Poem for Wednesday, December 16, 2009

The Waiting Game

when you depend on yourself

for stimulation

it's gets

damn difficult

a semester now of being done

w/ textbooks & intellectual

masturbation

dusty library crevices

coffee & literary chit-chat &

you run into a friend at a bar:

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

"What're your plans?"

"I applied at Brown and San Fran State."

"That's awesome, man!"

"What about you?"

"Shippin' out with the Peace Corps."

& suddenly you get religious

praying northward that your single-

basket eggs won't cracksplatter

all over that hipster shirt

(your friend prays too)

your mind's become a spatula

flipping winter days over to spring

when your plans fructify

it'll all be gold, baby

quit smoking

keep reading and writing

go to Siberia

it'll all be gold, baby

back for the master's

handshakes with friends

sweet golden

coitus

but you can't deny

how the meantime is

so

fucking

pyritic

Poem for Friday, December 11, 2009

Vagabonds

I. South Korea

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

arrived in the forgotten war zone he

was welcomed with the stench of silver fish as the

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

Heaven Hill and Ozarka) a rapid acculturation of

etiquette & congested streets

he teaches little boys and girls English; they

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

II. Belgium

My friend leaves in January when winter bites the

hardest she will land in Brussels to German

and Dutch words resounding with 18th century church

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

people will filter through the town squares as

a pigeon or two pick at frozen bread crumbs she

will read and contemplate a steadfastly gray sky

at the cafes & think of writing me

III. Japan

The schoolchildren, all clad in formal eastern education

garb, watch my friend write simple English

sentences on the whiteboard fifty pairs of almond

eyes listen & occasionally raise hands, watch the

sweat clump under his arms

in the evenings, he trudges through the city with

sushi and greens packed on ice in every window &

hears the clicks and dings of Pachinko machines (but

he still retires to the park, amazed at

the cherry blossoms)

IV. El Salvador

My philanthropic friend will find himself at

the place of the savior in February, hot

and wet with the blood of conquistadors from

centuries ago stuffed with papusas, he

will belch in Espanol and converse with

the old madre at the fruit stand "Our

people are poor and unhealthy," she will explain

"I am here to help," he will reply

Poem for Tuesday, December 8, 2009 (II)

Tonight, I Move Mountains

In my my southern dreams, there are

mountains that defy God, festooned

with kudzu and scuppernong.

Naked little cherubs float above, squeeze

the vines, and a river of juice

flows beneath my fair-haired legs:

sustenance for my odyssey.

I will follow the ungulate footprints

embedded in the fertile delta and smell

them to determine how alone

I really am.

I will follow the ungulate droppings

and race the scheming sky--a dying

candle, indigo now but darkening.

It can kill baby pilgrims like me:

stopping my molecules with cold

or simply breaking my bones.

I will drink the juice and listen

as bird chirps and leafy wisps

become rhythmic jazz in my mind.

My steps will match the blown

brass and tickled octaves.

I will pass bone-weary prophets

who lie beneath fruitless trees like

squished maggots.

They all smoke cigarettes and

get drunk off sour moonshine:

the moon will shine at night, and

the moon will melt by morning.

I will trudge on for them, for

me, for every sentient soul

once good.

In my southern dreams, the vines

are electro-slippery, judas to my grip.

The rocks will succumb to gravity

faster than gunshots.

The cherubs become sirens, summon

harpies with lugubrious shrills:

Awwwwwwwweeeeeeeeee!

Wyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee?

But, I will drink the juice, and

I will sweat with fire, fear

seeping out of my pores.

I will sing my own songs, my

jazz, and I will not be afraid

to fall beneath the earth.

I was once good, and

I will move mountains

tonight.

Poem for Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Late That Morning

She woke up

the bedsprings creaked

we both became

conscious

we left

the radio on

all night

the music melted

like lipstick beneath

a nervous sweat

the fan blades

cooled us, droned

embraced the smoke

from our cigarettes

I saw all of this

with sleep

still in my eyes

with her number

smear-inked on my hand, fading

Poem for Monday, December 7, 2009

Wee-Hour Drizzle

This wee-hour drizzle has struck (I'm

shivering). My bloodstream

is a frozen tundra, my capillaries are

solid fish stuck in a glacier, mid-swim.

My eyes are frozen open, so I

think about what I've come to accept:

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

Many library books will never be opened.

The finite and the infinite are oil and water.

The list goes on; we don't.

This drizzle goes on for months before

birds' feathers flap northward bound.

I'll try to think of you for fireplace

warmth, but you're frozen with everything.

Between my brain cells, talking

to me in a block of ice with blue-lipped

determination. A silver smile, a white

cloud, and eventually no colors.

And I will go deaf in April from

all of your words resounding at once.

Poem for Saturday, December 5, 2009

The Fourth Kind

Rum and coke snuck in a movie theater

went down our throats during the

previews, warmed us up.

Watched a film about alien abductions

in Alaska; they always struck at

3 AM. Barn owls glared down at the

insomniacs and flew in through

their windows. It was a

hoot. Still cold, I sought the opportunity

to be abducted and explain myself

and humankind to my new ET friends.

But why would they

spare me?

Poem for Wednesday, December 2, 2009

December Blues

The first December morning bled frost all over

cars & grass. It galvanized

the dog shit and whisked away cigarette ashes

into another dimension.

It's going to be another cold one.

I scraped the ice off my windows for ten

minutes, watched the shavings float down

on invisible parachutes. There was

enough to clump into a snowball but

no one to throw it at.

Defrost, defrost, de-

frost.

Driving along, there were old ladies wrapped up

like Christmas presents in coats

& blankets. Their bells and red buckets

jingled in the frigid breeze but

no coins clinked in the slots.

Hard times this month.

Winter was right on time to hoard

the food scraps & chap our lips.

Nothing to do but wipe away the

sleep, sing the December blues.

Fa-la-la-la-la.