Sunday, June 6, 2010

Poem for Sunday, June 6, 2010


We Brought the Rain


to Mongolia, which
means good luck from G.K.
so
the olive hills of Zuunmod
will be a little
greener

Monday, May 31, 2010

Poem for Monday, May 31, 2010


I Prayed for You


last night

but a number of things prevented
you from seeing it: partitions of
cigarette smoke, a lack of decent
street lights

your cataracts, and because
I did it in my mind.

What's amazing is how
you can go eons without a
single divine thought, but
"Dear God" is

the most
abused
utterance
ever.

I prayed for you, prayed
that you would keep
outliving me

(disclaimer:
not my will, but thine)

after I die
at age, say, 100.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Poem for Tuesday, May 25, 2010


Found Poems # 9-10


9.

for your chance to win a
virulent diamond
envision an eye exam and
contact lens discounts
on the schoolroom
windowpane

and sail on

10.

Andrewshek's Auntie Katushka:
sitcom buffoon
the real Messiah
city that is set on a hill
multi-color;

Samuel, the Lamanite:
refurbished
available to visit with you
2.4 GHz
multi-color

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Poem for Sunday, May 23, 2010


A Thought in Memphis


The Blues have been collecting dust for
years
in Malcolm Bart's record store
on Beale

I'm starting to think Lightnin' Hopkins
didn't die of cancer
but suffocated in a plastic bin
choked
on "Lonesome Dog Boogie"

Oh, anyone can walk that street
in Memphis
gulp that BIG ASS beer
snapshoot
their sunlit faces beneath the
half-glow of neon signs

Anyone
can backflip for bucket change
distribute food flyers
go back to their hotel and
claim to have had
some revelation

But only a bluesy few
give a damn
about Malcolm's
about Lightnin' and the rest
about anything besides
an Elvis snowglobe

(no offense
to the King)

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Poem for Sunday, May 16, 2010


The Chapel Bells

ding-donged songs
of the Savior

to just one
receptive vessel

(I was smoking a
cigarette on
a strange porch).

they clanged, echoed
twelve times

saluting either noon
or dead disciples

(Judas Iscariot
had the faintest
resonance).

the ringing ceased
with time and

distance is all
I felt

(time, distance
x and y
...gone).

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Poem for Thursday, May 6, 2010


Things I Won't Forget

the smell of department stores

the name of my favorite teacher

every time I bloomed in autumn
(you lingered until the end
of springtime then left)

my first bumpy driving lesson

the taste of busted-lip blood

every time I shriveled in winter
(you forgot me a little more
with each new forget-me-not)

how the seasons come and go

and

the smell of department stores
(of course)

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Poem for Sunday, May 2, 2010


Earth in Adolescence

I.

a few weeks ago
those pesky pimples tore
through her Icelandic
forehead skin
thanks to Clearasil
neglect

she popped them herself
against the sky (her
mirror) & they oozed
magmatic puss
making her feel
quite ugly


II.

her monthly cycle
rolled through with
vengeance
as she helplessly bled
black down her
briny coastline

reports say the BP
phallus will be
pumping
thousands of barrels
each day until a
presidential tampon
blocks it


III.

she is convinced
she is too fat
with her six-billion-
people-belly so
she refuses food
in her
African regions

but at midnight
she raids her
American
fridges for apple pie
à la mode & by
morning it's gone
(where does it go)

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Poem for Thursday, April 29, 2010


Goddamn Papers


Big man in tan sounded off the red and
blue while Pepé was coming home
from the fields just outside of

torrid Tucson.

Big man asked Pepé for his
"goddamn papers"; Pepé reached
in his glove compartment

aggrievedly.

Third time stopped in a week, twice
by Big man. Pepé thought about
his wife's hominy stew

growing cold.

He wondered how he could pass his
citizenship test on the first try but
couldn't pass an intersection

without being stopped.

Big man eyeballed Pepé's papers, stupid
as an aimless child gazing agape at
the sun, then tossed them

through the car window.

