I would like a little clarity
And I’d like not to have a choice
I’d like to always be attuned
And listen to that still small voice.

the bank teller from last month:
a gun pressed to his temple
eyes closed he trembled like a leaf
trying to put bills into a bag
i have a wife, three kids…please…
i approached noiselessly
said something witty, something dark
and before the crook could turn in surprise
i snapped his neck his body fell to the floor in a heap
thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
said the teller.
the other day he quit his job
left his wife
left his kids
figuring life is short, said fuck this,
got into his car and drove across town
into the arms of another.

why do i fight for this world
when they do all they can to destroy it?

the old lady from last week:
her feeble cries for help
barely lifted from the flames
the smoke choked her ancient lungs
she felt the heat of Death’s breath
i crashed through the weakened roof
tossed flaming furniture from my path
found her in the corner
scooped her gently into my arms
leapt down six stories to safety
thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
said the old lady.
an investigation later revealed
the source of the conflagration:
her meth lab.
and
in the other room:
the charred remains of
her four-month-old granddaughter.

why do i fight for this world
when they do all they can to destroy it?

the prime minister yesterday
impeccable his in his new suit
stood at the podium pontificating
oblivious to the sniper’s crosshairs.
he would later say when he heard the shot
his life flashed before his eyes
but I moved across the stage
swift as light
caught the bullet in my right hand
presented it to him as a souvenir
thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
said the prime minister.
today he declared war
in retaliation for the attempt on his life
half a million soldiers prepare for battle
saying goodbye to childrenwiveshusbandsbrotherssistersmothersfathers
taking up their guns
promising to write
promising to make everyone proud.

why do i fight for this world
when i should destroy it?

spring’s breath,
on my old wounds, flowers bud
branches lean
seeded clouds my roots shower
but the desiccate feeling lingers
thrusting me further into the ground
selfish love green green again
la mauvaise vie a ses charmes
under this new skin
the sap crystallizes
leaves fall
at the mercy of a season,
a soil, and
a sky too singular.

I don’t know what life you’re looking for
and I don’t care what you think of mine
but I’m happy splitting a bottle of scotch
in a basement on the South side
and making crude jokes and playing guitar
every other Friday.

Maybe that’s not the life you’re after
but it sure works fine for me.
Now grab a glass and find some ice,
you can’t go drinking scotch warm, you know?

John laid the trolling motor in the lake
the whirring of the engine pushing him around
the tiny explosions in sync with his heart
he saw no oasis in the void
man was the only light around.

and blow us all away,
out of our small lives,
out of our small town,
huffing and puffing
and blowing our house
away to a far off place
where anything is possible
and we can experience the magic
that truly comes from
new beginnings.

There is blood running from the cuts on my hands
It is inconsistent blood. It drips and drools capriciously
down arms to thighs to knees to ankles
to feet to toes to the cold hard floor
to the drain in the corner of this public restroom
down the eternity or instance
of a sewage pipe

The smell is a terrible smell
it smells not of death, but of life leaving the body
as it wastes itself to nothingness
before the mirror of a Seven-Eleven.
All the world is spinning, though
it feels as though it’s stopping.

The muse would be perfect had I a feather-pen
to dab in to my liquids. The circumstance
is not so perfect.

I can only sigh and consider
working a dead-end job in a burger joint
(or gas station):

This must be
just what that
feels like

the clouds
reforming–
a puddle’s reflection.

I want house with a tree out front
the kind of tree whose branches reach out, real low
declaring its domain
at least twenty feet each way
the kind of tree whose limbs are a nest
blocking out the sun
submersing us in shade
giving us space to be alone
the kind of tree with leaves the size of an open hand
that, in the fall, burn red on one side
yellow on the other
and in a sun-drenched October wind shimmer
like all of your favorite memories.

There are no words to describe how fortunate I am.
There are no words to suggest any comparison.
There are no words to fathom the immensity.
There are no words to describe what this means.
There are no words to capture how blessed I feel.
There are no words to portray this abounding joy.
There are no words to express my awe and adulation.
There are no words to depict how wonderful you are.
There are no words to convey how much I love you.
And when I introduce you as my fiancée
I can only smile, because I have no words.

Good morning
Don’t wake me
it’s morning
I’m busy
exploring
the spaces
just between
the bedsheets
and pillows
or rather
the visions
that manifest
sometimes
I guess I’ll
be busy
all morning
don’t wake me

…one more thing

Good morning

I have a box of secrets.
No—a vault.
Locked and securely hidden
In a closet full of skeletons
Guarded by a warped pine door
Just now beginning to open.

And while this box of secrets is real
And all its contents true,
This is more than that,
This box is just a metaphor.
And really, I’m giving you my heart.

Here’s my box of secrets
Exhumed from years of effacement
And finally the cylindrical sparkle
Flanked by joints on your velvet finger
That says I’m not who I was anymore.
Here’s my box of secrets,
Take them, they’re yours.

I imagine that our life
is a lot like a Coltrane record

good strong chords
crisp clear drums
solid as solid gets bass
and some mook on the sax going apeshit

Then the piano takes a solo
and it’s good and strong
and the drums take a solo
and it’s crisp and clear
and the bass takes a solo
and it’s solid as solid gets
and then the sax comes in again
and here he is, going apeshit

I guess you’re a lot
like one of those guys
(probably the bass player)
and well, if that’s really how it works,
I just got one thing to say:

Thanks for letting me play sax
all this time

Furiously would be
a good adjective
for the
act of
ripping your spine out
through the base of your torso
with my teeth.

It may sound messy,
but truth is the very sight of you
makes me furious.

So come and stand quietly
while I eviscerate you wholly.
Alternatively, leave.
There is no other alternative.

oh this morning was filled with disappointments
i awoke too late to have the house to myself
found myself without cereal and therefore
the need to settle for sharing gruel (oatmeal)
with my kid as she ate.

i sweetened it with brown sugar but that
doesn’t hold a candle to my lightly frosted shredded
wheats and therefore pulling myself from
bed becomes a larger chore.

later i was listening to pandora while pouring
myself my third cup of tea (in preparation for my
morning movement of bowel) and apparently
found i’d won 100 free big cigars from some
company called vistaprint.

later i come to find i was being offered free
business cards and for some reason that
just didn’t do the same thing for me.

oh this morning was filled with disappointments
and i would have killed to see the sun.
alas.

A spellbinder of sorts – that’s what I tell myself
And according to me, it’s the only opinion that matters.
With what fluency and elegance he speaks, they’ll say.
The arguments he wins—
The way which he fluently, pedagogically selects every word.
Extraordinary diction!
Stupendous articulation!
Syntax and vernacular unmatched – surpassed by none.
Grammatical mistakes? Nonexistent.
With what precision and accuracy he wins every argument.
A counter for every comeback—
How he persuades the masses,
A general of the mind!
An admiral of the spoken word!
Opulent lexicon!
Sagacity of wit!
As though he knows what we’re thinking, they remark.
He’s right, they cringe, how does he do it?
Resistance crumbles like the walls of Jericho.
Surrendering dresses tumble to the floor.
Speechless but roused to action—
Ready to riot at the sound of my voice.
A pioneer!
A master!
These neophytes have nary a chance!
The power of my language trumps all opposition.
The President and prophet consent to my will.
The two warring parties zealously sign my treaty.
The board of directors submits to my proposal.
Of course I win!
But, in point of fact, I am not speaking at all.