The Mooncalves Meadow

(shhhhhhhhhhhhhh)

2011-02-12T18:28:00.000-08:00

between you and me, ive long been proud of my ability
to present an exterior of normalcy while stewing
in an internal world full of half rotting carcasses,
bug eyed fire flies, and the ashes of cities. i have
nights where i secretly patted myself on the back for how
close to craziness i felt. maybe i actually enjoyed the insomnia,
the self medication, the revolving door of revalations and excesses,
the dead artist club that follows me with a broom to sweep up
my mess. its oddly neat i can read psychiatric disorder books and point
out fun ones i have. and here i am going in for more meds tomorrow.
oh im such a bitter wreck of a sage
but every then and now i stop. realize how "been done"
it is. all are victims, all know tragedy, the
stirred air that follows the experience of weightlessness.
(ok, a LITTLE therapy wouldn't hurt)

but who wants to be one of THOSE?
those who talk of how much more persuasive
their demons are than everyone elses. those
who look at their watch too much or
lie about watching a sunrise they slept through.

so i made a wager

to keep the names to myself.

to face what needed facing.
and never take pride in
the coffee collapsing
a piano into a window.

im just gonna keep
looking
for paint cans to salvage the answers
i bought
from the trash bins.

cuz lets be honest.

i could be phillip seymour hoffman with
just a little practice, a few deep breaths,
and some dance class.

In a colorful equation of long standing

2011-02-12T17:54:00.000-08:00

you arose from some
where hidden inside.
a universe that was
definite and dead. a
journey drenched in
the whole earth
because you know
in the fog, it
escaped me. and
sugar palmed, the
way you liked it.
a little girl wearing
red suspenders,
sat high and
upended.
in any case,
a hesitant nest,
a slow purpose,
the perturbed
cannot help here.
it doesn’t fit.
it cant fit.
in any case.
I made you in
my image

(un)divine election

2010-12-10T16:57:00.000-08:00

In the campaign office I throw
Myself into things just to see
What I may hit. We don’t know
What we are doing but we
Are somehow neck and neck
And there are four thousand things
To do and I am overwhelmed to a
Point of smiling but I look around
The tornado desk at checks and futures
Trading and a civics class of information and
The only politics I can think of is
Her hips and how the election with her
Is already over

Of Bluster and Breakups

2010-02-27T05:54:00.001-08:00

it just sort of happens.

not that thers any map
almost
better that there isn't.

like reading
the back of cereal boxes

a day
comes when you don't.

was it
a conscious decision?

a sort of
definitive flag you plucked
in the ground claiming new
land?

a pile of circles that
didn't resolve?

a shadow
spreads across
the trees with
names i
dont know

turning yellow

like a photograph
at the edges.

you knew at a
very young age

it was a spoken
word. seen and unseen
that your mother struggled
with. a hatred born
from freedom.

kind of like
you know, throwing the football
around in the snow. or for me,
shutting down, the normal

the routine of
winters passing.

a sympony
of dispositions and late
days.

its taken this long
to hit my stride.

and i read something today on
the bus by a favorite poet
that made me
stay up all night.

certain clues, certain hints
about the way you put
on your tire chains

a mailbox, frozen.

when you
think about describing us.
a piece of paper picked up
by an old friend, backwards.

a bottle rocket
of chess and some soldiers.

way down.

its cool, you said, im
not the rebound girl.

Spontaneous 10:23 love poem about nothing

2008-03-18T03:51:00.000-07:00

It is tiresome many days
Just to find the
Courage to
Flick a piece of dead skin
From your hand
to the ground

It seems the walk from the bathroom
To the kitchen is to travel through a
Desert of vacant wars and last place
Gods

The newspapers are written in
incomprehensible tongues

The cars are rolling by on
turpentine

And you regurgitate the same line
over and over and over again

Dreaming of far off lands
and bi-polar pets

There are always good things
I tell myself
It just takes more looking around
More doorstops, more patience

Everyone is a victim of something
Of someone
We've all been brutalized
We've all seen the ugliness
Of loves gatekeeper

We have all raked the calanders
Off the walls
And cursed the stockings of time

Every day is a choice to say
Yes to this thing

To kick something in the balls
To stroke the fur of an
Amazing beauty, a mountain

To forestall
The Ink from draining your
Veins dry

To take all these cliches
And do something about
Them

"Do not worry
about tomorrow
for tomorrow
will worry about itself.
Each day has enough
trouble of its own"

Sayeth the good book
They really oughta teach
That thing in counseling class

Theres something to it
Even if theres nothing

To this.

seoull mufflings

2007-12-09T04:21:00.000-08:00

she lied and it was.
dusk. we knew
there would be
a few of these,
but
i wasn't told
the lights
would slip in shallow puddles
when the rooms became
empty.

our acts were honest
the seam split across
your face and i used
the fire extinguisher

to put out flames that
were north of us.

i gambled beirut
and pissed myself.

you took my broken hand

spoke something about
my performance to
the GI's

a stage dive

and the night. . .
a canvass
of winter moving

resolved in uncertain
words.