Big man scratched his crotch, said,
"Welcome to 'merica." Pepé had lived
there for ten years, and this was

his first welcome.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Poem for Tuesday, April 27, 2010


Dry County Blues


Lonoke County, Arkansas:

where every day is a
rainy Sunday

and the bottles and cans
from Pulaski
float

down the ditches
clueless

as Baby Moses
in his basket

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Poem for Sunday, April 25, 2010


The Carpenter


told me that my porch posts were bleeding
sap, and sure enough, they were.

He pointed to the sticky amber spots that
had pushed through the white Dutch Boy
like an infant through the jungle of muscles.

"Know what's causin' that?" he asked.

I shook my head, looking at his scabby, sun-
beaten hands, smelling the impending
storm.

"No, I don't."

He brushed his thumb over a knot the
size of a nickel on the opposite side of
the post, smiling.

"This knot right here," he said.

His words harmonized with a soughing
wind: inspect the wood, dry it out,
use water-based paint.

They were not majestic, but they
were honest.

I glanced at his shirt pockets, convex
and unsnapped; one contained a church
bulletin, the other a pack of cigarettes.

"People told me I should've been a
carpenter all my life," he uttered while
fumbling for a smoke.

And after that, the wind grew bold,
racing through my hair and clothes.
The charcoal clouds began to collide.

The carpenter knew he had to call it
a day, so he left with a brisk goodbye.

Crossing the street, he went inside
his securely built house.

I watched him from mine.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Poem for Saturday, April 17, 2010


Said Idi


in a country
where the price of a chicken
surpassed the price
of a human being, an ogreish
child addressed the Ugandans:

I may wear a general's uniform,

said Idi,
in English tongue, English medals,

but I am the same as you,

said Idi,
in African accent, African heart

the Ugandans cheered
in Ateso, chanted in Lusoga,
lifted their staffs
to the sun and silenced again
for the general's words:

Obote and his men have left,

said Idi,
on the cusp of celebration,

so we can now live in peace,

said Idi,
hands clean of blood at the time

but as time consumed
the next ten years, hundreds of
thousands were fed
to crocodiles while chickens
pecked at the dirt

the Ugandans bled
because the child was afraid
there were monsters
hiding
in his palatial closets:

I know when I will die,

said Idi,
breathing heavy and still,

I saw this in a dream,

said Idi,
a visionary among everything else,

but they are trying to kill me,

screamed Idi,

they are trying to kill me!

Monday, April 12, 2010

Poem for Monday, April 12, 2010


Nuremberg, 1946

before a long sleek table sat
americans soviets british french

the same hovered around
a prosecution table
cut from schwarzwald wood
during the
good old days

&

twenty-four men
each had their day to
march into the court
methodically
as they had done
throughout the
Jewish ghettos

keitel smoked his last cigarettes during recess

dönitz thought about his brief presidency

göring played god, dined on cyanide

and
so
on


Monday, April 5, 2010

Poem for Monday, April 5, 2010


Easter Sunday

While children found the last of their
pink eggs among the grass and
tree branches,

while the evening hymns droned
from the palates of old
women and men,

while mothers and wives plopped
the leftover pot roast on their
second-best china sets,

while adamant shoppers
bought next year's decorations
for fractioned prices,

while men and women sweated
in giant white rabbit suits
for the last hour,

while all
of this
happened,

a man told me
just how much
blood
the Son of God lost:

all 3.5 liters

Jesus,
I thought we had
more blood
than that

Friday, April 2, 2010

Poem for Friday, April 2, 2010


Bar Girl

cherry jello-stained tongue
34 C
particularly flirtatious


Monday, March 29, 2010

Poem for Monday, March 29, 2010


Lunar Continents

full moon night--

i see the lunar continents etched from humble
earth (the man is hiding for now),

antarctica curving
at the base,
africa full of
craters.

i see australia overlooking my neighbors'
apartments

europe shining
avant-garde-like
east of a milky
atlantic.

i see south america and asia on either side
of the equator (can't imagine the tropics
on the moon).

i zoom in
on north america,
spot you
frolicking

in a random field with sun chips and
echinacea,

content
to
be
anywhere.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Poem for Friday, March 26, 2010


To My Shabti

Please take
my
rocks, my
sickle
& even
my sweat;

Please tell
Osiris
I called
in dead
(he should
know).

