Poem for Monday, December 28, 2009

What We Learn from Trees

I. The Junipers in the Man's Front Yard

stand three feet tall

fortify the corner of Oliver & College

solid

humble green sage (is this man

a sage?)

their trunks--light almond, sleek

are magnificent like scoliosis

you'd think they're swaying

with the winter breezes

but they're sturdy, steadfast

oxen bearing hundreds of pounds

with a unified fixed gaze

II. The Christmas Tree on the Concrete

has served its purpose

and now rolls around in a

cruel new milieu

in its artificial spruce glory

pushed back and forth

tauntingly

by two gusts of frigid wind

no ornaments, no lights

not even a discernible base

a wise old tortoise

knocked flat on its back, helpless

as the last Christmas song

drones out

III. The Condemned New England Elm

is two hundred thirty-five years old

dubbed a "local treasure" in

Yarmouth, Maine

presided over America

during all its red-white-blue wars

but none of this matters

in a few weeks

stainless steel blades will slice

through its diseased trunk

and an old man will cry

while it rains

sawdust

IV. Nothing

lasts

forever

Poem for Saturday, December 26, 2009

The Last Flower

was planted on the ledge of a precipice

smothered in moss, lush and

slippery

by a selfish man

as most men are

he did not want anyone to reach

his frail violet legacy

people have climbed and climbed

cut new muscles at torrid altitudes

darkened their shirts with sweat

some wanted to pick it, spitefully

some wanted to sniff it, desperately

one man wanted to speak to it

because nobody else

would speak to him

did he exist (?)

the last flower

is kept alive in our minds like

the smell of our grandmothers' living rooms

the first time we sampled chocolate

the time when

we realized our hearts

are for more than breathing

you will see it

right before you open your weary blue eyes

one final time

and you will see me

touch my hair, try to capture my soul

settle for my heart instead

you will see it--

there

Poem for Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Camaraderie

Driving like madmen, westbound on I-40

with the Norwood brothers and their

hillbilly rock

snare (tap bang tap bang), whistle

guitar (pluck pluck pluck), whistle

the sky, indecisive as ever

spitting out drops of rain and swallowing

them back up, like stomaching

a shot of whisky

hazy winter fog bonds with cigarette smoke

another friendship formed in

the universe

snare, whistle

snare, oo-wee

nobody speaks what's on our minds

(hamsters on wheels, sweating to produce

that unspeakable thought):

we're fucking old, man

but we can never disband

la la la la

Poem for Friday, December 18, 2009

Golgotha Has Changed

The children on the hill look up, are met

with sunlight

a diaphanous hazel-eyed gaze that angels

dot with invisible lines, as if to make

geometrical puzzles for entertainment

they (the children, the angels) think

we have never been afraid of anything tangible

the dirty, arid hill is dangerous

sharp fossils, land mines

holes that have no bottoms nor reason, but

the children laugh, dance above their predecessors'

peaceful bones, galavant around with

cowboy & indian wanderlust because

God will wash his hands, suture our silly wounds

when the moon relieves the sun, as it

has always done

the ground glazes over with ice, and

the children skate & slide, hold hands

sing songs that lack meaning to them

the angel brass band blares, the drummer boy

pounds his snare

golden notes zoom in the air, up there

up there

God smiles, contemplates his creations

then he goes to bed

for the first time

since everything

Poem for Wednesday, December 16, 2009

The Waiting Game

when you depend on yourself

for stimulation

it's gets

damn difficult

a semester now of being done

w/ textbooks & intellectual

masturbation

dusty library crevices

coffee & literary chit-chat &

you run into a friend at a bar:

"I'm movin' out of Arkansas, man!"

"What're your plans?"

"I applied at Brown and San Fran State."

"That's awesome, man!"

"What about you?"

"Shippin' out with the Peace Corps."

& suddenly you get religious

praying northward that your single-

basket eggs won't cracksplatter

all over that hipster shirt

(your friend prays too)

your mind's become a spatula

flipping winter days over to spring

when your plans fructify

it'll all be gold, baby

quit smoking

keep reading and writing

go to Siberia

it'll all be gold, baby

back for the master's

handshakes with friends

sweet golden

coitus

but you can't deny

how the meantime is

so

fucking

pyritic

Poem for Friday, December 11, 2009

Vagabonds

I. South Korea

A long plane ride and blurry cab drive later, my friend

arrived in the forgotten war zone he

was welcomed with the stench of silver fish as the

locals burned his throat with soju (the "bastard child" of

Heaven Hill and Ozarka) a rapid acculturation of

etiquette & congested streets

he teaches little boys and girls English; they

pronounce their "r's" like "l's"

II. Belgium

My friend leaves in January when winter bites the

hardest she will land in Brussels to German

and Dutch words resounding with 18th century church

bells, see the EU headquarters, and buy mussels & beer

people will filter through the town squares as

a pigeon or two pick at frozen bread crumbs she

will read and contemplate a steadfastly gray sky

at the cafes & think of writing me

III. Japan

The schoolchildren, all clad in formal eastern education

garb, watch my friend write simple English

sentences on the whiteboard fifty pairs of almond

eyes listen & occasionally raise hands, watch the

sweat clump under his arms

in the evenings, he trudges through the city with

sushi and greens packed on ice in every window &

hears the clicks and dings of Pachinko machines (but

he still retires to the park, amazed at

the cherry blossoms)

IV. El Salvador

My philanthropic friend will find himself at

the place of the savior in February, hot

and wet with the blood of conquistadors from

centuries ago stuffed with papusas, he

will belch in Espanol and converse with

the old madre at the fruit stand "Our

people are poor and unhealthy," she will explain

"I am here to help," he will reply

Poem for Tuesday, December 8, 2009 (II)

Tonight, I Move Mountains

In my my southern dreams, there are

mountains that defy God, festooned

with kudzu and scuppernong.

Naked little cherubs float above, squeeze

the vines, and a river of juice

flows beneath my fair-haired legs:

sustenance for my odyssey.

I will follow the ungulate footprints

embedded in the fertile delta and smell

them to determine how alone

I really am.

I will follow the ungulate droppings

and race the scheming sky--a dying

candle, indigo now but darkening.

It can kill baby pilgrims like me:

stopping my molecules with cold

or simply breaking my bones.

I will drink the juice and listen

as bird chirps and leafy wisps

become rhythmic jazz in my mind.

My steps will match the blown

brass and tickled octaves.

I will pass bone-weary prophets

who lie beneath fruitless trees like

squished maggots.

They all smoke cigarettes and

get drunk off sour moonshine:

the moon will shine at night, and

the moon will melt by morning.

I will trudge on for them, for

me, for every sentient soul

once good.

In my southern dreams, the vines

are electro-slippery, judas to my grip.

The rocks will succumb to gravity

faster than gunshots.

