to renee

poetry

i love you in the only
way that i can

the way that is unsure
if it is good enough.

and i’d travel great
distances to prove

that the smile on your
face is a real one.

in a world of smoke
and mirrors

you are a cool breeze
and a warm sun,

and
i am sorry
for sometimes
being unsure
in miracles.

Tetanus

poetry

It isn’t rust that causes tetanus,
you said, but outside conditions offer a fertile habitat
for the bacteria to thrive on any nail, rusty or not.

But before it could hardly matter,
the weathered nail had already slipped through our soles—
oxidized arrows from Cupid’s sheave—
puncturing worn socks and
ejaculating its delivery into the wound, making a slurping sound on exit.
Thick lines intersect the scar like the nomenclature of buried pirate treasure.
Dig it out, rip it open, peel the veins bubbling backwards
and we would uncover a red pulse flexing fervently with devotion.
We thought it wouldn’t hurt as long as we didn’t fall,
but the immediate pain was hardly a consolation.
Our blood was black and blue, already eroding to the color of rust.

The nursed asked,
had we been vaccinated
and that we ought to be more careful.
We told her we would,
but we could already feel the lockjaw.

Love Is

poetry

Love is a heaping plate of food,
but hunger returns, and with it, more meals to prepare.
Love is a parking meter,
keep putting in, keep putting more in.
Love is a robbery,
demanding to hold up, reconsider,
choose carefully your next words, and
hand it over if you know what’s good for you.
Love is a pirate ship plank to teeter over,
tread oh, so, precisely, there’s no safety net.
Love is an enigma,
origins stark but untraced.
Love is a compromise,
swirling selfish and self-serving to selfless.
Love is variable x number of cows for your daughter,
no, love is about much you’re willing to sacrifice.
Love is slow release firecrackers,
spark, spark, sparking.
Love is a hardboiled egg,
cracking open heads and cases, peering in,
let’s find out what’s inside that mind of yours.
Love is a stomach ache,
fearful, gripping, slippery, stuck.
Love is a chasm, falling, falling, falling, fall to fill.
Love is “a hamster wheel.”
Love is oily, stringy hairs, not yours, on the adjacent pillow.
Love is a fresh wound that never heals.
Love is unknown, incomplete,
repeated, over, over, over, under,
says so much, can’t say enough———
Love is not ends of the earth,
is not ocean or sea.
Love ain’t no river wide nor valley low,
is not rhymes and lyric.
Love is not mountains or horizons,
is not stars, studs and is not planets
Love is not “let it go and if it comes back to you, love it forever”———
Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;
it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.
It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things———
Love is soggy bathroom towels, unwashed underwear, unpaid bills, free sex, morning breath, oil changes, making ends meet, taking out trash, spoiled cheese, what the heck do you mean there’s no milk, wilting flowers, cuddled on couches watching reruns, dirty dishes, boxed memorabilia, running errands, bodily functions, toenail clippings, I’m sorry, enduring in-laws, remember that time, that’s not what I said, toilet seats.
Love is apples,
Love is oranges,
Love is gone all pear-shaped, poppycock, and popcorn
with M&M’s.
Love is full of holes,
we are full of holes,
cooked spaghetti in sieves straining liquids and sound,
something which is never quite defined, fingers can’t pinpoint,
so interminably tangled, overlapping.
Some days fatter, longer, short, severed, soggy, forgotten, overcooked,
slurped up with delight, to take some now, leaving leftovers for later,
the good with the bad.
It’s difficult, in love, to tell the difference anyway.

love lost

poetry

i would admire your fresh face
in the grass in your back yard
and how you could make something
out of nothing
climbing a big oak tree
that they had to cut down,
last summer
got too big for its own good

and what ended up lasting
or at least it seems to me
are the dimples on your face
creases left from the smiles
from last summer
losing balance
at least 20 feet high
too good to be true

trying to find the center

poetry

alone is different than lonely
but god I tell you I am both
and am walking ’round in circles, here
trying to find the center

and this is a true account of my days
written here for you to see
as usual, and of course
I can’t let go of the words, oh

what’s more is you can have all my stuff
i don’t care about much anymore
but i miss your dog, i miss your dog
yeah yeah, yeah yeah, etc

but if you wanted me (and you don’t)
I would’ve saved you yes I would
but your love is such a weighty lie
your love is just a sucker game.

driving through shitty towns drunk

poetry

inside you is a tension
from the building up of steam
and you won’t just let go of it
for that would be obscene
you pretend that you are limber
so to all it can be seen
yet you are just a child, dear
just-a waiting to be free’d
so come and take a ride with me
away from your sick dream
i’ll teach you how to lift the world
and put it down, where you please
see the colors of the void
and then, too, of the leaves
think about the higher things
and sit up in the trees
let all of our love out
and let it flow
in-between.