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Poem for Sunday, March 21, 2010


The Irony of Wood

Around the sleek maple axe handle
the contours of calloused hands
tighten
muscles
contract joints become geometric
with the weight of the iron head

lifting slowly over the shoulder
arcing
the motion of an oil drill
the motion of potential energy
(which in itself is irony)

and then
a thundering
fall

* * *

bulls-eyed in the concentric circles
of a severed tree trunk
stands another piece of
maple
still clothed
with bark and sap a shadow

looming over
sharp and indiscriminate shadow
darkening over the lonely
piece of wood
(two pieces of wood in two seconds)

another
axe handle
born

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Poem for Thursday, March 18, 2010


In Lieu of a Porch Swing

a futon sits, motionless, covered
in white silk.

It serves many purposes:

a place to sit for the bone-weary
a place to read, if that's your thing
a place to draw the imaginary line
where you fold the porch in half

Before the futon is a makeshift
coffee table, also white.

On top are four evenly spaced candles
orbiting an indigo vase--perfect
for an afternoon seance.

And if the sun's rays could creep up
the concrete right now, that futon
would shine like God;

I would be here, at my desk, devouring
a banana in the middle of rapture.

But the sun's reach is limited,
so the cutesy white furniture
fades to gray in abrupt shadows;

I would still be here, staring at a veiny
banana peel at the cusp of tribulation.

In lieu of a porch swing,
a futon
(let's sit
and watch
the apocalypse).

Monday, March 15, 2010

Poem for Monday, March 15, 2010

This poem is a no-holds-barred collaboration attempt by Kevin Lenners and myself; we alternated after one word each. I thought of Lewis Carroll, and you'll see why.

III. (Better Title Coming)

You, King Zumar, may become the boobah
residing fantalantlelantalopes.

Excelsior! Boomagoobagoop is a
slutbucketin' changlesporicalistor
meatfusion! Zipplebopple permeates
zhuzhumariphorical atop of

Kilimanjaro watching rebirths swell
tumultuously khikchobaccathusnalcoven--meh.
Mea-culpa blerfungary. Asenspa cartoonists
propriate Jupiter-groovin' poodles.

Proclamation: amoodledeedleflakenhausen,
gliebenstumberg! The proletariat builte
Pokemon abucazzeedoflauklesnit curmudgeons.

This wigwam isn't quimbluxuating spiracles--
Fuck! Sir Finklesteine zollified Pringles
yummily while /klefing/ Zoinklesberg
infiltrated Chimchangaville. Egads!

Coagulate "Kamikaze" Chunlespauk's
snuffaluffagus' snuffaluffity choo-choo'd
gregariously. Methinks bugflipflopiten
shanked coinciding palmettos.

Bilobas' cuckamongorama--chivalrous, translucent--
isotopes a'formin' jackilocowboylanterns
(BLEEP yo' mindfuckery, por favor).

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Poem for Saturday, March 13, 2010


Universally Speaking

if we fold our world into a paper crane

let it float in black abyss
fueled by carbon compounds
propelled by stardust

the scientists at the helm (the crane's
beak) will whisper sterilely,

there are other worlds ahead;
we are not moving, the space around us is

the mathematicians on the wings
will notate on graph paper,

we have found a paradox: between
numerical parameters lies infinity

and you & I will coalesce
outside the feathered body
hidden in penumbrae

I wouldn't have it any other way

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Poem for Wednesday, March 10, 2010


At the Supermarket

They told me you were coming in April
nonchalantly at the dinner table. I
dipped my bread in my soup, and
suddenly, you existed.