The cherubs become sirens, summon

harpies with lugubrious shrills:

Awwwwwwwweeeeeeeeee!

Wyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee?

But, I will drink the juice, and

I will sweat with fire, fear

seeping out of my pores.

I will sing my own songs, my

jazz, and I will not be afraid

to fall beneath the earth.

I was once good, and

I will move mountains

tonight.

Poem for Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Late That Morning

She woke up

the bedsprings creaked

we both became

conscious

we left

the radio on

all night

the music melted

like lipstick beneath

a nervous sweat

the fan blades

cooled us, droned

embraced the smoke

from our cigarettes

I saw all of this

with sleep

still in my eyes

with her number

smear-inked on my hand, fading

Poem for Monday, December 7, 2009

Wee-Hour Drizzle

This wee-hour drizzle has struck (I'm

shivering). My bloodstream

is a frozen tundra, my capillaries are

solid fish stuck in a glacier, mid-swim.

My eyes are frozen open, so I

think about what I've come to accept:

I'll always sleep shirtless, even if I'm cold.

Many library books will never be opened.

The finite and the infinite are oil and water.

The list goes on; we don't.

This drizzle goes on for months before

birds' feathers flap northward bound.

I'll try to think of you for fireplace

warmth, but you're frozen with everything.

Between my brain cells, talking

to me in a block of ice with blue-lipped

determination. A silver smile, a white

cloud, and eventually no colors.

And I will go deaf in April from

all of your words resounding at once.

Poem for Saturday, December 5, 2009

The Fourth Kind

Rum and coke snuck in a movie theater

went down our throats during the

previews, warmed us up.

Watched a film about alien abductions

in Alaska; they always struck at

3 AM. Barn owls glared down at the

insomniacs and flew in through

their windows. It was a

hoot. Still cold, I sought the opportunity

to be abducted and explain myself

and humankind to my new ET friends.

But why would they

spare me?

Poem for Wednesday, December 2, 2009

December Blues

The first December morning bled frost all over

cars & grass. It galvanized

the dog shit and whisked away cigarette ashes

into another dimension.

It's going to be another cold one.

I scraped the ice off my windows for ten

minutes, watched the shavings float down

on invisible parachutes. There was

enough to clump into a snowball but

no one to throw it at.

Defrost, defrost, de-

frost.

Driving along, there were old ladies wrapped up

like Christmas presents in coats

& blankets. Their bells and red buckets

jingled in the frigid breeze but

no coins clinked in the slots.

Hard times this month.

Winter was right on time to hoard

the food scraps & chap our lips.

Nothing to do but wipe away the

sleep, sing the December blues.

Fa-la-la-la-la.

Poem for Sunday, November 29, 2009

Pink Christmas

tree

with a phallus

on top:

2 shiny silver spheres

1 erect pseudo-star

decked with

tinseling garland

beneath

pink lights

(budding little phalli)

* * *

we played

strip trivia

preluding an

inevitable streak

I could've

outran

all the reindeer

(even Comet)

* * *

have a

very

sexy

Christmas

and to all

a good night

Poem for November 27, 2009

Eid al-Adha

We sat down on the ground like brothers and ate with

our hands. Lamb shanks gnashed between ivory

teeth. Rice from a single plate scooped

up, squeezed in brown, yellow, and white hands.

Fruit for understanding.

We saw the world in that small room.

Arabic, Kazakh, English, and other languages

reverberated above our makeshift tablecloth--

a thin sheet of plastic.

"You like?" Mansour asked, mid-meal.

"Oh, very good," I said, smiling.

We sat down like brothers and appreciated a

sacrifice. How God, Allah provided

for Abraham's hungry children:

pilgrims, Indians, and Arabs alike.

Memo and Hussain offered me a fork, but I

graciously placed it beside me.

I chose to not be an American

but simply a human.

Poem for Sunday, November 22, 2009

Business Meeting

After my second or third screwdriver, I sold Connecticut Avenue to

my friend for three hundred dollars.

It was a terrible investment to begin with; the snake-eyed dice told

everyone to pass it by. The car piece sped through. The train piece

choo-chooed away. It quickly became the ghost town of the board, unfit

for nothing save a tumbleweed.

So, I sold it. And as soon as I did, everyone bailed themselves out of

jail and started landing where? Connecticut Avenue. The thought of paying

twenty-eight dollars to rent a space I owned two minutes ago made

me want another drink.

I made another drink. I sat back down, and decided there was no way

for me to win the game. Feeling victimized, I went into a financial frenzy,

liquidating my ass(ets) like madman who wanted cash and wanted it

fast. But in the end, the bastards busted all of my trusts and left me

without a paper dollar to my name.

Our business meeting was finally adjourned, and I don't plan on

visiting Connecticut Avenue anytime soon.

Poem for Thursday, November 19, 2009

This one's for two special people whom I love.


Try Again

you could have had the little boy
sitting in the photo studio
curly red hair with eyes like a fawn
playing with a rollercoaster abacus
"whoosh!" he screamed and down
spun the blue bead on top
of the yellow
you could have had the little girl
who imagined she was part of the
picture she was coloring
so she'd be dancing with a green
elephant in front of a
blue-yellow-silver-pink carousel
deep in the jungle or
you could have had both
but what you got was the
realization
try again later
try again in the future
try again down the road and
again spin
round and round
like the little boy's abacus
the little girl's carousel
(don't you know it's
going to be
beautiful?)

Poem for Sunday, November 15, 2009

Good news: all the files I thought were deleted (including my precious Word docs) are intact! I restarted my computer, and everything just appeared. Although I wasn't terribly heartbroken about losing them all, I was pleasantly surprised to have recovered them.

To Angus

Last month, my grandfather turned ninety-four years old

from his mahogany casket engulfed in the earth.

I was not there to wish him a happy birthday

but his neighbors, a war vet and a teenage boy with auburn

hair, told him for me through rearranged atoms and

eerie autumn breezes.

I loathe that cemetery

because it has swallowed my ancestors, washed them

down with rain and frost, regurgitated them as weeds

and it lingers close by to take more, even me.

I am more than chiseled limestone and marble.

I am more than artificial flowers on the fourth of July.

More than dirt and bones and the nearby tree

reeking of cat urine.

We are all more than death.

My grandfather--he a was jovial, beer-bellied fisherman

with Moby Dick tales that

I was never able to hear.

Poem for Friday, November 13, 2009

Before I share my poem, let me say that a virus deleted all of my pictures, iTunes library, and Word documents. This, of course, includes all of my poetry, fiction, and other writing projects. I have coped with this well, and I owe most of that to Tim Snediker for encouraging me to do this blog; most of the poetry that I'm the proudest of is on this blog. I didn't think I'd ever depend on work put in the public domain, but here I am.


