The line between crying in front of
-One Hundred-
people and inciting a dance pit is
negligible, at best
But the difference between your father
saying -‘man’-
instead of -‘son’-
when he grabs you by the shoulder on
your way off stage is
-about-
a million miles
This world is not a decimal system.
Our measures do not skew the same.
So, not so bad a thing
that my ruler has been broken
all this time
grabbing spoon from drawer
and thrusting forth in practiced
choreographed high school weight-training-class lunges
i threaten eye gouging
i challenge you and your muscles
with fierce revealing of my canines
i turn spoon in hand back and forth
intimidation is my game
blunt object is my weapon
i will win you with my grammar
i will attack at your jugular
if i can remember my junior high school anatomy
you stumble back in fear as
i attack in glory
Standing over you
Watching you sleep
In then out
In then out
Unaware of my presence
Unaware of anything
Safely resting
Completely without fear
Perhaps because you know
That I would be here
If you needed me
So there is no fear
that you will ever need me
I often wonder if talking to a dead man
is considered dialogue or soliloquy.
But I guess you’re not really
around to tell me anyway, and
therein probably lies the answer.
One day I’ll die and we
can continue that conversation
that we started a hundred times.
Until then, I suppose,
I’ll just keep talking to myself.
Who am I kidding?
It’s impossible to keep contained
Or rather, the containers empty?
My fingers too busy to type keys
Of stanzas and enjambment
and end-stopped.
No inspiration?
Motivation?
Stimulation?
Where’s it all gone?
Lies.
Who am I kidding,
I’m just a lazy sob story
Preferring to sleep
And complain
Pretending there’s better things to do
than write.
And it should be noted:
by sob, I mean the acronym
tomorrow as i sit and try to prove
my proficiency in a subject at which
i’ll never approach proficiency i’ll
think of you sitting on the couch and
doing nothing
and
be jealous
for jealousy is all i have to give
when my mental power is being completely
drained by trying to fill in the appropriate
mother fathering bubbles.
He was just a boy when he bought his wooden
sword, and shield made out of plastic,
from a kiosk at a carnival.
Was a priceless prize, that weapon and its partner.
Security against every wolf and monster
and beggar and vagabond.
Life and livelihood assured.
He was a warrior then.
But time passes and, often cruelly.
The sword has broke, the shield
too small to strap. Was never seen fit
to buy another.
Defenseless.
Ripped apart by wolves and monsters.
Taken, by the vagabonds, for all he’s got.
Wretched and shameful.
Wretched,
and shameful,
and to top it all,
his car won’t start.
God Damn It.
walking along,
feeling alone
in the lost land
of American Idol fans,
constructing a generation of
lounge singer heroes,
reliving the glories
of innovative artists
who have now passed into
the general mediocrity
of the past:
free to be groped;
free to be grabbed;
free to be destroyed.
and so i sit here,
listening to my indie music,
looking down my nose,
secure in my intellectual superiority,
evidenced by my musical selections.
Our fate was sealed standing there that night
Like macadam, bolted down and tar heavy
Months later my thoughts are still there,
Standing like little urchins outside that same pub,
Sipping ale, wearing moth-eaten black coats and
Smoking charcoal cigarettes while glaring at strangers.
They go back there only on weekends now,
Looking for a sign- my thoughts do,
Looking for a logic-god in a white Mercedes Benz
To pull up by the side of the road and
Tell them to go home, that “it all makes
Sense now”. But you’ve got a spare set of arms
To body- double with and so do I. So for now,
And since I know you don’t read my poems,
How about we just leave this thing in the storeroom.
we pitched our tents on wind carved
sand pits and fought with ants the
size of mice. we woke and ran along
dolphins jumping just off shore as
curious at us as were of them.
salsa. oh… the salsa.
we took directions from crazy
ladies driven to their insanity
by their taste-buds after years of ingesting
the salsa. oh… the salsa
fish taco after fish taco we turned
right through a field on a dirt path
through mountains and passed in
twelve hours only one other moving
vehicle.
stopping for tacos in a village so small
the only restaurant was a hole in a kitchen
where 50 cents buys two grease balls
we stood on peaks no one should ever
have to leave and bathed under
blue skies, a sun anyone would have
worshipped had they not known better.
and then came day 3.
We floated in
Warm muddy water
Calm and lapping on the
Gummy sandbars
Woke earlier in the night for
Reasons that I don’t know or
Reasons I forgot
Dark night scatter-lit
From above and we marched out
To catch the receding tide
Heels sucking in Mexican clay
I’m pretty sure
Cortez was an asshole
But I didn’t know the guy
His sea, though, is just
The kind of adventure that pulls
Some kids from far away
We floated in
black and starlight
and I can’t remember what
we talked about or
if we talked at all
but that night I was sure that
mystery was real and that
life was a stunning gift
it rolled over me in
tides of curling diamonds –
phosphorescence that
I hope Cortez saw too
All along the highway
suddenly wildflowers spring,
red and yellow,
blue and violet,
camouflaging the trash,
naturalizing the road,
beautifying the pavement,
if only for just this moment.
something must have happened
but with all the noise from under that hood
and all the screaming siren lights
and all the airplanes overhead
you sounded great tonight
record spinning is smooth
in its necessity for analog
you’re hard, gritty, pixelated,
a little digital for my tastes
only when lonely men
howl at the impostors
does the world spin justly
and thrustly it shall be
when on nights like this
i swerve and weave
through the traffic claim
a mailbox or two on this
evening of leaving and
solitude
thinking of leaving mount
pleasant, soon.
at night i rise to grip her
thighs the dark’s supple
trouble stirring my coffee
and ready to fornicate
with this nighttime i am
holding and riding the
best that i can like a madman
howling away at impostors
making the world spin
proper.
A fat cram of color in front of us
Screaming like a flat footed baby
For attention. Or worse, appreciation.
You muttering something about
The brush strokes, as if they were
Exotic birds no one had named yet.
And me embracing the smell of oil,
Freshly polished brass, coffee, someone’s
Over-applied day-out perfume,
And the comforting muttering of
Museum voices, pressing their backs
Lightly against walls and pushing off
Again, to rest in softly lit corners,
Beside the gallery attendant, a
Mysterious beekeeper. A wise man.
You had found something on the
Seventh wall, something that itched
And amused in the way only a close-friend
Can. So I walked over to get a closer look.
There it was. A painting of the very gallery
We stood in, one hundred years before us.
So we took it in. Savored the snap-shot
In time. A chrysalis around us for just
A few moments. Until the bell rang
For closing and we left through the
Royal roof-scraping doors.
Overdue sweet smells-
Lylac and budding tree leaves
Refresh Kensington.
reality as perception defines,
and even more, we’ve come
to expect;
on the mondays when we go to
work,
along the sweat and blood
highways.
Genuine is
leather, gold, sugar, diamonds, Kentucky bourbon,
You.
Coats need tailoring,
gold the work of practiced hands,
sugar only comes from canes
and Kentucky Bourbon is one thing only found in
Kentucky.
(check the label).
Oh, so pay the man and
buy that stamp on his degree.
Buy the gold medal on the
Barbecue sauce wrapper.
I’ll drive an hour and sit
singing loud enough to
wake the neighbors. And we
won’t say anything of substance
until we’re safely set away.
But we’ll say it.
And the only genuine I’ll pay for
is the only one I get for free.
put on facade
dance in promenade
claim you prefer swing
lie.
the sieve and the sand 
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