Lay down these words before your mind like rocks.

Poem for Thursday, February 16, 2012

2012-02-16T01:15:00.001-06:00

Underground

She sprang from beneath the soil
smudges of winter on her
face still delicate not hardened
sprouting lilacs
her mouth was pure nectar she
smiled up at me I asked my god
don’t you need to breathe
she said let’s give meaning to this
February snow
she dragged me under

II.

Flecks of minerals all over
under my fingernails dinosaur bones
preserved in milky glory
an earthworm coiled around a clod
of dirt it yawned when
we passed
she whispered this is where
old trees grow from there’s water
pumping through the roots

I said my thumbs weren’t green
she lifted them to her
nectar lips kissed them and
everything trembled biblically
soil-showered we could smell
crisp oxygen I would’ve followed her
to the earth’s core

III.

To our left was a garden
snake it shrugged its shoulders
it shed its skin for us
so fibrous and lithe
I fell in love with its bent tendons
I let it lick my nose
forked tongue cartilage and creation
peppermint breath
you don’t need legs where
you’re going it lisped

IV.

Down a ways was a bed
of moss glazed with
permafrost

she dangled her secrets there
when they slipped through her fingers
she buried them all

V.

Clouded with earth I was
suffocating she coddled my lungs
but I needed the sun
she told me alright but she
had seeds to sow so to speak
I left her tunneling
in tatters
found the sky through a hole
swallowed a star
on the way up

broken-legged shivering
I craved her honey
I slept through a season

Poem for Tuesday, February 7, 2012

2012-02-07T02:02:00.004-06:00

Crow Calling

wait for a certain shade of gray
in the sky, choose the loneliest
place to perch. the deader
the better (kingdoms are meant
to be seen from naked treetops).

your message is clear: opacity. say,
you tickle my blood and make me
think murky. say, your footprints
are symmetry in the frost
next to my clumsy ones.

i want to clip your tongue,
teach you about words, okay?

teach you too much black can be
off-putting, your caws can be
joyful syllables
if you wanted

Poem for Tuesday, January 31, 2012

2012-01-31T02:21:00.002-06:00

Apple Skins

Granny told Willy she’d check the pickins
for worms and other crud if he’d
wash and dry them. Willy snatched a
damp rag and said he’d be obliged.
Granny sat in the afternoon

sun passing most of the lushgreen
apples to Willy and casting the badly
bruised ones aside like the Sodomites
she would laugh but Willy never got
that reference once throughout his
childhood. When it got too torrid

they each grabbed a wooden bucket
loaded with the fruit so full they
regurgitated an apple here and there
on the bumpier parts of the grass. Willy
hated those darn buckets ‘cause he’d

always get splinters in his thumbs and
Granny was too rough with the tweezers.
So they plopped their buckets on
the kitchen table with watery lips and
empty bellies. Willy reached in his
pocket for his maroon Swiss Army knife

but Granny shook her head no. She
told him he couldn’t peel them
apples ‘cause he’d toss out the skins and
the skins were the healthiest part
since they were chock-full of vitamins.

Willy groaned and mumbled shucks the
skins tasted like rubber so he wasn’t
gonna eat them but Granny could
have at it if she wanted. Then Granny let
out the strangest chuckle and swept
the skins off the edge of the spotless

oak into her wrinkled and calloused
palm. She said alright Willy but be careful
when you make a deal with the Devil
‘cause sometimes you gotta pay up
double. Willy rolled his big blue eyes and
stood up to leave the kitchen. He

wasn’t even hungry after all. Before Willy
stepped into the hallway Granny commanded
him to hand over his knife and he’d
get it back after supper. Then it got so quiet
the ceiling fan whirred and bellowed
like a police siren.

Poem for Monday, January 30, 2012

2012-01-31T02:19:00.001-06:00

Happenings

Icicles are hanging from my drying
jeans dripping the color of denim
the dog the poor restless dog is
barking puffs of wintercold air I
can see them drifting then dying
anyone can.

“Be quiet” I’m scolding
that orange-bellied moon has
nothing better to do than gawk
giggle at me through the cracks.

The sky? well it’s holding its
breath somewhere between baby
blue and lights out.

Poem for Tuesday, January 17, 2012

2012-01-17T01:17:00.003-06:00

Death Dream

you assured me

the hurt would come
in small circles over
different parts
of my body
not in one malicious
attack

i wept the same
as when
you gave me life
head first

Poem for Monday, December 26, 2011

2011-12-26T00:58:00.002-06:00

Sohbet

The universe is tangled in your hair.

I try to unravel it with sweaty
fingers. A gray silence crept in awhile
ago and it is draped over us. We
breathe it in but we are having

a supreme conversation. Our eyes
discuss politics in intervals of blue
and black. Your leg tells mine its
hairs tickle. Hands swap electrons
while foreheads whisper secrets

and so forth. We must never stop
this, I say for real, as your perfume
escapes up my nostrils. Honeysuckle.
You wince, thinking I will sneeze.

