I have swum across the waves for sometimes now
and it is the saddest thing when you look away
ugliness reels its head
You stay besides me
thinking of me
loyalty keeps burning
where love has left
a few honest words
would provide the necessary hurt
but the ideal man you’re trying be
won’t leave me alone
your gentleness is a wicked thing
it is wringing life out of me
and I have to do myself the unkindness
of letting you go

I know I’m better off
I have thought of all the words to say
I have said them before
I have trodden this path before
it just does not get any easier
but this time I’m sharpening my nails
ready to scratch over the surface of this breakup
so get off your horse
don’t try to be so perfect
don’t back down
I need to find out what was real
the depth of what we lost, of what we never had
and of what we will never be
before I can walk away

i’d tell you more
but i assure you
my words are being nearly
sucked dry by vocations
i choose not, but choose me.
and thus i’m left
like a used rag — used.
and tired.
my fingers too empty
for any further verbal
diarrhea.

long before our
hypertensive phase
philosophically close
and butt naked in the summer heat
we peed rainbows
and understood the sincerity of our mustaches
like worn out travelers climbing up towers of mud
we cultivated a mystic and ate stones for fun
we called on heaven at will
angels knew us by name

Buddha smiled and
sat us on his lap and rocked our fears to sleep
Jesus walked us to a home we didn’t know we had
we marveled, but strings attached to our feet tripped us
and we rolled back down the ravine,
into our lovers loving embrace
but suddenly life had dried to a haze
we tumbled in confusion
inarticulate, dysphoric and crazy
until someone stuffed us with pills
quieting us down,but

sometimes when our eyes meet
memories break a trail through our inertia, and
we can hear seraphim sing, and
feel the peace we felt then
when our heads rested against Buddha’s belly,
and feel Jesus’ s warmth when he showed us our home

sometimes we think we’re the sane ones
sometimes we know we’re the lucky ones
we count our blessings more than our pills

I HAVE BEEN INFORMED OF MY FAILURES AND TERRIBLENESS
BY YOU AND YOURS AND ALL AT ONCE IN THE FACE OF IT’S OWN
SPECIAL KIND OF ADVERSITY BUT EVER SINCE WE HAD THAT TALK
I’VE HAD SIX PHONE CALLS FROM SIX PEOPLE FOR NO REAL REASON
TELLING ME IMPLICITLY THAT I’M ALL RIGHT
AND EXPLICITLY THAT YOU’RE WRONG
AND SURE IT’S NOT QUITE THE TRADITIONAL FRACTION BUT
WHEN YOU GET DOWN TO BRASS TACKS, GENTLEMEN,
SIX OUT OF SEVEN AIN’T BAD

track that stranger down
cover his eyes
shape smiles on his face
nothing is strong enough to distort
his innocence and fluidity of spirit
you can throw many lies
set off vapors of ferocity and guile
he will heal
he swallows the whale in the room
he knows his name, heart and vertigo

when a cloud of dust settles
he brawls with anxiety and panic
he seeks a space to unearth the sublime
the universe is large, he is tiny
on this territory of tears
but he moves his spine
shakes his legs
and draw exhilaration in

for better or worse
the wheel turns
he faces the sky, the ground
and for a little while he can see himself move with the world
feeling its beauty and misery

sometimes a woman picks him off the ground and
he comes up radiating the strongest light
he feels safe
about that silver line
shivering in the sky
and when winter calls him back home
he takes that memory and wraps it tightly around his heart
a warm blanket for all that is ahead
for the days when he will wake up, and break down on the floor
for the days when he will need to fight all the terrible things on his mind

“Ya’ll hear ‘bout the feller who
sold his sole to the devil?
‘Said he felt bad for ‘em in all,
walking all that time
without no shoes.
‘Said he reckoned his feet musta
been sore as hell.”

the land where nothing sucks

down in the valley of
the land where nothing sucks
there is naught but a
forest of carnivorous weeds

it is the norm of the valley
for there to be no sun
and it is their way of life
to love darkness and eating

so not being one to judge
i avoid the valley
as often as humanly possible
and stay downwind

—

the butterfly in the valley

and once
a butterfly
i saw did
haplessly
flutter
into the
valley

and the weeds did salivate
as it was their norm
and who am i to judge?
looking away as
they devoured her
wholly

i wrote this in the margin
of the notes i was taking for class
i meant it be poetic
but instead it came out crass

the prof was speaking of revelation
and i was writing of poo
the writing was slightly distracting
and i failed to think his words through

so i kept on writing of feces
while the prof droned on over details
my mind downstairs in the restroom
where i planned to unloaded my entrails

There is an unyielding natural force
that keeps one’s feet on the ground
and one’s pencil rolling on one’s desk
in lieu of floating out one’s window
And it is a boon and a quality
and a reasonable necessity in these days

But yours is an unnecessary gravity,
a stress and a stretch and an
erroneous sort of thing, and it seems
but a weight to drag one down
rather than a hook to keep one grounded

And though I feel your less-than-sublte pressures,
There is one grace that saves me from their hold:
Newton’s may be a law,
but yours is just a caveat

and I like it,
as the sensation spreads
from the head,
through the neck,
relaxing the shoulders,
and the breathing releases
and the heart rebounds
so that i’m not tight at all,
and I like it.

a crow alights
upon the church’s skyward cross–
leaves scrape cobblestone.

pillow soft.
but donut ring around beer
perhaps challenges
pillow soft
for place of love
in my heart

The leaves are turning
and so comes the obligatory photos
and poems (and this one included):
Dry crumpled detritus snaps from branches
and blows away, coloring sidewalks
and church-yards and golf courses. It is
an ironically colorful sort of death
that permeates these late days.
I’m sure, too, it’s the end of an era
in someone’s overall inconsequential
microcosm, but that’s to be expected:
The winds blow change in every year,
don’t they?

And if your soul is hurting
I’ll lend you mine and you
can use it however you need
and I’ll fix it if you break it
and I’ll wash it if you scuff it up
and it’ll be yours forever
or at least until that haystack hair
grows out

mountains
impress me
the united states’ highway
system
impresses me

how millions of men over
a hundred years built
concrete and steel structured
planes across the expanse
of the entire united states
moving
daily
an unfathomable amount of things

that impresses me

your
bottom drawer wit
and parlour tricks
do not.

Staring at a cement parking bumper
My fears squirm out of it and punch me in the nose.
I want to shed every eye and hide from view
Until they aren’t looking to me anymore.
I am a child trembling like a pencil between Parkinson’s fingers

fuck you, he said
then dissolved into
the rainy evening.

she shut the door like thunder
then fell against it,
melting into the floor.

eyes clouded with tears,
head in hands flashing hate,
she prayed to God:

Jesus, why is this so fucking hard?
let me be stone. let me be the ground.
solid. unfeeling. undisturbed. Jesus,
why is this so fucking hard? just
get me the hell out
of this body.

with stacks and rows of words
bound with glue in glorious
long-form i sit and study being
mocked by the fact i’m still told
what to consume when deliciousness
surrounds me like a child in a candy
shop i’m handed a carrot and told
to eat while gazing with longing
at peach rings and runts
my computer open before me
and books written by fools with their
heads in the clouds but academic
degrees they fancy while in the
company of hemmingway and salinger
i drool, for, like that child, i know not
how to ignore exactly what i know i’m
missing