Palpitations

a cigarette stained with pinkpearl lipstick
lays in the ashtray to my right
I can't help but think of love and
how gorgeous the world
is and you there--
the wind suddenly
picks up
I feel palpitations and for the first time
the sky
is my friend

Poem for Sunday, November 8, 2009

Russkiy

is the only way we can communicate, it seems. You're sitting in a

cafe, tapping the tile floor with your pseudo-leather boots (I see

this in my Moscow dreams), and your coffee is cold. Watching

bundled-up pedestrians blurred by window frost--are you

begging for company? The barstools aren't swinging. The ash-

trays are clean because you can see your rosy cheeks in the glass,

and you notice you need a haircut and your earrings are too flashy

for this side of the

street.

Zhingshina, I whisper to you through the vent up above.

My presence is presently strong (I want to you to be warm); I can

see you through the window now, but you can't see me.

Poem for Friday, November 6, 2009

Warsaw

coasting southeast down I-40

        I was waking up from groggy backseat dreams

when I saw this 18-wheeled beast

        a tarnished white truck out of Warsaw, IL

I thought of the Poles first and how

        the driver could be hauling kielbasa

to some fried food Epicurians

picking up some speed to pass

        poetry books weighing down my lap

I clenched my fist and angled my elbow

        bobbed it up and down with force but

the driver stayed straight-sighted, no honk

        heeded to the trucker code

this wasn't an emergency, just a curious kid

thinking back, I never saw his face

       he rode open window with his left arm out

wind-kissed and faded fabric

        a regular Joe on a mission to

truck stops with apple pie and pay phones

       then on to deliver those tasty

Polish sausages to Bohemians and rednecks

       thinking back, I never saw his face

       but he wanted to escape        that town

       he'd had his taste of Warsaw and

       Warsaw was raW

Poem for Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Bodhisattva

Harpies flyin' south too tired and cold

       to harass the immoral Greek warriors

       engulf a majestic oak, gold-yellow leaves

fallin'

        down, one by one

our ground's no longer green but

we still tread it

Look--

I've been sustaining on rice grains

fruit and a swig or two of

        dharma each day

can I fly with them

        yet?

Poem for Sunday, November 1, 2009

         Slump

Old man watching from a wheelchair

in a church parking lot surrounded

by bronze foliage

November is a month of slow-motion and

quiet drives down residential streets

I drive, and my stomach churns

from gin mixes and a screwdriver

generously tabbed by M.S.

at last night's pagan party (I wore a

kilt but had no bagpipes)

my tires slump along at 30 mph

tumbleweeds with hissing axles and

you couldn't pay a man to

play a decent song on the radio today

fingerprints and static

the toxic sensation of greasy hair

armpit odor permeating my interior

slump slump slump

old man critiquing my existence

the leaves are pure salvation

crunchy shades of lipstick and fruit that

fall together

in a natural brotherhood guided

by breezily impatient time

time awarded me another hour

to squander and wonder

why the old man tames the leaves

what a lukewarm shower will feel like

trickling down my back

Poem for Friday, October 31, 2009

Farewell, October

porch steps are lined

      with disfigured pumpkins

             triangular eye sockets

             waxy oxygen ablaze

                       some weigh more than

                             the children who picked them

                                                  some of the children

                                                  dance, dressed just like them

                                                            so all things embrace orange

                                                                   fruit, sun, leaf, power

                                                  clouds, candy, and teeth

                                                  the fingers with which I type

                      and all of the doorbells

                             glow ferociously orange

            on crystal suburban doors

            on tenebrous tenement walls

glowing for years, for eons

without a single flicker

Poem for Wednesday, October 28, 2009

A Perfect Day for a Funeral

       driving through a funeral procession on College St.

the Catholics are crossing the road in

lonely groups of one

        black umbrellas overhead to hide their saintly anger

the rain, daunting

this man or woman--who

        were they, and will they have a gift

        for the Holy Virgin despite their

bereavement? 

        jewelry of some kind, or a scant chant

        jewelry like the women wear into the church

angelic brooches, earrings given by grand-

children, and you, lady in black--is that

        a pearl necklace?

        the air, pungent with old flowers and mothballs

three dark death wagons brave the train tracks

        unhindered by flood puddles

        unscathed by those conflated

with somber prayers

         across the way

         a cross to bear

Poem for Sunday, October 25, 2009

Waking Up to a Storm

The prophets left ashes and myrrh on your doorstep

gift-wrapped but it all blew

away today in a violent gust undulating toward the sky

speed and sediment

       

        like the motion of

        the trees     screeching tires     your senses

you think of the parable with foxes and pour a cup of tea

begin the day reading

about third-world politics ending with gunshots

powder and physics

        what they're doing is

        making it rain      harder

The prophets were Pharisees in clever disguises

trying to steal your

thunder boom-boom-BOOMS spreads sheets of clouds

divides nations

        did you forget to

        thank    whoever    made this happen?

Poem for Friday, October 23, 2009

Motherhood

When I found out your mother

     died, I thought back to five

summers ago. We were sitting

by the tabernacle. I was looking

at the pews, sturdy oak and

conviction, and my palms were

    sweating. You were chewing

spearmint gum, smacking it against

your braces (you shouldn't have

chewed gum with braces). Our hair and

faces were much lighter then.

I thought about how young your mother 

was when you were born, the same age as 

    you that summer. You were more reserved 

than her, too timid to dip your toes in 

my cyan pools as you gazed at me. Not even the 

slightest touch because you would stir 

    ripples, and I would scamper away like a 

whitetail on an early November morning. 

I was timid, too.

On occasion, I think of your family. Adoptive

father, two blond little sisters, and a baby

boy whom I have never seen. I even feel sorry

      for you, once blossoming, now thrust into a

tormenting motherhood. Your petals have wilted

with circumstance. Your father cries over

your mother's grave, and you are unsure of

what to do next. 

But most of all, I think of how you have 

lost your timidness, and I still have mine. 

I wear it as a necklace that reaches down to 

my chest, tucked underneath my shirt, cold

      despite the warmth of my body. You buried

yours beside that tabernacle, and it's

still there.

Poem for Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Transubstantiation

And it came to pass that

the body of Christ

has been wedged in your

esophagus for the

past two          equinoxes

Scriptures and parables

echo off your teeth, over-

powering the formation

of palatal and velar

consonants

You can't even say His name

or His father's name

His blood trickles

down your corporeal

caverns, leaking like a

corroded pipe, blocked

by His               body

Just enough trickles to

make you wonder why

you traded your Bible for

bubblegum and if the

ozone layer is merely

God's bathroom

Do stars combust with blasphemy

or are they unrelated

Either way, you suddenly

understand that Death 

occurs when you can 

fully swallow and digest

Him

Heaven is the glass of

ice cold water to wash

Him down, river rapids

rapturing towards your

poor empty             stomach

And if there is no glass of water

for God's sake, don't swallow

Poem for Sunday, October 18, 2009

Prisms

Each breath, and our lungs are more crystallized. 