now the distance
of half crumpled papers

from the birds eye
gimlet

a wilted refinery of
merely being.

just a . . .

i was . . .

haven't you . . . . ?

and a
request:

if you see me
puffing my chest out

keeping my own
counsel

with lamps around

run for
your
life.

plundered saturday

2007-10-03T00:46:00.000-07:00

a tin life
without much
wire or smut.

i needed you to
smile or save that
last part of me

from recycling itself
in the gutter of misprints.

so much so how so where

2007-09-29T01:52:00.000-07:00

i was going to

then i didn't

but i thought

this cant be

you arent serious

after everything?

so much
so how
so where

flung with
ah, shit

well, grow
up
and move
forward

learn about
your
soft parts

and there
is a home

but everything
is touched

by this

even the
movie
about you

ive been writing
all this time

it can keep coming
here or there
with a planter
and no parents

decisionless
charm

a spontaneous
pool shark

ive been a lot
of different
places

launched alaska

too much time
inside

well

you know there is still
a schedule

and writing
one line with a
curtain or

breakfast

unexpected but
surprised growth

an intrigue with no
fornicate

the man and the myth

2007-09-29T01:30:00.000-07:00

"you look like layne staley"

he said, snickering
the last time we saw each other
at the danvers barnes and
nobles we spent half
our college careers

he sat down with old man
ass and old man arms and
i was shocked at how he
already looked, well, old

he told me of the many
degrees he'd obtained
since last we met

and i learned how the
fastest beer drinker i knew
hadn't touched a drop
since his wedding night

how he'd gone from old maiden
to maranatha

how the best
short story writer
in the gordon college
class of 2001
hadn't written a word
in years

his wife called three
times during our half hour
coffee

something about the plunger
and the toilet and how it
couldn't wait

he said he'd live vicarious
through me,
but he really had to go

his phone rang again
he sighed
answered
apologized

and left

then back
a minute later
to grab the coffee
he'd forgotten
accompanied by a joke
something about
if i ever get into
trouble of a serious nature
he'd help to get me out

but it was pretty obvious
the only one who needed
help at our table

was him

Just Another Manic Monday 11/15/06

2007-05-08T07:32:00.001-07:00

it is morning
no, i just checked
it is afternoon
nothing is happening.
i've done my routine:
coffee, newspaper, espn, drudgereport
fantasy sports, yahoo, hotmail,
myspace (shh)

everything drifts

a kid is skipping to the park
in a yellow raincoat

the doorway is
awash in the colors
of christmas

a russian is poisoned

a journalist is slaughtered in the street

there is gaza and baghdad and damascus

castro somewhere puffing cigars

entire civilizations are swept up
in a headline
swept into
a basket
swept away in
a tumbler

sugar or cream?

day after day
my eyes blur
pounding on this
thing
begging a
pardon
for the atrositicies
i've committed
asking forgiveness for
my genocides
my famines
my fascism
my own seven year war

i beg to be let
outside
to be allowed
to forget the world
this day

to serve some
different master
for once

but it wont let me quit

it demands discilpline

manic days fastened to
all night rapes
alone
in my room
staring at the ceiling

like a short story
with no moral
no punchline

it is 27 degrees
out there
warmer in here
with the fireplace on
and a ticking wooden
clock

it is no use
i am entrenched
in this
i have my orders

to keep pounding
and pounding
and eventually
blast
this darkness
once and for

all

ignorance and economics

2007-04-09T14:34:00.000-07:00

They say art doesn't really
change anything, so why study it

These people should really read
up on the velvet revolution.

Art and artists started that whole
thing, and, people tend to think
prague is pretty damn cool
these days

They say philosophy doesn't really
change anything, so why study it

These people should really read
up on marxism

Marx came strait from Hegel, and,
sorry to break the news, Hegel
was a philosopher

They say economics does change
things, but nobody wants to
study it

I have the remedy

Turn Milton Friedman and
John Maynard Keynes into baseball
Cards

Put their stats on the back
Bubblegum in the front

Boom, we’ll be competing
With Calcutta in no time.

My First Home

2007-04-09T14:17:00.000-07:00

my first home
was in a cul-de-sac
near the park
with the rainbow
swings
and the teeter totters me
and my sister
would slide down
on particularly rainy days
or just lazy summer ones.