I never fathomed you because I don't
see your mother often, and when I
do see her, she wears baggy blouses
over her stomach. They're often red.

Your hair will probably be red at
first, but then it will ripen to blond.
That's what happened to all of us, and
you have our blood.

I won't know your name, and you'll
never know mine. I don't want us
to know each other, or at least not
when April comes.

It'll be a surprise or a coincidence
(you'll learn these words later).
We'll both see each other some
place and wonder.

Just imagine: you're standing in
line at the supermarket when
you're eighteen, buying cigarettes
and cinnamon lip balm.

I'm standing in the line to your
left, and we glance by chance at
each other, and we notice our eyes
were cut from the same sapphire.

This'll marinate in our brains for
an hour or so, then it'll dissolve
and reappear a couple more times
before I'm beneath dirt.

I wish I could write your history
for you, but I would leave too much
out--who your father is, where
you came to be, those types of facts.

And historians should be objective.
I admit I would conceal information
as well--you have two sisters, and
you weren't supposed to be born.

You weren't supposed to be, but
suddenly, you existed. I hope your
mother's blood succumbs to
your new mother's touch.

I hope you learn to read and love
it and are tolerant of everyone.
I hope you have nice manners and
enjoy sweet tea.

I hope that if you see me at that
supermarket (I won't judge you for
buying cigarettes), you look at me,
truly look at me.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Poem for Sunday, March 7, 2010


Sneak Attack

the grass is still the color of wheat
some trees are still naked but

spring
is s n e a k i n g up on
winter
with a burlap sack

that will soon be weighed down

with frozen bones.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Poem for Thursday, March 4, 2010


The Hill Country

basking in a hot tub at four a.m.
w/ herbal contemplation

(the following might come to mind:)

equilibrium fleeing when you step
out into the icebox, reaching for a
towel while your nipples twist

coyotes screaming like schoolgirls
over vampires, drooling over rabbit
blood at their raucous ritual

the lonely, determined man jogging
up the suburban street, possibly
running from the coyotes

this is the hill country
I think to myself

with its ozark woods
church steeples poking the sky
low-grade Oklahoma beer

we then submerge our
faces in 110-degree water
try to outlast each other &
I come up third

to the stench of splattered
skunk, knowing I am
alive

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Poem for Wednesday, February 24, 2010


Things We Take for Granted

full stomachs, or even half-full, to begin with. They
keep your vessel warm, give you
bowel movements (without bowel movements
you'll die).

the lining inside your Levi's jeans. Grayscale
designs with stars and automobiles etched
from a rugged western antiquity.
Have you ever noticed it?

students who used your textbook before you did.
Knowing that someone suffered through
your mind-numbing physics class, too (the
phallus on pg. 87 is a surprise worth a chuckle).

obscure colors, like chartreuse.

the remnants of the last snow of the year. Stacked
and tarnished on jet black asphalt, grossly
out of place, but it can cool your summer
heart before you combust.

a vast karaoke repertoire in redneck taverns. Just when
you start resting your lungs for a Charlie
Daniels' song, you come across Radiohead,
thank god, and command the stage.
the breaths you take in between kisses. Like when
we brushed lips beneath a naked maple
in January (you uttered the "L" word to me
without thinking, then kissed me again).

Indo-European languages.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Poem for Sunday, February 21, 2010


My First Heartbreak: A Rhetorical Analysis

okay, so I was born

how did my parents choose my name?
when the Chinese doctor won the tug-of-
war with my mother's womb
they saw me for the first time

a crying ball of flesh and natal juices
glowing orb-like under fluorescent lights

did my father proclaim, "Yep, he's an Andrew, alright"?

not long after, I was thirteen

a couth brunette with a Yankee accent
broke my heart and didn't even know it
when she got with this spiky-haired
kid who took ritalin

I sat in a lawn chair beneath the pines
for forty-five minutes in disbelief

do all Andrews cope this way?
would an oak have provided greater fortitude?

and here I am now

Andrew (who?)
heart-mended (huh?)
no trees (if a tree fell in a forest and no one was around...)

strides past thirteen
still in disbelief (how could she?)