     Inhale--more prisms form, frigid, reflecting

the spectrum of light, wanderlust, embracing directions

and fractions of directions. Violet sucked down the

sewer. Red pulsating through a telephone wire. White

     absorbed in nitrogen. Indigo in me and you.

This is the only way we can see the world, see each

other. This is how we communicate--trapping

each other's thoughts in a pitcher of lemonade by

     a porch swing in Arkansas. This is, this is.

Please breathe in these colors: my obsequious

aura, yellow and trembling; your crochet needle, argent

and buried with bones; the rainbow after the storm

     that destroyed our heritage. This is the only way

we can

      see.

      

Poem for Thursday, October 15, 2009

Why Orpheus Looked Back

past the treacherous gray canyons

to his left, to his right

the pungent fetor of mortals' last

breaths

            Orpheus trudged upward

            unsure of himself

past Tantalus' fingertip fruits

grapes, mangoes

dripping slippery juices and

breaking bones

            Orpheus could not hear

            his specter bride

past the palp-palp-palpitations

hellenic heart, fear

Eurydice skating three feet

behind

            Orpheus knew men lied

            but gods lied better

past her vanishing

past his memory

out of

            Hades

Poem for Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Another Goddamn Charlie Daniels Band Song

Tonight I saw

for the first time ever

a black man slide a

fiver through a jukebox and

pick seven Charlie Daniels Band

songs. I mean

damn.

Rocking out to "The Devil Went Down

to Georgia" like he had a

tattoo of the Confederate flag on

his left ass cheek.

Mike and I pondered this as

we downed a couple of

pitchers and sucked some cancer

sticks, and then we danced 'neath

a disco ball on a white diamond to

Girl Talk at midnight. He's a true

            fucking friend.

Poem for Monday, October 12, 2009

I Love You, Sailor

                        The sand tickles the arches of his feet, gripping/sticking

                        to them as 

                                           faithful

       as the man who carried the cross.

       Poseidon's bathtub separates him from the Mexicans, and

       a child stares across the same water many miles to the 

       south       to form

                                       180 degrees of

                                       understanding.

                        Even the

                        gulls are silent. He realizes he mistook Jupiter for

                        Venus all of his life.

       

                                   All of his life, walking

       on the sand above sleeping crabs, cigarette

                                                                       butts, lost

                                                                          wedding rings--

                         the tide (Poseidon's faucet) gargles salt

                         up his ankles into his blue jeans.

                                   How great it is that so many things are

                                             alive

                                                     at night!

                          

                He breathes 

                               not a scent            but a sound 

                               from across the water

                                        past the frothy crests

                                              past circling fish and knotted kelp

                                                     past another nation      that says

                               I love you, Sailor.

                               If there was ever a moment to

                               dig to China, it was now, but

                               he had

                                             no shovel, just

                                     scraps of weathered wood and a

                                           soul

                                           freshly exculpated

                                                   by Jupiter's touch.

Poem for Thursday, October 8, 2009

Water Moccasins

           no snakes, but my feet are wet and untied

           cheap ruined leather or suede I abuse

         

                                                                            a bathroom mirror, streaked with secretions

                                                                            my body is becoming but all bodies have

           flaws.

           what would be different if I never met you before:

           I think I would be wearing a red shirt right now

                                                                             bathroom mirror, my premature beard

                                                                             light wispy and I decide definitely a red

           shirt.

           how did you lead me here

           how did you fool me into washing my face

                                                                             burying my face into my tap-watered hands

                                                                             smiling while mellow rock reverberates behind the

            door?

Poem for Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Happy B-day, Mike Lambert.

Doggie

Bleak drive, dog fur, dead.
Smeared against the highway asphalt;
I hold back tears, I hold back. I
hold. It lived, I live, it doesn't.
It's not like
hitting a deer; no iris headlight glance,
no warning. It's just there. No blue-green-brown
understanding.
I apologize for your domestication; you don't
belong here, dead on the street, and neither do I (but
here you are!).

Poem for Sunday, October 4, 2009

How a Season Changes

                  Cool air wisps through the maze of tree branches

                  between the            veins of leaves

         just strong enough

                  to make them rustle with minor kinetics and we

ponder.

                  It    s  l  o  w  l  y  sucks up all the chlorophyll

         through the same straw nature uses

to blow water down upon whatever is down

                              (a thin stream of air that playfully

betrays us, like

                     an expatriate does his native country).

                 This is how a season changes--

    gradually, painfully, perfectly.

                 We retrieve our sweaters from the

             backs of our closets, our scarves from our dusty

  boxes and drink coffee with new stimulations &

       musings

                    about the weather and existensialism

        about

                 lovers locking gloved hands and

s h i v e r i n g.

                 The sun is retreating

                 and the birds

                         are fleeing fast towards Mexico and then

gray.

                 Everything is gray, but the ice

      hasn't smothered us

                                             yet.

Poem for Saturday, October 3rd, 2009

I have to be at work in less than 7 hours, and I'm wide awake. Nice.

Hero Worship

        I        can't          help    it

    those who mentioned honeysuckles worth of

    facts             and               love will go

  unmentioned

       sorry sorry I

    can't dawdle along speaking of y'all open-

            mouthed         and          childlike

     but

           please         know          I remember all

  your extraordinary feats       and intergalactic

  tirades for peace (two bread

     crumbs vying to be scooped up and disposed of)

     just keep on hitchhikin'

          that's             all                   I              ask

Poem for Wednesday, September 30, 2009

No Messiah

I

think

you

have

mistaken

me

for

some

kind

of

Jesus

or

savior

in

general

I

wear

Jesus

creepers

yes

but

I

ain't

no

miracle

worker

or

messiah

I

feel

both

honored

and

ashamed

Amen.

Poem for Friday, September 15, 2009

That is Heart

A man's nerves pulsate the most

    in between the rings of a phone call

I am that man, and I am

pulsating

              unprecedented palpitations

I don't even think it's my heart or

my being, my, my

       I

       have become one with all of nature

       when I think about you

       we think about you

I am calling you, pulsating

(bum-bum-bum-bumpppp)

The birds join in the cadence, flapping

     multicolored wings against sound waves

     forming kaleidoscopes

The trees, monocots and dicots, open

     up their leaves to you in the dead winter

     (if they have no leaves, they grow green ones)

