Each morning
as he wakes up
he breathes the knots
out of his back and
wonders how his body aged
40 years over night.
He has a way of finding
deep tragic humor
in counting the places
his body holds aches
each morning. In fact
he finds a wealth
of humor in
all his deep tragedies
How to else to escape those
unexplained imperfections
than to laugh? It’s
the unexplained
that scares him most
The small constellation
of circular scars on
his arms that he
remembers dreaming
but can still find with
his fingers and eyes
closed. If not by
smiling to them
so hard
his cheeks press his
eyes tight
how else to avoid
counting them and
confirming there are more?
He will tell you
if you press this issue
that it is a pity
to pity oneself.
He has yet to be told
it is equally pitiful
to ignore
one’s own mortality.
He’ll tell you
if death were
a real person
like in stories
he would like to smoke
a cigarette with death
It’s clear
he doesn’t get the irony yet.
He is
like smoke, and claims
all people are.
Beautiful
because he is transitory;
changing shape for the
duration of he existence
and riding the wind into
non-being. He
loves the ride.
By the time he lies down
at night, he will have shed
the weight of age that wakes him
and feel helpless as if
new born. He fears this
more than waking up forty
years older than he should be.
And when he washes the dishes
he whistles and wishes
to sleep easy that night
but never does.

She had a kind face
and was well-proportioned
and carried herself well
and talked shit about the
right kinds of beer
(and that’s important
this day in age, to a
gentleman of such fine
repute)
and maybe you know her
like you thought you did
or maybe it’s just that
she’s America’s Sweetheart
living and breathing and
all, but that truck got
you up there once, by God,
and it’ll get you back
up there again, by God,
and maybe she’d like
an evening out and a
nice, cold beer or two

Ha! Cataclysm. Abstractionism.
Death by boredom. Babyism.

I do not do what I promise to do.
Unless, my promises are to you.

But if my promises are nerves on
tightropes, choking, babyblue —

Then here’s a predicament. Set
like an old watch, whose arms

grew and grew. Set like a footpath
under winter’s slimy rot. Wretched.

Like a stomach flu. A list of words
sit upon the desk, each one a tiny star

in a Universe of rain and fire and
blistering light. Each one screams

out for something useful to do.
Here’s yours, Ms. Hopscotch —

A fat tick in all the boxes; the final
one says Who? Who, my dear, are you?

 

here i am at a restaurant
i’m in the back
they’re asking me to shake
chicken

i keep thinking about talking

i can’t concentrate
on the spices
i am busy thinking about human
interaction and

being the most complicated animal

and being the only one of measure

and they’re asking me to shake
chicken
and
i can’t remember where the teriyaki
is

if
i can remember how to speak
at all.

I swear that I will live my life
with all the rigiditiy that an
18-year-old black Christian can
muster up, and I will love right
and I will think right and I will
never make fun of anyone unless
it’s as childishly as I am able
because that’s not completely
contradictory with everything else
I have to say, right?

some of them smiling
at the boot
as it come down

i will not be one
of them

i will be like the
stag beetle

against the boot
even in pieces

and in the garbage

until nothing can

keep me.

a room for two,
a table for one.
in a house
where you’re no
longer sharing
the bathroom

I’m always a fan of a good cut
of beef or a batch of tenders
and I guess you’re not too
upset about either of them
what with your present tenure
and maybe you hate it but
maybe it’s alright if you
get to watch the Heat
every now and then

To be awkward in every photograph
or to understand the numbers but
not the score

and to be happy, mostly, about it

The Trombone Master’s is a lonely road
but keep on, at least in spite.
I couldn’t even sell the thing
if I tried.

i never thought
i’d be so relieved
to see a single
part of my body
return to normal
size.

but then, in retrospect
i suppose i never
imagined any part
of my body
(let alone THAT part)
would grow to twice
or three times the size.

i never thought
i’d be so relieved
to see a single
part of my body
return to normal
size.

but goodness i’m close
to tears over my testis
and their recent turn
for the much much better.

Shh, Ma
the sham is in
hemming to hide the seam
The same mesh you
aim your machine at
looks all mashed up
on me.

And then there’s the door creaking
while she sneaks out in to the night
and there was just enough time to
scrape loose change in to a mason jar
so she could buy that ticket home

And thank her God it wasn’t all
his money, this time around. And
Thank her God it will all be over
soon. After all it was the both
of them, that did that awful thing.

And thank her God that hers is
a forgiving one, anyway.

And thank God he’s going to be
alright.

From the tall ships that would be so regal and true
were it not for the outboard motors pushing them down the lane,
to the mile of perfectly empty private beach,
or the water too cold to swim in despite the blazing sun,
or the raccoon, wet and delirious, clinging to the middle rung
of an emergency ladder on the pier, snagged by a DNR man with
a long snare on a pole and stuffed hissing and growling
in to a stainless steel carrying-box, where does one start?

Three Words, actually,
I think:

Fuck South Haven

For Tara

I used to be the world’s
greatest orchestra conductor

Now, my hands still mark beats
even in my sleep they keep time

But hard as I gesture
despite all my desperate force

It does not sound like

you.

i left the only tracks in the snow
the only heart beating in the world
why wont the moon come back?
and time kept pushing my sails
like a robot.

December 24th, 2007 at 02:45:34 AM