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Poem for Thursday, February 18, 2010


My Gunilla


I.

She sat alone upon her icy throne in her
Swedish castle, reading his letters from
fifty years ago.
He wrote to her
with a strong tan New England hand
(the same hand that commanded
a nation), he wrote to her,

I've been thinking of sailing the Mediterranean
with you, my Gunilla, as the crew...

She was blue-blooded and passion-struck
when she met him on the
French Riviera
just as any young woman would be.

He was a scholar, a politican with that
fiery charm that could make
her country burn like the tropics
(turning snowballs into coconuts).

II.

The sun set over their tryst and
one more time, he wrote to her,

Things have become so complicated...
this will be my last letter, but I will
look over and think of you, my Gunilla.

The sun set over his marriage, over
his children, over the speeding silver
ripping through his
all-American face.

She sat alone upon her icy throne in her
Swedish castle, thinking of the sand
that June, her chin resting on his arm.

She thought of him,

He was romantic and strong, but
he was not forever.

Her sobs shook the mountains, and
the sun set over them, too.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Poem for February 14, 2010

Happy fucking Valentine's Day!


Blue Eyes & Tofu: A Narcissist Moment

Water came out of the faucet
somewhere between
a drool and a torrential downpour
I flipped the garbage disposal
switch and shit went down

Tofu went down
like a stuffed toy cow sliced
by Kenmore blades
in steak-size chunks
mmmmm

A demon possessed the disposal
it bellowed something ancient
something tribal with its metal
lungs deep from hell
bwgrrrrrr

Day-old tofu stench
usurped the clean air
smelled like rotten veggies
post-sex pheromones

the whole time I watched it drown
I found a face so renown
in the ornate Spanish mirror
directly before me

blue eyes so large and round
a hue nothing near could match

even during the dirtiest tasks
I am...

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Poem for Thursday, February 11, 2010


Haiku-Poem Chain

It was two a.m.
when he smoked that cigarette
by a pond of slush. . .

. . .Black slush, dark water
the density of snowballs
prevailed with ripples. . .

. . .He went on about
traveling, helping children
(the gin's what did it). . .

. . .No parameters
just elliptical patterns
and the goddamn fog. . .

. . .Wasn't there a girl
with a navy SUV?
Blues Traveler jams?. . .

. . .Who saunters along
wearing house-shoes in month two?
(The son of Jack Frost). . .

. . .Jack Frost and Black Frost
wagered with old Apollo
and clearly, they won. . .

. . .Because there's no sun
only ice and warm stomachs
(the gin's what did it). . .

. . .They say Mexico
is nice this time of the year
you Blues Traveler

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Poem for Wednesday, February 10, 2010


The Perfect Time for Fucking

is when

it's snowing, of course
there's an army of snowmen posted up in yard after
yard
carrot noses and mischief embedded
in 20-degree precipitation

(this is when I love you the most)

candles, candles you suggest

I say

fuck your idyllic warmth; let's be hot-natured beneath
an overworked ceiling fan, let's just
do that.




Friday, February 5, 2010

Poem for Friday, February 5, 2010


3 Insignificants of Yesterday

I. Trip to Wal-Mart

Grocery carts &
fruit baskets
chock-full of
junk food, iPods
fried chicken &
despair;
I need a
trash can, some
dishwashing
detergent, a
lobotomy.

II. Trip to Extreme Fitness

After 10 minutes on the treadmill, I turn around and look for guys
around my size: none. I don't think they take steroids, but I think
they pull buses w/ protein-stained teeth. Time to define my chest:
set the machine to 100 lbs., contract like a motherfucker, keep up w/
hip-hop music. The smell of metal & sweat along w/ my grunting
ignites the apocalypse.