The wind, blown from the lungs of ancient

      deities, scatters your name among the nations

      in a breathy, glottalized fashion

The animals tear

                            each others' flesh

myself included--I am an animal, tearing flesh, waiting

in between the rings of a phone call, and if

if if

    you answer, I'll explode, a bloody supernova,

and you'll mistake me for a red comet

and you'll say that I am a spectacle

                                             if nothing else

Poem for Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Yemeni Death Beach

    walking parallel to the brine

    the sand is infecting a cut in my foot

    part sediment, part pulverized bone and flesh

 eroding, withering

                                slowly

    I think

    Jesus, I've never seen a dead body before and

keep walking, the Indian

Ocean is majestic and the air is dense with

dead fish and summer warmth

   jogging now, half expecting to meet

an open-armed goddess in translucent white when

   more       bones

   this one was a little boy; I gently take the beaded

   necklace from his skull, put it on, and keep

going

         (I must keep going)

the blood on my foot

is either mine or theirs, I'm scared

    but the waves, the waves calm me down

    speak to me in rippling meters, tell

me to forget what I am seeing

                                                they say

it's a dreammmmmm

       my beach is gorgeous and innocent

              people are only good to one anotherrrrr

but what they mean is clandestine

buried, buried in the brine

     among the bones, the blood, the foreign

     languages that will never be intelligible, bottled

up with a model ship and last breaths

      floating

                  towards

                               the east, where I'm told the sun rises

Poem for Sunday, September 20, 2009

An Apology

Thinking back to that Sunday when

my friend and I laughed during

church--

we almost spit the communion

   "wine" on the back of the feathered

    hat of the woman in front of us, the

blood of Christ trickling down the pew

draining down a universal whirlpool

beneath quaint green carpet and

raining red on the pre-Macedonian

Buddhists

Goutama, you're playing poker with

western gamblers! What is the

     truth

     behind their dark, tinted sunglasses

     what

     cards are they hiding? Probability

dictates either red or black among

thirteen numerical options, but what

about truth?

 

     Truth is, we're beside wooden chests

of drawers with manmade scratches

and dents that light maliciously exposes

     (If you tried to sell them, their

declining value would be revealed and

commercialized).

     I'z(ed) beginning to think you don't

trust me

     no more (shhhhhh!)

And to the feathered hat woman--

I'm sorry, ma'am, but I was eleven, and

that joke was too damn good not to

laugh at

Poem for Friday, September 18, 2009

Red, White, and Red

Freewill enterprise, tarnished.

      I know what we have become, and you,

blue-collar, know that being humble

      is by far a man's best quality (I can't

      disagree).

I love you, America, and to this

day, I'll still preserve your falling flag

      among the burning and the rubble. I'll fold

it neatly and put it in a safe place

      before I spontaneously combust

because I'm a goddamn 

patriot.

Poem for Tuesday, September 15, 2009

God Wears a Cardigan

From a mahogany desk in heaven, God

      spins the earth (a quaint bookend/paperweight);

      his finger

lands on fall. While people are worrying

about how they will eat and

what books they must read, I am only

      concerned about finding

      the ideal cardigan:

 

      six buttons, cotton or wool, a color

      that accentuates my Anglo features

      (in case you're wondering).

Something that disappears in a

maelstrom of leaves. I want to be

       naked like birth.

Because

   I plan on sitting on my porch,

   calm and crapulent,

   contemplative and brain dead.

I don't want to look uncouth 

in the process.

Back in heaven, God wears

   a cardigan, too--

   the last three buttons undone on Fridays.

Poem for Sunday, September 13, 2009

I think this might be the final portion of "Coming Down", and I've had a lot of fun with this. It's the longest poem I've ever written (I'll write one longer someday, hopefully). I'm stoked.


"Coming Down" (continued)

X.

Almost down, I tried one last means of
pick-me-up: nitrous oxide in frigid mini-metallic
cannisters. Forty seconds of pure happiness and
             cheek numbing.

If you make a buck and want to squander it on an
ultra-ephemeral escape, go with the         cannisters.
             But, I'm beyond that.

Who am I?
Who am I now, father, mother, brother, grandmother?

The tarnished golden child, perhaps.
     My beautiful Au element has been reduced to what?
          Who cares!

          Who cares?!

Coming down, totally, righteously, I prepare to head
into the concert past you, girl on the concrete steps,
and enjoy my vigil out of 

                        agrarian suburbia.

Icarus's wings caught aflame,
Dionysus got too drunk,
Socrates warned us all (that impious fuck).

The moon still exists, and it's cold, so
never mind that.                   Enough about
                                               celestial bodies!

Under the saline sea, an octopus
reproduces, multitudes of new tentacles and
          opaque defensive ink.

I think of The Beatles first. 

  I think of the Beats second.

When do I think of you and I? Never 

         (it would only
          kill us).

I am a poet.
I am a linguist.
I
want
what's best for humankind.

In         the United States, Canada, Mexico,
            Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay,
            Suriname, Iceland, England,
Ireland, Sweden, Finland,
Norway, Germany, Denmark, the Netherlands,
Poland, Austria, Albania, Romania,
            Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Turkey,
            Russia, the Caucuses, India, Saudi
            Arabia, Egypt, Kenya, Sudan, Tanzania,
Nigeria, Congo, Rwanda, South Africa,
Madagascar, Indonesia, Malaysia,
Pakistan, Iraq, Iran, North Korea, South
            Korea, Mongolia, China, Japan, Australia,
            and any other nation or principality
I neglected to mention--
there exists a human struggle.
POETIC struggle.

My function, my sole purpose (according
to the refracting light that I see
behind my blue-green irises) in the name
of               breath, knowledge, and sacredness:
      to represent humanity and poetry. 

I love you all,
      and that's my curse.

I'm still coming down.
I'm still witnessing visions and blunt reality.

Local people, foreign cities, preposterous
dreams, cruel circumstances, love.
I'll consume all of these entities in the
ultimate smoothie of existence (a semi-
Bohemian method)!

Let me drink!
Let me eat!
Let me live!

The Beats would be laughing, telling me to
           go on.

My relatives would be lock-jawed, telling me to
           go on.

I, I, I, I, I!
I, I, I, I, me!

The Athenians still weep over the fires
consuming their land (I haven't
forgotten you).

Olive oil and balsamic vinegar can only go so far.

Here is as far as I'll go, forever:

LOVE stings and burns, but
endure it; it's nothing more than
missing the Greyhound at a mediocre
bus station, after all. 

                              Book your next
                              ticket. Make
                              your next escape.

Breathe glorious, glorious oxygen in the lungs of
EVERYTHING
you want to be 

                        alive.

I
am
down (sober, 

                  reluctant, 

                                 listen).

Poem for Friday, September 11, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

IX.

The moon is hiding behind an armada

of nocturnal vapor and nothing more, a

porous fleet that only trickles water when

     it could drown us all.

I understand.

A little boy fell off his scooter and skinned

his knee, crying out for sympathy. My brother

    of the half Orient and I, we saw him and

walked to his aid, drunk:

    "You okay, buddy?"

    "You alright, man?"

And his pupils dilated in horror when he

smelled the gin on our breaths and saw the

milk in our eyes, but at least

      he stopped

                        crying.

