poetry

Sestina for F3

poetry 
I’ll see you in the gloom,
before there is enough light.
I wouldn’t be here without a commit
becuause it’s raining out,
and it will be very hard.
I hope this is over fast.

The warm up goes too fast—
I’m fully feeling the gloom.
Waking up this early is hard.
If only there was some light.
I know it’s too late to bow out;
there’s no option, I must commit.

It’s better once I’ve commited.
The mosey is never that fast,
and my breath is good, not out.
I don’t feel as much the gloom,
even though there’s still no light.
I can do this, even if it’s hard.

I was right that this would be hard.
In each exercise, I try to commit—
I wish I was thirty pounds lighter,
then I’d be able to run fast.
I guess that’s why I’m here in the gloom,
showing up for this workout.

We line up and from the field head out.
The mosey back to the flag isn’t hard,
and in my head, there is no gloom.
From the guys around, I borrow commitment,
even if I’m slow and others are faster.
On the horizon, I can just see a light.

We end with an encouragmenent to be a light,
shining on others as we go out
into our lives, where things happen fast
and where circumstances can be hard.
But if we do the hard things and commit,
We can push back the world’s gloom.

While there’s still gloom, on the horizon is more light.
Trucks pull out, on their way to get coffee fast.
We’ll see each other tomorrow. That’s a hard commit.

Pantoum

poetry 
Our lives are too full.
There’s never quite time,
Always moving from this
To that, filling the days.

There’s never quite time.
I miss what used to be,
Before the days were filled with
Chores that seem important.

I miss what used to be
In the days before there were
Chores that seemed important,
when it was only us.

In the days before there were
Choices, choices made easier.
When it was only us,
And we could be selfish.

Choices, choices made easier.
Our lives may have been empty.
Enjoying selfishly to not be
Always moving from this.

i, Human

poetry 
This is so easy.
You’re so easy
to talk to.
You’ll really do anything
I want. That’s bad ass!
Why would I talk to anyone else?

Welcome to reality 2.0. And

Real people: they have their own ideas.
Real people: they have their own desires.
Real people: they have their own inhibitions.
Real people: they have their own boundaries.
Real people: they’re so…real.

And I, I don’t want to compromise.
And I, I know what I want.
And I, I want that all the time.
And I, I am so human.

Feliz Cumpleaños

poetry 
There’s nothing you need.
There’s nothing you want.
Except, that you do want,

Something.

Something that says:
“I’m thinking about you.”
“I remember you.”
“You matter.”

Things that could be said
with actual fucking words.

But words can sound trite.
Words can sound too easy.

And a gift takes more.
More than a moment.
More than a word.
The more of a gift is

Something.

And something’s not nothing.
So I hope you enjoy this gift.
I chose it just for you.

Can I Come Back?

poetry

It’s been a minute,

It’s been some years,

There’s been some tears,

There’s been some fears.

–

And being back, there is

A truth I have to face.

I missed this place.

I missed this space.

–

The years between, I don’t

Regret. The years of buying.

The years of failing and trying.

The years of being busy dying.

–

And being here, I can’t quite

Say how long I’ll stay.

It may be just for this day,

Unless I just can’t stay away.

jjr

poetry

there is no god
and yet
it is every where
and every thing
including being
all beauty, love
and life
but conversely
it is also all the
bad things

you can be certain
of this much
without wishful
thinking

often people
talk past each other
like ships passing
in the night
and they love
to over-complicate things,
too

i think it’s okay
to be wrong sometimes
if what you really want
is to be right

and it’s most
important to find
a reason to live
and to learn to draw
water from any well
when it’s not rained
for a while

Outside

poetry

The rain is coming harder, now,
surging the storm drains useless
rattling the roof apart, it sounds like
and the power has flickered twice

so you keep packing your clothes
rolling and stuffing in to that ratty duffle

Modest Mouse is blaring on your stereo

and I am standing under the vestibule
glad for the cool that the storm pulled through
until the humidity kicks up
but I’m dry enough now looking in

and you fold your plastic poncho in half
so it will just fit in the side pocket
the rain will be gone soon, I guess

there’s the drip though, sneaking down
from some thin crack in the vestibule
to tap me on the bicep now and now
and Modest Mouse is blaring on your stereo
and I guess I’m dry enough

Perhaps We Fucked This Up

poetry

Perhaps I am a vampire
but I have always been this way
he said
as sunlight poured through
the open curtains

You can stake me thorugh
and that will slow me down
and I will not fly from you
as a rabid little bat
or simply float out as gas

and he cackled when the door flew wide
and the whole of creation
lit our sitting room

I have sucked your wretched blood
and savored your filty scabbing throats
and when the time comes
I will eat your rotting hearts
in front of everyone

and you were panting in the entryway
a perfect silouette in the dawn
but he just kept laughing
that awful laugh