III. Trip to Arvest Bank

My brother drove me &
he parked close, but
it's still cold & wet (pneumonia
falling from gray skies). The teller's a nice
lady because she has to be.
Most people would get sick if the air
was thick
w/ over-buttered popcorn and dingy dollar bills.
Personally, I can't breathe in anything else.
Successful deposit!

Monday, February 1, 2010

Poem for Monday, February 1, 2010


The Rice Silos

Once a month or so, I drive past some
rice silos in the distant tawny fields
of a speed-trap town.

In those fleeting seconds, 58 mph to
be exact, I examine those silos
like the scientist I am not.

Some things I pinpoint:

the grooves in the giant tin cylinder tops
tetanal rust forming at said grooves' edges
bird-shit stains that remain until it rains
the vast shadows darkening the backs of cows

Some things I wonder:

how tall and how stable are those silos
what is the volume of the giant tin cylinders
how many pounds of Arkansan rice can they hold
should I become a humble, tan-lined farmer

Sometimes, I see a farmer bent down
working while the torrid sun scorches
his calloused back.

I want to ask him how it feels to have
his four children's futures depend
on plentiful rainfall.

I want to ask him how it feels to curse
and slay the same animals he loves
to feed the world;

and before I know it, my seconds are up

I speed away, sifting through the radio
stations as I approach a long stretch
of Baptist churches.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Poem for Friday, January 29, 2010


If This Is Death, I Want Death

Even in its purest form the snow
still smothers
all creatures
kills all souls.

The oaks & birches
naked and frozen
tell me they haven't grown a single leaf
in months.

Don't worry
I understand
I'm naked and frozen too.

If this is death
I saw it
from my window
euthanizing us
with an ivory-toothed smile

holding our hands
while carefully pulling the plug
from the outlet.

The maples & pines
ask me if heaven is green
before it's gold.

How should I know
I wonder
I've never been there.

If that is heaven
I sang about it
from a dusty hymnal
long ago
long before
I saw
the snow.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Poem for Sunday, January 24, 2010


International Relations

3 different countries sat together at the table

my Saudi friend cooked ketsah, spread it out
on a sheet of aluminum
my Kazakh friend told stories
I listened happily, looking very American (my
skin/hair lit by incandescence)

& our hands were greasy
right after we shook them
rice slowly creeping in
the grooves between our fingers

almost sensual
guava juice

one of the best meals of my life

we finished, sat in front of the computer
excavated our cultures
an Arab woman sang & danced, sans hijab
the audience clapped with the rhythm
of locomotive & steel

I saw a video of Almaty (a glorified
Las Vegas on a vast, yurt-dotted farm)

& then we watched
Palestinian-Americans
scream bloody murder at
the Israeli president

somber silence
then, "Wow"

all I could think about was
they taught me "I love you"
in their native tongues

sadly, I've already forgotten

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Poem for Thursday, January 21, 2010


Untitled

we met like reflections in Christmas ornaments
beneath metallic tinsel (it was so shiny
I was intimidated)

we met like a little boy and his lamb
in pre-Jesus Israel (you bled after a year &
I was inconsolable)

we met like port and starboard on U.S.S. Something
in a hostile Manila (cannonballs sleeked with
Spanish tears)

we met like compounds in a chemical reaction
that yields no oxygen (since when could we
breathe around each other)

we have never met
but I see you
everywhere

I see you hanging from the pseudo-spruce in December

I see you bleeding while I sob in incoherent Hebrew

I see you getting flanked by the red & yellow flag

I see you trading your atoms like marbles

we have never met
but I dreamed
all this happened

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Poem for Sunday, January 17, 2010


The Shaving Ritual

Last
night I realized I was a man so I would
start looking like one.

Fresh out of the shower I stood in front of
the mirror that had become a portal
blurred with condensation.
It was time to shave what little hair I had
little hair sprouting like pint-sized stalks of
corn from a feeble harvest. My face is a feeble
harvest but it still has time.