But I can't stop crying now--

manly brother has inherited a poisonous seed

from weeping father, and I

      feel guilty. I, the older, wish that I could

bear it, but genetics is a fucking mind warp.

Chromosomes, fusion, mutation--

our skin, our consciousness is a mere facade!

I cry for the little boy.

I cry for manly brother.

I cry for genetics.

Almost a decade ago, airplanes bomb(arded)

          industrious American skyscrapers. An

indirect beheading of white by brown. A

pure betrayal of physics and human decency

altogether, but someone must live

          to tell about it, to warn YOU.

You, who are reading this in between

          masturbation sessions.

You, fellow

                  human (nice to meet you).

I'm still coming down.

By law and by hormones, I am a man now,

      but by life skills I am a boy, and I

lollygag and daydream even more than

a boy (the scooter boy). I dream

                 kaleidoscopic visions, multicolored,

                 the ingenuity of Union Pacific against

                 steel rails and the droning choo-choo (beckons

me to sleep) but I remain awake.

One Beat used spontaneous prose, another used

acid, and the others just used life. I want to shake all

of their hands, intellectually masturbate with them, and

                 buy them lunch at a quaint Thai restaurant.

I returned to the place with persimmon lights and the

death tree--the place my brother of the half Orient

and I traversed to. I was not drunk off beer this time, but

        something else:

She was not you, girl on the concrete steps.

She is not you.

She

      is

         a flawless product of a Dravidian language, music, and

         raw human emotion. Jet black hair and encourager of

         conversation. Magnetic lips.

She makes me happy.

Revelation: we can never be solely happy.

I thought I was, but I also feel guilty, manly brother.

You got the poison, but I didn't.

Just don't let medicine--a gross adulteration of natural, 

beautiful herbs--control you down to your

         valiant motor skills.

Do you remember when we rolled each other

in trash cans down an aisle in a pharmacy?

Do you remember when I was stupid and

punched you in the stomach for no reason?

Do you remember when I gave my soul to you?

I do.

Tomorrow, you will embrace academia, saunter

     through a library and smell the must of books

     older than our ancestors (I envy you).

Tonight, though, we both

                                     rest.

We rest less blissfully than we used to because

the moon and its armada are closing in,

fierce as ancient Spain, accurate as ancient

Portugal, malignant as ancient religion.

But, we rest, nonetheless.

Poem for Sunday, September 6th, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

VIII.

I met with a Russian lad and propositioned him--

he'll teach me as much of the Russian

language as he knows for booze each week.

      Fair enough.

I saw him at a party the other night, and he

offered me some swigs of his scotch. I took them

valiantly, and he shook my hand afterwards.

      Positive, glorious international relations.

And I have not forgotten about you,

weeping father, beloved mother, manly brother, Stoic

grandmother.

In the meantime, I help my Saudi Arabian friend.

We've talked of English grammar and U.S.-Middle Eastern

relations, and we can still hug each other at the end

of these seemingly controversial conversations.

I take pride in the world.

There is an icon with two hands cupping a microphone, and

I'm not sure

                                 what it means.

Should I sing? Should I streak? Should I proclaim,

"Hey, world, I'm "right-brained," and I don't

                                                                  give a

                                                                  fuck!"?

Where I am not is an odd, eccentric place.

I think of my past teachers/professors and their intentions--

some were good, some were

                                                 selfish.

All were human.

I have no doubt that all the homeless are

weeping right now. They cry for food, for shelter,

for validation.

                         I wish I could give them everything,

but I can only give them shitty poetry (such

                                                                      is life).

Surely, that cannot sustain a human life force

longer than water, food, shelter.

                      But, I have prepared pizza.

I have told you all that I might travel to the

"-stan" countries (Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, Turkmeni-

stan, etc.), and my weeping

father begs for my life. Maktub--it is written.

I can only tell him that I want to travel the world,

trek across sand dunes, hug Muslims, be young,

teach children a dominant language.

My Russian understands.

A misty morning, smothered in dew and

various scientific practices confront me (as

              long as it's cold, I don't

              care).

I'm still coming down, and a voice, a spirit,

tells me I have to ascend with it: am I ready?

Am I ready to transcend?

Am I ready to relinquish my earthly projects?

Am I ready to abandon any hope of love (for

       a presumably flawless, golden afterlife)?

NO.

In the end, I'll be sprawled out all over the

sidewalk, and the moon and Venus

will shine over me. Beams of photons and

        inspiration will luminously shine above me, and

I'll hear a distant astronaut say,

        "Come here! Learn of our ways (what can

I say?)!"

NO.

The truth is, if Earth spontaneously combusted

or shriveled up into a celestial prune,

I would be here with it.

I'm willing to suffocate for you,

girl on the concrete steps.

I'm willing to say to everyone I thought I knew,

"I'm sorry, I can't make it. I can't be with you."

That's love.

                  I embody love (or a hideous imposter).

Poem for Monday, August 31, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

VII.

My Stoic grandmother wants to attend a Cherokee

powwow with me, and I would love to

take her. I will even buy her

turquoise jewelry and not reprimand her for

                being (slightly) ethnocentric.

I love you, Stoic grandmother.

I am part Cherokee. You are part Cherokee (I'd like

to believe you are, anyway). It's all about the

plight.

To my right is a photograph of my weeping father and

my beloved mother circa 1979; they are standing,

arm in arm, in my Stoic grandmother's front yard.

         Father is wearing a gold blazer and a patriotic tie.

         Mother is wearing a white lace dress.

They created me!

The past is a delicate thing; not just my past, but 

all of our pasts. Think about it:

in ????, the world came to be

in 1776, America came to be

in 1963, America's son died

and that's all most remember.

I purchased a 2 liter Coca Cola at a gas station,

and I lost it somewhere from there to my home, and

       I am terribly upset with myself.

        I am terribly upset with myself--that's

how I have felt mostly.

In a town called Wye, we walked through

a field of daffodils and perused through

a tin arts-and-crafts barn with wooden ornaments

and relics of the south.

Manly brother--you and I would cross the

boundaries of the daffodil fields and look for 

snakes in derelict bluebird boxes. We never found any,

             although we were adventurous enough. I came

to the edge of the woods with rotting oak and pine,

             and I felt at home. We felt at home.

Sometimes, when we were at home, we would look

        up at the sky at night, and I would tell you where

Venus was in relation to the moon, the universe, and us.

We both knew that it's simply a sulfuric acid-strewn

        planet with a touch of Greek goddess prestige, but

I always wanted to go there (did you?).

I always wanted to be an astronaut, but I was never

smart enough, and I was never disciplined enough,

and I was never, I was never, I was never.

How sad it is.

Our childhood innocence is not lost all at once

but gradually. We accept what we can do/cannot do,

        what we should pursue/should not pursue.

The poster of the water cycle in my tenth grade biology

class told me two things:

                                           where water went, and

                                           that I wasn't meant to be a

                                           scientist.