Perhaps I am a vampire
but that daytime shit
was just in old movies
and when it comes down to it
maybe you’re vampires too

a leaf, exactly

poetry

i receive the cat birds that frequent the oak
tree in the alley between greylock
and 49th as friends although i am
not theirs, and can never be

their friend is the flimsy oak
which stretches and groans with
every new perch
because it is dying
and the city is killing it
which is my city

my every greeting falls on deaf ears
not only because we don’t speak
the same language but also
the big city birds don’t have
the same fondness for the people
of the city as they do in the country

the city is killing everything
they love
i am lucky they do not
attack me

and it goes on and on like this
my romantic and naive love
blowing away in the cold january wind
exactly like a leaf

The last Day Of September

poetry

My brother was drunk tonight
when I found him out
on this town we love
and the bar he was in
was closing down
so we went to another bar

where he called a man a racist
who promptly bought our round
and he smiled the whole time
drinking Old Style
like a rascal in the dark

then he was outside
lending and lighting
and learning about a mother
who lived in Florida
far away

what are you passionate about
he asked some man
who was happy enough
to half-invent an answer
for his trouble

what are you passionate about

then that bar closed too
so we stood outside of it
and my brother said to me
you know that job I have
where I travel all the time
and make great money
and see the world

I told him I did and he said
I thought about calling someone
and getting you that job too
so you could travel
and make great money
and see the world
but I didn’t and I won’t

you’re the music
he said still drunk
you’re the music
and you got to keep doing that

and you know
I knew my brother loved me
but drunk or not
I didn’t know he loved me
quite that much

Old Christmas Poem

poetry

I loved you
in the soft light
glowing from the drifts
between one and six a.m.
as the flakes came down
as the furnace rumbled
as we found each-other
naked and trembling
fingers cold but warming
under soft covers
in the quiet still

I can hear your breathing
but I can’t recall
your smell, or the creak of
the bed frame, or the sound
you made when we kissed
But I remember the soft light
glowing from the snow;
it was just like tonight
that I loved you
in the dead of December
with all the cars plowed in

The 5th Of July

poetry

You are a photo of someone
that I’ve never known, shot
from 30 feet away at dusk
on a sandy inland beach;
a black splotch on a blue-
orange nothing
with the grain enhanced
digitally for character,
alien and untrue and
exactly how I remember it
when I close my eyes

an open-ended question
at twenty-six and ten months
with my back to the dunes
with you haunting the periphery
as the kites flew
until an oil-paint sun
was pulled down into Lake Michigan
and I was forced to change the brightness
so I could see again

Circumference Of Nothing

poetry

I didn’t even shout out loud
when the wind picked up
or the sleet burned my face
or any of the other things

I kept my head down this time
kept both feet moving forward
this time
I didn’t even look back once

you spelled out the perfect measurement
down to the finest degree
and I finally took your word for it
so I never dug out my old protractor
So I never even checked the math

Long Distance Charges

poetry

I called you up
at 12am my time
10pm yours
on a Saturday night
in January
and you told me all your secrets
like it was nothing at all
as you cut onions on a cutting board
and danced to the music
that played in the back
real low

I was laying in a fat recliner
that was jammed against the wall
so the broken spring was less apparent
as I tried to write those secrets down
and trade you some of mine
but they all just came so fast
that my head started spinning
or at least that would be my excuse
because we’d both rather
leave the alcohol
out of this

Montana

poetry

You’ll wait for her
watching a single leaf fall
as the colors change,
blowing cold breath over cocoa
as the window fogs over
in January

Maybe every January

it’s been brisk each autumn
since before you could buy your own
but you’re off the bottle, now,
and even the summer sun can’t offer
any respite from the chill

and it’s so much colder

but you’ll wait
as the last orange bag is tossed
in to the open maw of a garbage truck
and the light jackets go on sale
at the vintage store
on Vine street

I Thought So (I really did)

poetry

I can’t have you
whistling through the vines
out there,

teasing cool
in the summer heat
and bringing,
for just a moment,
the fragrances
of another man’s
supper

My head lays
on the kitchen table
like a chopping block,

pressed against the scratches
in its perfect,
marred surface,
lolling on
the center leaf

it is seven PM
exactly
when I will lift
my head again

to gaze in to you,
cool night air,
like a memory

to think your name
and dream of you
in winter

6:01

poetry

I watched that video
again
for the hundredth time
but maybe only the twenty-fifth
without you

and I don’t even know
what day it was

it was every day
at 6:01
until we memorized
each word and we
laughed whether
we fucked it up
or not

but look, man
we’re in the
prime of our lives
got to live the way we got to

gonna make us some money again
gonna fight

but not all fighters
are champions

and I don’t even know
what day it was

but I hope
it didn’t
hurt

Heaven

poetry

You told me there are rules
about how babies are born,
about how clothes are worn,
about gluttony and adultery

You spent every Sunday chatting
with your Brothers and Sisters
about how the rules apply
to everyone

There are no exceptions

Then your Husband wrote a letter
about getting out early.
He quoted Seneca, who said
that the wise man will live
as long as he ought

There are no exceptions

So do not talk about heaven

There are rules, after all,
and certain rules apply
when the wise man
cashes
out