Your hair lies knotless on the
pillow now. Nothing is a mystery
anymore and I am in love with your
rhetoric. A truck backfires

outside. A baby robin chirps for its
breakfast. When it grows dark again
the half-naked moon will look like
butter. We will talk about it.

Poem for Thursday, August 11, 2011

2011-08-11T05:07:00.004-05:00

Mea Culpa

I told you when you entered
the kingdom of heaven
Michael and the rest
of the angels would serenade
you, would pluck
crystal harps

that can stop your heart

for the second time.

I told you you wouldn't
go blind from the
celestial light

because you should be
used to our earthly sun
glowing all around you

jealously, orbiting you with
his head bowed to your
tan feet.

I told you
you won't bleed there
and if you do

it will be gold, coagulate and
I will suture your wound
with a righteous kiss,

I will kiss you
in heaven.

But how was I to know
you'd be handed
a blemished robe,
a bag of bones?

How was I to know
you'd be there
before me,
my lips light years
below you
(chapped and quivering)?

Poem for Sunday, June 6, 2010

2010-06-06T03:41:00.003-05:00

We Brought the Rain

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

Poem for Monday, May 31, 2010

2010-05-31T13:20:00.004-05:00

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.

Poem for Tuesday, May 25, 2010

2010-05-25T13:58:00.003-05:00

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

Poem for Sunday, May 23, 2010

2010-05-23T11:49:00.003-05:00

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)

Poem for Sunday, May 16, 2010

2010-05-16T13:55:00.004-05:00

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).

Poem for Thursday, May 6, 2010

2010-05-06T18:32:00.011-05:00

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)

Poem for Sunday, May 2, 2010

2010-05-02T14:38:00.004-05:00

Earth in Adolescence

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)

Poem for Thursday, April 29, 2010

2010-04-29T15:16:00.005-05:00

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.

Poem for Tuesday, April 27, 2010

2010-04-27T00:03:00.009-05:00

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

Poem for Sunday, April 25, 2010

2010-04-25T13:38:00.008-05:00

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.

Poem for Saturday, April 17, 2010

2010-04-17T17:24:00.007-05:00

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!

Poem for Monday, April 12, 2010

2010-04-12T15:33:00.005-05:00

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

Poem for Monday, April 5, 2010

2010-04-05T19:26:00.005-05:00

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

Poem for Friday, April 2, 2010

2010-04-02T17:40:00.004-05:00

Bar Girl

cherry jello-stained tongue

34 C

particularly flirtatious

Poem for Monday, March 29, 2010

2010-03-29T21:14:00.004-05:00

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

anywhere.

Poem for Friday, March 26, 2010

2010-03-26T19:39:00.002-05:00

To My Shabti

Please take

rocks, my

sickle

& even

my sweat;

Please tell

Osiris

I called

in dead

(he should

know).

Poem for Sunday, March 21, 2010

2010-03-21T21:31:00.002-05:00

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

Poem for Thursday, March 18, 2010

2010-03-18T14:07:00.002-05:00

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).

Poem for Monday, March 15, 2010

2010-03-15T18:10:00.002-05:00

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).

Poem for Saturday, March 13, 2010

2010-03-13T15:13:00.006-06:00

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

Poem for Wednesday, March 10, 2010

2010-03-10T19:50:00.003-06:00

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.

Poem for Sunday, March 7, 2010

2010-03-07T16:11:00.007-06:00

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.

Poem for Thursday, March 4, 2010

2010-03-04T13:11:00.005-06:00

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

Poem for Wednesday, February 24, 2010

2010-02-24T17:18:00.000-06:00

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.

Poem for Sunday, February 21, 2010

2010-02-21T15:30:00.005-06:00

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?)

Poem for Thursday, February 18, 2010

2010-02-18T13:59:00.008-06:00

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.

Poem for February 14, 2010

2010-02-14T11:36:00.003-06:00

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...

Poem for Thursday, February 11, 2010

2010-02-11T17:07:00.002-06:00

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

Poem for Wednesday, February 10, 2010

2010-02-10T21:21:00.002-06:00

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.

Poem for Friday, February 5, 2010

2010-02-05T20:01:00.006-06:00

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!

Poem for Monday, February 1, 2010

2010-02-01T17:02:00.003-06:00

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.

Poem for Friday, January 29, 2010

2010-01-29T17:33:00.004-06:00

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.

Poem for Sunday, January 24, 2010

2010-01-24T15:49:00.005-06:00

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

Poem for Thursday, January 21, 2010

2010-01-21T01:01:00.006-06:00

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

Poem for Sunday, January 17, 2010

2010-01-17T15:51:00.006-06:00

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.

Poem for Tuesday, January 12, 2010

2010-01-12T20:10:00.005-06:00

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.

Poem for Saturday, January 9, 2010

2010-01-09T14:22:00.004-06:00

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?