If you tell me I'm not meant to be a writer,

then I'll have nothing left.

Don't tell me that.

Don't tell me.

Don't tell me.

Don't.

(to be continued)

Poem for Sunday, August 30, 2009

I'm giving y'all a break from the "Coming Down" brilliance/monotony. Also, it feels fucking beautiful outside. I'm ready for you, September.

God, Love His Bones

"God, love his bones," he would say.

When I was a child, I would

bump my knee on a coffee table or

scrape my arm on a tree branch, and

my father would console me.

"God, love his bones," he would say,

holding me in his lap

against his chest.

(I remember crying, tears freely flowing

from prepubescent eyelids, unblocked

by the dam of pride.)

"God, love his bones," he would say,

kissing my forehead with paternal authority.

And we would sit in his smelly

recliner for awhile, watching football

and televangelists.

(When I was ready to leave him

to play again, I would squirm; he would

lift his legs and let me go.)

I would go back into the world

a slightly smarter little boy, ready

to endure more bruises and scars.

He would light his cigar, flick at his

translucent ashtray, and watch me.

(I have never gone back.

I will never look back.)

Poem for Saturday, August, 29, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

VI.

There is a (one of many, actually) post-modern minstrel

who plays my favorite hymn. He uses the sacred, polished

        acoustic guitar of whoever/whatever created us all, and it's always

              flawless, and it's always cathartic, and did I just die?

                                                    No.

Listening deeper, I grow chary of things.

        One day long ago, I was walking around in an Indian

reservation, shards of pottery older than my nation itself beneath

my feet.

        Another day long ago, I was walking on the Golden Gate

Bridge--early August, cloudy, 70 degrees. I have never felt

more spiritual.

        Yet another day long ago, you, weeping father, wrote

me the most genuine letter I've ever come across, telling me

you loved me.

You see, I have felt alive!

        And this feeling has spoiled me, like an Epicurian with an eternal supply

of manna. Because I cannot always feel this way, because

I am something called human, I will be terribly, terribly

                   deprived during my last chemical exchange. It's poison, it's

a humble realization, but so be it.

I

 am

      ready.

I want to be honest with you, reader. With all of you, readers, about this:

        science textbooks tell us that we are nothing

more than 46 chromosomes intertwined, 70% water, unpredictable

genetic allelic entities that thrive on oxygen.

The reason why I hate science is because it says nothing about

        LOVE. The closest it gets is talking about erections, which

are only sometimes love, but not enough times.

Trajan's Column is erect. Big Ben is erect. I am not (until you're

        ready, girl on the concrete steps). And I could

talk forever about exquisite monuments, weeping father, beloved mother,

manly brother, and Stoic grandmother. But I won't.

A new planet was discovered; it will combust within a million

years because of its orbiting and its moons.

                                That is way too soon. That isn't soon enough.

Which

is it?

       And what planet can exist without love and erections?

       And what planet do I want to be on when the creator

realizes they made a costly mistake in letting humans interact?

       And what planet am I from?

       And have I even sprung from my beloved mother's womb?

       And have you?

Those shards of pottery on the Indian reservation--they meant

            the world to me.

(to be continued)

Poem for Monday, August 24, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

V.

The wildfires are attacking the Athenians, torching

        olive vineyards, suburbs, and history. Nearby,

        Marathon is next (run, citizens!). Little

boys with names like Stavros and Mikos will

                               be temporarily displaced and lose

faith in the universe. I

        cannot blame them. Our world suffers. We suffer (and

our fathers still weep).

I read a book about a merchant who served

   Tangier tea in crystal glasses, and I became enamored

and thirsty--not for tea, but for company, for

                     faith in the universe. In the sky, an unseen

aircraft cuts through your favorite constellations,

   plowing through the nitrogen as a farmer does his soy fields,

carefully.

              I read on, and I hear about the "universal language" in

the stars--they speak to me in glows; they speak to me in

                   supernovas; they speak to me. And they speak to you

(I still

          love

                you). 

We'll take a Mediterranean cruise with the stars to bless the poor

          Athenians if Poseidon doesn't mind. I'll tell you of my

weeping father, my beloved mother, my manly brother,

my Stoic grandmother. You'll tell me of yours, too!

          Over dinner:

          sample the wine, pick at balsamic salad, and right

before the main course, you can tell me yours. Our server

          will wear a white, ruffled jacket and starched black

pants, and the shadow of starboard (we're sitting

               at the edge of the dining hall) will intersect with

his crooked smile--pretentious, but thankful for

      my generous tip, of course!

See, my fantasies are funny! I dream of this

not from the earth or not from outer space, but within myself.

        REVELATION: I, we, are our own planets. 

My cells are my moons: red and white, preserving and

destroying my body. My blood is my longest river, and it always

                  changes paths. My nucleus is my core. When two

people love each other, I believe it's nothing more

than two planets emerging in celestial confluence. Do you

           want that for us, girl on the

                                                      concrete steps?

Somewhere flat, maybe Kansas, maybe Mongolia, 

there is a lonely shepherd with

                             a hungry flock. He leads them through

monotonous landscape until the sky turns from

baby blue to burnt orange. The arid heat

          breeds sweat droplets in his scraggly beard (the

beard of a prophet?), and he stops

to rest in an abandoned church. I saw this man

in a dream, and he told me something important:

"I have wanted nothing in life but to be

          a shepherd and to travel. I have wanted

  nothing in life but the dependence and reverence

          of my flock. God, Yahweh, Allah, Buddah, Krishna,

          Zeus--they want exactly the same thing."

I offered him a beer and asked him which deity to

        follow, and he slapped it out of my

        hands with the power and wisdom of his

ancient staff, shouting:

                           "Feed my lambs! Feed my LAMBS!"

Who am I, with shepherd-like dreams, talking of

         Greece and stars and you? Who am I, mother,

brother, grandmother? And father, why

         are you

                     still

weeping, just like the poor

Athenians?

(to be continued)

Poem for Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

IV.

Dreaming of Heidelberg, though I have never been

there--

 

            meine Lehrerin let me have a poster (seventeen-

years-old and counting) of the place several years ago

and I constantly gaze at it. "What do you see?" you may

wonder. I'll tell you:

perhaps it's the multi-dome brick bridge that spans

the quiet, creepy Rhine, connecting smokestack industry

with forestial fertility. Who are the go-betweens that l  i  n  g  er

on that bridge--that is the question. If just three people, then

me, you, and the specter of whichever of us gives in first. Us go-betweens,

can see/hear/feel much:

a Lutheran clergyman surreptitiously eyes a beer stand;

a dog takes a shit on the steps of an orphanage;

a man slugs his wife a good one for burning the bratwurst.

These things make me feel HUMAN, and what it is to feel

HUMAN is to have your guilt eased.

I would never shit on the steps of an orphanage or slug my wife.

