blanket pulled
up over my shoulders and wrapped behind
my neck as i climb in to the perfect
position and hold myself
steady trying desperately
to think of anything other
than the itch on my nose.
anything.
until sleep comes.

their dowry is composed of stinging plants
and biting insects because these things are
all that they can feel in this world, really.

They scratch ’til they bleed most every night
and hope that everyone notices and scream
if anyone looks for too long or tries to suggest
that scratching was a bad decision.

They hold their bloodied bandages aloft in
the centers of busy shopping malls and they
announce that everyone is wrong because
it isn’t supposed to hurt when you scratch
that much.

And when nobody listens, they know
that they hare vindicated.

And God Forbid you recommend a different
sort of dowry.

Then again, at least their plants and insects
are readily available these days, else
these private martyrs would never have dowries
at all.

If you can’t think of the last time it’s happened there are two feasible reasons. The first is that you’re losing your mind and therein your ability to remember simple things. The second is that it’s been so long perhaps it’s time to try again. The third is that you’re doing it right now and on some seriously mind-altering drugs that are confusing the hell out of you. Given that none of the above are particularly likely, perhaps it’s time for a brief review.

can’t write for shit stop
too busy smoking stop
drinking stop
hand discolored stop
love? stop

I’ve been kept up at night
with thoughts of Cairo,
such beautiful despair.
So far in nature from your
Egyptian namesake;
so quiet and so bare.

So tonight I won’t sleep
in honor of Cairo,
a town that’s slept too hard.
And blanket my body
in vines and rubble,
and lay out in the yard.

And if I grow old
I will grow old like Cairo,
so far from its own birth.
I’ll break down my buildings
and re-grow my weeds,
and sink back to the earth.

her hair wasn’t right
and her pants didn’t fit.

the glasses she wore slightly
too low on her nose and it was clear
her eyebrows had not been plucked
in months.

he shoes made her feet look
enormous like aircraft carriers
supporting the Old Colossus.

shoulder pads were definitely
present in her dress, something a few
decades behind at the least.

and everything was wrong except…

she wore stripes. glorious stripes.

the smoke slowly flows
from the tip of the
pipe as i read a
(er… THE)
book and walk in to the
presence of the one
who makes me freak
the crap out.

the first man
who wore a tie on the bus
was young but
dressed in a different era.
his white shirt
partitioned by thin blue lines
was yellowed
at the collar as if he
had been nervous
in this shirt many times before.
in his abstract print tie
(all pastels)
and impeccably shaped hair at
the nape of his neck
and back of his ears
I watched him fill forms out
and snack,
the whole bus ride
on raw

lettuce.

line these days up
and place them in
a bowl where you can
easily insert a needle
and extract the sleep
necessary to hold the
mass together

Faust played on the radio
As a green truck ran by
(It was an NPR station I’m sure)
And there I was
Standing in the street
Minding my own business
And some green truck blaring
Faust rolls by
And I was just minding my own
Business but
How am I supposed to feel
After all of that, anyway?

The Santa Fe International Hostel has
a strict 1 bug per bedroom policy.
In some rooms, mine included,
this complementary beetle is dead.
This rule also extends to the bathrooms
(I learned at one in the morning)
and ostensibly the kitchen, lounge,
patio, front patio, upstairs bathroom,
etcetera.

A similar policy that the greyhound bus
service has enacted, states that
there must be at least one drunkard
per station. If not
one racist cop who suspects
one indian, native american,
mexican, hispanic, or generically
brown skinned person to be drunk.

During a 7 hour layover in Albuquerque,
I found that each time I
returned to the bathroom,
one more stall had been shut down,
slowly closing in on the single
stickiest and most terrifying toilet
in New Mexico, and possibly
greater North America.

My united states
has always been untarnished by
incompetent bus drivers who break
their glasses thus forcing
day long delays. And previous
to this week, I could not claim
any friendships with former
meth addicts, convicts, Canadians,
or people with face tattoos.
But this fourth of July,
I watched fireworks over a correctional
facility next door to a bus station
in Omaha, Nebraska and felt
a startlingly strong kinship
with the grab-bag mix of
tired, poor, huddled masses
who were all heading buckshot
across these fifty states. America,
you are not the golden coastal
cities I was grown in, with
their discreet poverty and
painted skies.
You are vast expanses of
aluminum plate houses and fields
of empty nothing dotted with
more motels than your inhabitants
can fill. Still
when the fireworks started
for a holy second
we all
caught our breath
and watched the sky
hopeful as our forefathers
And dreaming of the possibility of new life.

I was handed a key
previously
to a door I had yet to encounter
so I
stowed the key away
in a small box
and away it hid
beneath a stack of
old filings
in a desk drawer
and now
I am faced with a door
I have no key to
unless I go back and
dig under those filings
or at least
that’s how I feel
sometimes

smoke leaks from the tip
of the stem of the pipe
where i puffed a moment
before on that brilliant
thing we love — tobacco

Oh Mom
I’ve been watching the steeplechase
and I keep wondering
why the runner in the back
is getting such high marks
I mean this is a race,
that is, a steeplechase
and he’s running and all
and he just keeps getting such high
marks
and I’m just wondering, Mom,
how someone in the back can
come in second?
Why can’t they just let him race,
Mom?
Why can’t they just let him
lose?

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.