Poem for Friday, January 8, 2010

2010-01-08T16:43:00.005-06:00

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.

Poem for Tuesday, January 5, 2010

2010-01-05T17:51:00.005-06:00

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

Poem for Monday, December 28, 2009

2009-12-28T18:56:00.000-06:00

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

2009-12-26T16:43:00.003-06:00

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

2009-12-22T21:16:00.003-06:00

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

2009-12-18T18:51:00.004-06:00

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

2009-12-16T21:14:00.003-06:00

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

fucking

pyritic

Poem for Friday, December 11, 2009

2009-12-11T20:18:00.003-06:00

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)

2009-12-08T17:29:00.006-06:00

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

2009-12-07T23:45:00.003-06:00

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

2009-12-07T03:47:00.006-06:00

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

2009-12-05T22:27:00.000-06:00

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

2009-12-02T13:21:00.006-06:00

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

2009-11-29T17:30:00.002-06:00

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

2009-11-27T21:42:00.005-06:00

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

2009-11-22T16:15:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-19T18:50:00.005-06:00

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

2009-11-15T12:41:00.005-06:00

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

2009-11-13T22:23:00.007-06:00

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

2009-11-08T14:35:00.007-06:00

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

2009-11-06T14:51:00.005-06:00

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

2009-11-03T18:36:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-01T16:22:00.004-06:00

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

2009-10-30T17:27:00.002-05:00

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

2009-10-28T14:23:00.005-05:00

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

2009-10-25T11:15:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-23T17:09:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-20T14:25:00.002-05:00

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

2009-10-18T15:11:00.002-05:00

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

2009-10-15T21:06:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-13T02:09:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-12T14:02:00.008-05:00

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

2009-10-08T16:52:00.004-05:00

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

2009-10-07T02:24:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-04T14:10:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-03T02:14:00.002-05:00

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

2009-09-30T11:47:00.002-05:00

No Messiah

think

you

have

mistaken

for

some

kind

Jesus

savior

general

wear

Jesus

creepers

yes

but

ain't

miracle

worker

messiah

feel

both

honored

and

ashamed

Amen.

Poem for Friday, September 15, 2009

2009-09-25T00:09:00.002-05:00

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

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

2009-09-22T13:45:00.003-05:00

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

2009-09-20T00:45:00.002-05:00

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

2009-09-18T02:32:00.004-05:00

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

2009-09-14T23:56:00.002-05:00

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

2009-09-13T04:29:00.006-05:00

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

2009-09-11T01:27:00.005-05:00

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

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

2009-09-06T17:02:00.002-05:00

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

2009-08-31T20:37:00.003-05:00

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.

(to be continued)

Poem for Sunday, August 30, 2009

2009-08-30T13:17:00.003-05:00

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

2009-08-29T17:14:00.006-05:00

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.

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

2009-08-24T20:54:00.005-05:00

Coming Down (continued)

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

2009-08-19T18:12:00.005-05:00

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

2009-08-19T01:29:00.009-05:00

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

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

2009-08-16T00:36:00.004-05:00

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

2009-08-14T01:37:00.007-05:00

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

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)

Poem for Saturday, August 8th, 2009

2009-08-08T20:05:00.002-05:00

Poor Signor Lucci and the Epic Collision

When you're an Italian

tourist in

America the last thing

you want to see is

death pre-

sumably but

that's what they saw

all five of them

Angelo Lucci and his

bella famiglia (yes

even the dear children)

were killed in an

epic aircraft collision

CRASH

went the helicopter

into another plane

the propellors sliced

each other in

utter metallic mutiny

the Hudson River

became a little dirtier

engulfing the ash

belching up bodies

Poor Signor Lucci and

his family are

staring down at us

with chocolate Italian

eyes (tears flowing in

the Arno)

but

they are happy

(are they happy?)

they cheer "Buongiorno!"

(do they cheer "Buongiorno!"?)

yes, yes

they must be happy

but when you're

a decent American

you must be sad

for them

Poem for Thursday, August 6, 2009

2009-08-06T00:15:00.005-05:00

8/5/09

In an abandoned house
we painted the walls
listened to techno
that was somehow
obnoxious yet soothing
the sound waves glided
off the primer on the
antique paneling

we talked of politics
how everyone here is
afraid of the term
"socialized" (heaven
forbid we do some-
thing as a society)
and then we went outside

the moon--
it was full, distant and white
but just hours before
close and orange
like a celestial tangerine--
that's how I like it
with Mars
plotting to the west
or north
or wherever in
the neutral sky

Poem for Tuesday, August 4th, 2009

2009-08-04T22:06:00.002-05:00

Melba

has no idea that I write

poetry

let alone that I am

writing about her

I wonder

if she reads any

if she does

it probably has a uniform

meter and a predictable

rhyme scheme and

was published many

eons ago but so what

the other day

another woman ruined

her morning because she

forgot to bring

her some blackberries

like she promised