this is about the monster

poetry

you indignant monster
maybe you are green
at the towns-folk for
their primal jeers

conversly

they hear your cries
echo through the valley
and are angered and
who is the chicken?

I SAY BOTH

I SAY

AFTER THE MELEE

WITH THE PITCHFORKS
STREWN ABOUT

WITH THE BLOOD ON YOUR
GREEN SKIN

YOU’RE ALL CHICKENS
AND THERE ARE NO EGGS
AND I HEAR YOUR CRIES
DOWN THE VALLEY STILL

and i will meditate
on your tears.

Sandhill Crane

poetry

I saw a sandhill crane yesterday
it flew with purpose and it
did not stop to look around
and it didn’t have to measure twice
before it cut once but I
am not a sandhill crane
nor can I fly nor can I exist
so precisely but I will
strive for both but I will
still measure twice every
time I’m about to make a
cut

beauty ≠ isolated plants in a small area of town you have to leave your life behind to find.

poetry

a smile for a sitting friend
walking through the park
in the middle of the city
streets surrounding people’s
lives changed day in and day
out of the country, towards
the city with lights and friends
and the promise of the lack
of loneliness, though you quickly
find it’s an empty promise a
promise you never will leave
me alone in such streets as
these where the only green is
isolated to a small square a few
blocks from here, a park
with police of it’s own. a park.

Beauty begets Beauty

poetry

For Tara

I wish I could capture
the beauty of California
for you
and the romance
of the weeds which
make knots of themselves
and boomerang green
chasing yellow flowers
which will explode
into dandelions, Someday.
Knowing only how to exist,
so simple, yet
unteachable.
I want to thread lavender
and mint between
your fingers and trace
your lips with
lemon leaves
and show you where the
grass grows even under
dead trees.
I want to kiss the spot
where the ocean meets the
rocks with you.
And plant gardens
and grow love in
abundance.
I’ve seen the sun play miracles
against your eyes
It’s undeniable.
And here
where the sun is already kind
I’d like to see the magic
you would bring.
In the meantime
I stitch post cards and photos
skintight on to my chest and
imagine holding them strong
against you. I pray
for the sun to love us both
unsparingly and rename
the prettiest days
after you and
where daydreams are always beautiful
I always dream of you.

they say the things haunting you are probably imagined at best and simply non-existant at worst. but they don’t know a thing about flying pink monkeys and you don’t expect them to. you sought help because you were made to do so and not at all because you feared the monkeys weren’t real. you say the things haunting you are probably imagined at best and simply really pissed off monkeys at worst. for the times have changed from back when they were little, and the narcotics are much more refined now, how can they expect to understand?

poetry

clouds move in
and the sky, blue/darkblue/simply
dark
now

you’re not overwhelmed
but you are literally
being smothered by the cold the
rain has brought. and the reminder
that this week you are no longer
the invincible young’n you were
last week.

dead baby bird in a parking lot

poetry

in the parking lot like
a pile of garbage
there lies the baby bird
who fell from his nest
gruesomly reposed
permanently although
you only see him on
your ways in

out

and you note “oh, poor
thing is still there”

but he’s been there every
aching moment
getting ground by feet
and wheel and
turning slowly into dust
and
getting eaten by bacteria

he won’t move unless
something moves him

it’s
invisible in plain sight
no one wants
his unfortunate
circumstance
on them

and the bacteria add
to the illusion
that every aching moment
doesn’t ache at all
and that things just
disappear.

He gets through the day

poetry

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.

Two-Hearted

poetry

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

Father’s Day

poetry

“Father knows best,”
they used to say,
but I know what’s in my chest,
and usually it’s not Okay;

And considering dear old dad,
I can’t believe it’s true;
he’s never been too bad,
I’m just not convinced he knew;

Then there is dad number two,
who ran far, far away
at the old age of forty-two,
and then died on a highway;

Finally there is dad number three,
the next roll of the dice,
who may be lucky,
who may be lightning striking thrice.

Play School

poetry

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?

 

teriyaki chicken

poetry

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.

Extrappolations III

poetry

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?

Another morning,
another day gone by
spent counting the days
and wondering when
my rose will grow

the children dance
and splash the hot sun
smile at passing trains
and ask when
my rose will grow

i’ve watched many years
pass and come, like the tide
mighty redwoods have grown
before my eyes
and no rose grows

to feel the thorn pricks
and dew’s licks
that soft tickle on your nose
from rose petals
that wont grow

another morning,
another day gone by
spent churning the soil
wondering when
my rose will grow

poetry