For
a while I met my own young blue-eyes &
saw myself in a semi-narcissistic fashion.
A lukewarm water droplet inched
down from the corner of my (mirror) eye. I
have not cried in a long time.

When
I was no longer spellbound I rubbed a thin
layer of shaving cream on my face.
My face--round & rosy
with pensive eyebrows--sits atop
my stringy body. I am a balloon.
I shivered from the sensation of
shaving cream colder than
refrigerated butter.

The
razor blade was dull & contaminated with
my previous shaves but
I do not require much sharpness. Five minutes
later my face--complete with beady
lumps of blood beneath my chin (I always cut
myself in the process)--was bare
except for my mustache.

Last
night I decided I would never shave off
my mustache again. It separates
twenty-two years from sixteen years
just like the portal mirror separates
clean slates from mistakes
Europe from the United States & water from
wine.

Clean
-ing out the sink I gazed at the drain
that sucked down the last of something. When
exactly did this happen? Why did I
first touch that metal to my tender face
ten summers ago? My right hand
curled involuntarily to grip an
imaginary briefcase. A tie would be around
my neck soon.

Last night I stared at a man.
I have not cried in a long time.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Poem for Tuesday, January 12, 2010


That Trivial Moment

From my window I oversaw
your three a.m. departure
green lungs and muscles
stiffened by precipitation
my friend. You
got into your car
got back out again
clasped your hands
and began to work.

I could not see your breath
you were a cream silhouette
against a night of blackened
bitter
coffee.
I could not see the cold
diffusing through your milky bones
because no one can see
what they fear.

You scrubbed your windshield
fist tucked in peacoat sleeve
shaved off the ice
like two-week stubble.
It parachuted
over your tundra hood
down past your door and
I swear I thought
a second snow had come.

That trivial moment
is pasted in my timeline
between my first words and my
impending
heart attack.
That trivial moment
I beheld with eyes
blue as your circulation
crushed by sleep's anvils.

I finally closed them.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Poem for Saturday, January 9, 2010


The Two Best Poets of the 21st Century

are not you and I
as we maintain
as we drunkenly
declare with six-inch rum
voices & text
messages.

then again, maybe
we are.

dig?

Friday, January 8, 2010

Poem for Friday, January 8, 2010


Delirium in Brevity

Clara sleeps.

Her sweat seeps in
Egyptian cotton sheets
her toes, uncovered
the cold
slithers between them with
unclear intent.

Old sun paints prisms
on her grandmother's crystal
chimes, dangling above the
window; they ring.

The doorbell downstairs rings.
The hidden telephone rings.

Still asleep, she
sings an Italian love song:
Buona notte, principe
Buona notte, amore.

Her vibrato is the same
blown from brass trumpets
but she cannot speak
this language, only
sing it.

The sound breaks the mirror.
Her feet ache with frostbite.

Waking up, her
grandmother is sitting
grandmother, knitting
the burgundy scarf
she made for Clara's
ninth birthday; it
was
plush.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Poem for Tuesday, January 5, 2010


Snow Cycles

The snow that tickled our
brown-shingled roofs
last night is
the same snow
that
feathered down between
the (sharp) blades of grass
in the German
countryside
a century or so ago
that very same snow
covered, cooled
blood
shell-spilling from
poor farmboys
lying on that grass
next to canteens
bibles and
memories of Shawnee, Oklahoma
looking up at the heavens
without
blinking.

* * *

The snow that glided atop
our windows, windshields
just last night is
the same snow that
killed crops
soured spirits
transformed the
American dream
into a frozen molecular
nightmare
nearly a century ago
that
very
same snow
devoured all the pennies
from Wall Street to the
breezy Pacific coast.

* * *

The snow that
kissed our bodies
last night
is the same snow
that was salted
on the highways
that was salted
by your tears
when I said
we were one person
one entity so
let's be free
together
hands linked like
history