivered.

We came back, then, from that treacherous place
feeling glad to be alive even if we hadn’t got
our toes wet like we wanted to, and as far as
I could care those waters are still boiling
and everyone is cold and alone and etc etc etc

except for some of us

this is the poem I want to be remembered by

poetry

there’s lots of talk
of electric cars, of
moon bases and jet packs,
but no one ever mentions
what wigs will look like
in 100 years.

They will have to be different.

A scientist will find
a way to grow human hair
on a mouse’s back. or
an explorer
will discover a mysterious root
in the heart of Brazil, which,
when laid across a bald scalp,
will attach itself and grow
an afro-like moss.

or, in an act of rebellion
against a society
hell-bent on preserving
“morally righteous” haircuts,
teenagers, in 3013, will begin
to wear brightly colored
and oddly shaped wigs. But this
will become the norm. And so,
in increasing efforts of
out-cooling one another,
the wigs will have to grow
more elaborate, looking less and
less like human hair.

Hats will be obsolete.

Barbers
will go out of business.

The bald will rejoice!

It will no longer be strange
to look out the window
of your fourth floor apartment
and witness an ocean
of clashing colors and
Dali-esque hairpieces.

And I,

I will don
a ten-story tall wig.
Bright pink, with sections for children to
play in and a slide that goes
from the top to my feet.
I will be

cooler

than all
of you.

The Light has Returned (Sestina)

poetry

Beyond the pinpoint of midnight there is a light.
And within that dollop of a spark there is heat,
The flames jockeying for position on a red wick.
From a hand protrudes a slender white candle
That connects to the silhouetted body of a man
There, some unknown messenger of long lost hope.

Like Noah’s dove, he has returned holding hope.
Grasping securely onto the remains of a guiding light
Wax slides onto his fingers as he raises the bright candle,
Incandescence illuminates the hands of this man
Coalescing gently over his skin, it purges liquid heat.
A wavering glow, desperate sparks cling to the wick.

A filament pyre, colors of fire race through the wick,
Cycles of autumn re-imagine the vision of hope
And will long sought deliverance be found in this man?
Has he come that we may walk in his marvelous light?
We in darkness have dreamed of knowing heat,
But until now have had no way to light our candles.

A great and reviving jubilation exudes from the candle
An ever-changing aura of flames frolic on the wick.
The winter of darkness has been overcome by heat.
And with that warmth comes an even superior hope,
As our eyes swell with promise at this newfound light
And it draws deliberately nearer in the arms of this man.

But why would he be mindful of another man?
Who are we that he would care for our extinguished candles?
Why would he come to crown us in his light?
Yet he beckons, that we would come near to his wick.
He promises to generously share this flare of hope,
And we will be renewed by the heritage of its heat.

Carrying the fire, our own bodies will emanate his heat
Selflessly given to us by this figure much more than a man.
And from his coming, we will walk forward in hope,
Abiding in the sight afforded to us by his candle
With his offering we are captivated by the golden wick
That we may forever return with him to the city of lights.

With the consuming heat that radiates from this man
We have understood that he is our only hope and as his candle
Has lit our wicks to burning, he declares, “I am the light!”

of a summer

poetry

what a pleasurable sensation.
so sweet a trickle- my toes,
so sticky my shoes so soon
to follow. I stepped
on a peach.
Her warm rotted breast making
mess of my sandals, the
easiest route to then tickle-my-toes,
the lapping and pooling of both
as my heels then opened
their mouths, learning to taste
for the first time.
(and sticky all the way home.)

Titanium Justice

poetry

I remember a thunderstorm
in a field one summer and
the lighting was better than
every firework I’ve ever seen

Then four years went by
and you packed up to go
from one place to another
though you stopped here
for a moment,
at least

Then four years were
purely inconsequential
and everything was just
as it always was and
if the sky cracks any differently
in Texas I know at least
you’ll see it the same

And thank you, for it.

yup, much more awesome though different than we’re taught.

poetry

and one day while lying in bed
and reading a clive staples commentary
on third or fifth-rate poetry,
it occurs to me that i’ve never written
a love poem. as in a poem about genuine
love and not the mushy gushy feeling
of pursuit and excitement. of the chase
so fleeting, wonderful yes, but no more love than avacado is ice cream though it shares a consistency.

and now married 8 years to the horribly imperfect, i think myself prepared
for a love poem. about dishes, fights, diapers, and choices again and again to be better than i think she deserves because i know undoubtably she’s being better than she thinks i deserve.
for though she sometimes thinks knows me to be an ass
she delights in my imperfection and offers patience with my foolishness.
finding that, in a way, we live thrive together somehow stronger with the constant struggle of maintaining one another;
stronger than we would be void of one another.
the choice so easy when weighed with the alternative.
so often left unweighed.
because to love is the choice.
the choice is to love.

the giant

poetry

depressed
modern
eating disease
today-america
apathetically excretes
missiles
and
inference

in god-like
proportions

equal in appetite
necessarily naive
an organism
kept ignorant
by the very structure
of her foundation

this cell,
laughs!
and whistles while he
labors!
for where else are
we to go?
where there is only
servitude, or exile?

(Fear) not

poetry

Roots are growing
stark dark
along the walls of my soul
they draw all the clear water
and i plow through memories
looking for that hurling wind
that carried in a seed of
destruction- and
(knocked me down)

from the
first scream of life
to the shock of all things first
to the fading relationships
to the colorful imaginary heroes
to the shadows of death
to the meltdowns
to the isolation
to the refreshing joyful moments
to the blurry vision of love
to the jolts of loneliness

all of it has come so far
entangled and chocked up pitfully
i can’t tell unhappiness from joy
with so much darkness weaved in

at night
when the lights go out
a voice calls for rescue
telling me that I know better than to fall
(close to the tree)
that i am not just rich fertile soil
for disaster to flourish in

with daylight, more roots grow
re-assailed,
i feel routine, i feel borrowed
tacky and useless
like a broken wood toy
vibrating phantom leaves

as every man desires to mend and be whole
I gaze at the sky
hoping for heaven to peek through
and distill the goal of my existence
for i want to be more than the clashing
hues of my essence.

 

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.”

the last light still on

poetry

in the last apartment at
the end of the island
carving beams out from the fog,
after the trains have started
to whisper and the fireflies
fallen asleep, when even the waves
kiss the beach with less breath,
when even the beach
kisses back with less stone

then, alone, there is a last light
still on, closing in
its distance from me, walking
over the water and calling
my name, and behind it

                          is you.

6.12

poetry

I used to carry a diamond
right here in my hand, I just know it,
a diamond, remember?
we used to hold it up to the sun.
you laughed at how silly I was
when I got distracted by the light’s
clean reflection, this happened,
I used to carry a diamond.
You have to remember, you loved it as I did,
a diamond that had grown in our hands.
I know it sounds foolish, you must think
that it could not have been, not so
perfect, so pure, so worth all the world-
this diamond of ours, this cold coal kiss
this bliss everlasting, what happened, what
happened, I used to carry a diamond.

What of it now? Lost, I think,
being too hard to destroy, but tossed to the sea,
it could be, it could be, that we will not
find it again. No funeral, pockets turned out,
no diamond, the end.

You Got the Wrong Guy

poetry

No, no, don’t call me that,
I told you, you got the wrong guy.
He ain’t me, or I ain’t him,
but either way, I’m not the man you’re looking for.
No, no, it’s not up to you, heck, it’s not up to me.
I am who I am, and I’m not him.
You’ve misheard, or been mistold,
you’d be better taking your allegations elsewhere.
Try as you might, plead if you will,
it makes no difference ‘cause I’m not your man.