Coffee

poetry

Not that there is an alternative, even though there are many
Who’s bittersweetness strikes faster, stays longer;
Not that I need to stay up for him, as hours drip
Into fat puddles of late night tv and limbs that shift
Like a seabed under their blankets. His charm isn’t
Worth sacrificing the house-wine for, initially.
If I help him along a bit, maybe?
Drop a sugar-cube, add some cream or milk.
Give the Atlantic back its icebergs. Yet not that
He’d notice: Curse the lactose intolerant!

There comes a time, when everything warm in
This world, gets lost in the Arctic. There comes a
Time, when the cat by the fire duly notes its place.
And despite knowing this, I drink a little faster;
And I, having tasted what I have tasted
With eyes that have known to stay open,
To the richest and the boldest, I am still a tourist
To be seen in coffee-shops by a clearer lens.
While I am this slow sipper in this
Place of eternal happy-hour: every new mouthful
Is a new land to see.
Kraus! Oh Schnitzler and Toberg;
Come on, oh come home with me.

Modern Love

poetry

I am walking bare foot
Over chalky concrete
Then it happens-

An unexpected downpour
Blogs, millions of them
Pelt down

You’re by the post office
I can see you
Standing there, brooding

Peeling off my soppy jacket
The blogs, frenzied
Drench my shirt underneath

I’m getting closer though
Not far now,
Maybe a football field

But then the clouds smirk
And down plunge the
Social networking sites

Nothing stays dry
They’re loaded, malicious
Each drop a smack on the head

Crisp leaves soak them up
Soak me up
I’m half way to swimming

A few feet ahead of me,
Vague text messages
Hit the pavement like bullets

A few feet ahead of you
A white wall of water hangs
Dancing like a drying sheet

Smacking shards and droplets
Away from my face
I look out, searching

You’re gone, walked inside
Posting something?
In transit

And I’m there
Sewer rat, dripping
Typetitypetype.

If our love opened a restaurant

poetry

If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month

The décor would be a nightmare.
Clashing tones and tints competing
With lampshades something ill

Sitting patiently for a waiter to
Take your order would be like
Waiting for the next apocalypse

The chairs would grate against your
Soul like Monday morning, with its
Hard reality and lack of support

The music, (if they have any at all)
I imagine would be like Grandma’s
Lounge-room jazz- but more dreary

Don’t expect a warm smile with
Your service. The waiters are busy
And don’t have time to amuse.

If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month

But did I mention the food?
Oh! The food is positively divine.

loveless (or call the dogs off, jesus)

poetry

nothing can be more appealing
to me than the beauty of a woman;
i see in her figure, and in her form,
(or what she shows me of it)
the chesapeake, the rockies,
the sky.

however, much unlike a good book,
or an album,
the insides of a human are
much less appealing than the
outside. i venture to say:
this anomaly is not found
outside of our personal
shared condition.
the slow and painful stuttering
dive of disinterest that forms
once cracking open the spine
of one of these most
appealing vixens.

i hear the retorts of a million
dead poets in my ears, the
sheepish cry of billions
of single-celled
omnivorous,
monogamous,
thoughtless populi screaming:
but for love!
oh, i hear you all,
all of you shape-shifting spineless
oafs,
willing to subject yourself to
untold ignorances under the
name of some vague emotional
and societal ploy.

i say,
we have multiplied
many times over,
jesus,
now call the dogs off.
i am loveless.

i love women too much

poetry

there are electric storms
birthed by chemical wars
that are caused by electric storms
birthed by the very same wars
and so on,
and so forth,
they come from my eyes
when i see your lips,
face,
legs,
thighs,
emotions which
can
not
be
wise
are now driving my extremities
i now feel i’m in my seventies
looking out the window dreaming
of being touched somewhere
inappropriate for once
because i
love
women
too
much.