4/15/06

in this age of iron there

is quite little

that cannot be found true

in gazing just so

at a motel fan

or painting sawdust from a tree

into a person

there are unseen parts

around us

panicked grass

red light rockwells

great wars, yeats, tree frogs

you

with all your Spanish,

I beg you not go through with this

we cannot stand more
of these people

unless the unwashed clothes

the bookshelves lined with shotguns

somehow beg the oceans to deluge us with
angels

who listen

Night Before Leaving Washington

most of my words
are sad
but i am not sad.
just in love with
the
feeling

most days i can't
feel anything.
i talk, walk, dress
watch tv, eat dinner
with my roommates
debate politics

and nothing comes to
the surface, no
life is born
no death is felt.
just a blameless
nameless
limp through
another day.

so I find things
to make me
sad
to make me
feel
something, ANYTHING

i leave my family
and friends.
i fall in love
with various women
i know won't
love
me back

i sit by myself
for hours on end
looking at the
lights,
all the
couples
everywhere.

i remember the
great people i've
met.
all the great things
ive done
great books i've read
great towns i've seen

then i conjur leaving
the friends i've made
in this town.
all the blood sweat
and tears i've put
in. the memories
laughs, drinks, parties
talks.

and i tell them i'm
leaving, their eyes drop
they grow sad.
i do the same.
then i write
these words
Down.

Last Laugh -- Feb. 16, 2004

The strange thing about life
is just how good it can get
sometimes.
Sitting alone, on the fourth floor
of the apartment
listening to the sounds of the city
as it rushes past
sirens, screeching breaks, bums
jostling the after-work crowd.
Twisting
the first cap off a fresh six pack.

Embodying the vision I'd always had
for myself. Seeing it. Living it. Being it.
And knowing that I can accomplish
The cities. That the breeze of the metropolis
is possible, is realized, is killed and recesitated
over and over.

Everything fits together in the palm of
some imaginary hand. There are girls
to meet, music to create, a poem that
needs the final line.

Here the hardwood floors please me,
falling
Below the oil based artwork clinging to the walls
Below the wilted flowers, singing their song
Below the old battle scarred chest, supporting
the phone splattered with yellow and
blue paint.

Its 6:31 and there's no place like here.
Maybe all things are possible.
Like the sight of first love
The pleasure of romance
The novelty of spinning stars
in the night.

The funny thing is, just four hours ago
I contemplated suicide.

Ha ha ha ha ha.

His Complexion Seemed Almost Yellow, March 2005

and
nothing that spectacular
came from his mouth
when he was thinking of other things
when he was wishing he were other places

the vistas in his mind could
never be reached
by bush plane
or scenic voyage

it was a long sludge

mostly uphill and
filled with false starts
that were colored like an oasis
one used to see in cartoons
or when taking LSD
many oceans ago

only evaporating much quicker
and without the lucidity
or vision
one usually associates with
such experiences

last place was only a concept to him
not a reality
the idea of humanity being a race
was something he had little desire to
compete in

his
ears fell flat
rather often
onto you
and no man
nor woman
seemed happier

than when walking a sidewalk
in an anonymous town
whistling a tune
he had just made up

it wasn't that hard to keep track of

meaning:
it was impossible

you drew away
I suspect
long ago

before all these crumpled
mornings
in isolated
stolen sheets

we would talk of
musical
interjections on the
weekend

big sur
brattle st.
patterson

the grass and leaves
of Whitman

chekov, dosty, emerson

america

yawping on cedar
decks

grilling steaks

steaming asparagus

stretching our minds
so that they might
prophesy

and being young
just being young

it was beautiful
I tell you.