But I have eyed beer stands, and I have eyed them well. HUMAN!

I am no longer dreaming of Heidelberg or Germany or castles or

blond-haired blue-eyed women or classical music because I am

too tangential. I cannot help but mourn and praise my wilting bamboo

plant: three stalks, two green, one yellow, jaundiced from weakness and

neglect. I will call the latter Abel, the first victim.

                   Abel is about to die, but certain things lift his spirits: 

         Turkish music, cool air, and mind vibes. His chloroplasts will be

            ingested by his two brothers, and they will fight greedily for them.

When we were young, manly brother, I punched you in the stomach

because I did not like the way you breathed. You shot me in the shoulder

because you did not like the way I talked. Strange now to think about it--

we laughed. we laugh.

                   There are a few alternate universes to which we should traverse,

two saints on broomsticks flying above Arkansas's humid air, past the flat

mid-west, past the interminable river, past Boston and its five thousand dialects

up, up up!

             Up, up, up!

                              UP, UP, UP!

                     

          Past Europe and Asia and heaven and past superheaven. And we'll 

dick around there for awhile, and then come back to 

                                                                                          Heidelberg.

(to be continued)

Poem for Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

III.

It's time to just sit. 

So, I, we, sit and in my

       finite mind I attempt to enumerate my thoughts

to no avail. Tonight, I sit with you, dear friend,

at the bottom of suicidal steps in the dark. The

water roars from the east, blocked by the dam, and

we compare it to magma, questioning its

                    state of matter. What is our state of matter?

Do we matter?

        And I tune out the abstract/philosophical bullshit right

there. Religion and love. Faith and concepts.

                     There are six fluorescent lights across the water,

their photons skimming across the ripples, and you compare

them to a famous painting with six asymmetrical persimmons

and then talk of Daoism. Or Buddhism.

         We-are-what-we-make-of-it-ism. That is my RELIGION.

I am reminded of you, Lady Pontellier, contemplating

walking right into the water and dying jovially, but I

          could never bring myself to do that. I have no courage!

Sitting on the steps and gazing at the seemingly futile tributary that

is only lit by six persimmon lights and the fluttering lunar

penumbra (the moon! the moon! never forget it), and I know the earth

is moist from inconsistent rain, embedded with the

marks of ungulates and mosquito droppings.

                        And the troublesome tree to the west puts on many

facades--a dog, a pirate skull, death smiling with dichotomous leaves.

           Two planes take a low flight behind us, blue lights. Blue lights

across the water. Why blue lights? The universe, shapeshifting as

it may seem, must always revert back to a primary color. That

is

all

I have learned in my two decades of breathing.

             But you, friend, half bred of the Orient, are even older

than I! I have corrupted you with nicotine and nostalgia,

and you have corrupted me with guilt from my own naivety!

REVELATION: though unadulterated love is our principal priority,

we are also here to corrupt each other.

And ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

And I have not forgotten you, weeping father, beloved mother, Stoic grand-

mother, manly brother. I have not forgotten you.

Coming down again, my only hope is to reduce the universe to

matter, then atom, then ion, then quark, then -------! What else

can be salvaged under the humid Toadsuck sky?

(to be continued)

Poem for Sunday, August 16, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

II.

The scorpion on your desk says

"Hello! Hello!" he is made of a wire

alloy and begs, "Let us talk of your past

and why you came to be!" So, being in agreement

with universal sympathy, I declare, "Okay."

Love. Love. Love. Love. What did I 

miss?

         Love. Love. Love. Love.

From who? Beloved mother, weeping father, manly

brother, Stoic grandmother?

          My friends and I have squandered more

brain cells than sperm cells because

          we think more than we "intellectually

                                        masturbate!"

I want nothing more than to be the next

BEAT GENERATION! I am Kerouac, my best mate

           is Ginsberg, and Corso, Ferlenghetti, and Cassady

are talking poetic genius with us!

           This is why it's pointless to dream; I recall the times

I wanted to go to outer space.

            What is it--this connection with religion? Is

this all a

              ploy to remind us that we exist (you asked me

that when you were high one night and you would

never admit it)

              Asians gliding on sleek wooden hoverboards cutting

wind and physics in between asteroids like

              a post-modern music video and all, all that

              that ENTAi   l    s   .

(to be continued)

Poem for Friday, August 14, 2009

I've been slacking again, so I'm deeply sorry.  I've been bummed out lately, but I should have known that writing poetry would be the perfect cure. Hopefully, this poem will make up for it.

Coming Down

I. 

It's the feeling you get when you're coming

down from a high, sitting on concrete

steps.    There are flowers across the street

          springing up from a small plot of grass in

urbania: 

tiger lilies, or something of the sort.

I looked up at the sun, trading in my long-term

vision for a revelation, and all I could see was

           Icarus struggling to grip that slab of luminary

butter, falling to his death as his father wept.

And my father weeps. He weeps inside his mind

every day, and his son knows it. Like David did

with Absalom (sins, sins of our fathers), but I will 

not be strangled and trampled from a tree branch.

I sat in the balcony in the auditorium, finding

musical tranquility from the performance and gazing

at the lights on either side of the stage: lemon. They

           were neon yellow, glowing intermittently. I was

still a bit high then; all I wanted to do was        hold you

because I care about you.        I love you.        A journey

awaits me, though, and I must go to lands of 

           babushkas, snow, and poverty.  Lands of tan-faced

children, candy, and communism. 

I must leave you, there, sitting on the concrete steps; 

you looked at me, smiled, ruminatively and I wondered 

if you were a guardian angel or not. I must leave you,     weeping,

loving father, and you, mother. Patient mother who

bore me two weeks late and welcomed me with

           pacifiers, religion, and a beautiful fortitude. Mother,

           who I genetically favor with light hair, light eyes,

           and a compassionate yet submissive disposition. The

crabapple tree would bloom every autumn, and you

would take pictures of my brother and I with our baby teeth

and boyish garb. And you, grandmother. You, with

leathery skin, emphysema, and a supernatural heart (your

aorta is lined with gold from an Israelite's throne, pumping

the blood of Jesus).               I would tell you anything. I told you

on your porch in between cigarettes that yes, I drank

beer, and you shrugged it off and wanted me to compliment

your flowers. In your garden I saw everything from colors

to photosynthesis to love. 

And you, brother. Together, we bore the sins of our father 

through laughing and the strongest facades, braving the 

earthquakes of reality. You, the younger, have empirically lived 

before me, and I was scared for you. I am still scared for you, even though

           you're a man. I always will be. I must leave you all, but

I will still see    Mars    from the universal sky, glowing red with

the fury of          war      (it burns so, so bright in August), and I will

        still see the sun, the slab of luminary, celestial butter from

which Icarus fell. I am Icarus. You are Icarus. We are all

                Icarus, and our fathers weep for us.

(to be continued)