I'd ride to swim lessons
for my sister
and the neighbor
girl amy sloan
my mom next to me
playing tapes
of Alabama
I'd sing along
"bubba bubba
Bobbie sue"

there were no
boys in the
neighborhood
only girls
perhaps that is
why
I have always
loved them
watching them
splash around
in their small pools
not inviting me
over
but not telling
me to leave
either

I'd linger
watch their
smiles
heave bouncy
balls at the moon
wishing I were older
and not so enamored
with rusty
the next
door st. Bernard

I'd go off on my
own zipping on
my dukes of hazard
bigwheel
the one I later convinced
john owens
had a pop-a-wheelie
latch

id ride and ride
in my big brown
jacket
with orange
lining
never wearing
shoes
burning holes
in all my socks
to mothers chagrin
and fathers
chuckles

we watched tron
at our neighbors
house
munching doritos
scared out of our
wits at only
2 and 4

then the ministry
called my father
away
god was needed
in east multnomah
county
they needed a church
started
and someone to start
it

someone
who wore
a bronze
badge of courage
and had enough
charisma
for people to follow

he fit the bill

and then there
were realtors
at the small
blue house
in the cul-de-sac
and all my toys
were loaded up
and the house felt
empty and desolate

like something from
poe or
kafka

one fateful saturday
we drove away
in our white 74
Toyota station wagon
my mother was crying
and all the neighbor girls
ran behind us as fast as they
could waving to my sister

I thought maybe something
had broken inside
us
as I looked back
as they receded
into pavement
knowing
nothing like
this
would
ever
happen
again

because first
homes
by their
very
definition
only
happen
once

Minority Report

2007-03-19T14:36:00.000-07:00

Eyeing the barbeque through the window
in my bathrobe and slippers
it probably isn't a stretch to say
i've reached new lows.

unemployed for six months
uninsured for three
invoice on the desk outlining
$120 in overdraft fees.
two unpaid parking tickets
under my arm and to the left
a $25 credit card
late fee notification.

surely this is what killed
dylan thomas.

I sip on a coors light at 3:27 while
waiting for an email from my editor.

Being semi-retired isn't for the
faint of spirit,
it takes awhile to round
into it.
And as a libertarian
i'd be kind of a hypocrite
to look for a government
handout now.

so i'm sort of stuck.

The problem isn't
a lack of vocational
interest. No,
i am interested in
a great many things.
too many things, really.
so i become paralyzed.

if i follow one interest, i
eliminate the possibility of
pursuing others.

yet, few things inspire
enough to spend 40 hours
a week Losing myself to them
Coming home exhausted because of them
Spending my nights stressed and anxious
Because of them.
All to meet a mortgage or to bust my ass
for a retirement I may never see.

Fuck that.

I'm taking my retirement now.
when I want it. when I can paint and write
without arthritic fingers and wrinkled balls.
when I still have a third gear I can utilize
on a deep corner route

People may respond to this:
Well, now, be realistic, life is about
doing things you don't want
to do. Nobody really loves their job.

i agree. most people who love their
jobs are small people with small
minds.

I read the papers
I watch the faces
All The obviousness
The unoriginality

Most everyone seems uninterested
or worse . . . uninteresting
or worse yet . . . trying to be interesting
and becoming something else
something less

People having kids because they are bored
People having kids because they can't find
fulfillment in their own lives
People having kids
because they are afraid to recreate
themselves
because they are afraid to die
alone

still, most people who don't have kids are even
worse. polluting first thursdays with their
paint by the color poetry. polluting last thursdays
with their false sense of poverty.

This is a strange den we've found ourselves

if life is about obliterating yourself
in the pursuit of asinine tasks to fulfill
requirements whose
existence you've never questioned
what's the difference between the gallows
now, or a hospital bed later?

The ride?

What ride?

Sounds more like an ignoramus
Free Fall.

I've been saying this shit for years.

And about every 2.5
i write a poem just like this

its become a bit of a tradition

just like my life cycle.

But I must say,
most nights around 11pm
i really start to like this gig.
the house is quite
i pop in a documentary
recline in my vintage
orange chair

You cant take that from
me.
You cant take that hot
dog i'm grilling
right now
either.

And you sure as hell
cant take my life from
me, in tiny broken increments
unless I give it to you.

Social conventions be damned.

~01/07

Another night at the opera

2007-02-13T21:49:00.000-08:00

Its funny going in there
The words disappear
faster than you can type
It’s a bar and says things
like "dead writers club"
and "bukowskis tavern"
on the outside.
On the inside
there are words taken
from his works
which are pasted
on the wall.
Talking about the masses
and fist fights in empty
parking lots
There are pictures
of the old pock marked
dude back when poetry
was something that sold
a little bit better than
pantyhose.
Now its this bar and
none of the people even
give a shit.
Some south african sits
down with his blond 34
year old girl in a pink hat
and we small talk
He tells me that unlike most
americans I apparently care about
the rest of the world
just because I possess the
knowledge
his native land held
elections
yesterday.
He and his girl never
heard of the name
bukowski ornamenting
all around them.
"What does he write about?"
he asks.
Right then I decide I
want to take them
by the wrists and offer to
warm their hands outside of
hoover houses with stolen gloves
and unseasoned boots
I want to pull them by their scarves
and have them watch as i
sit under bridges
in aberdeen digesting
rotten fish
I want to rape their
children of santa claus
so they know that everything
that is not provable by fact
is nothing but superstition.
(at least, that’s what a princeton
anthropologist told me yesterday
on the radio)
I want to help these people see.
I want to help these people die well.
I want to pass rodeo drive in a
mercedes and watch the decay
of laser surgery peel faces from
the earth.
I want to watch the public executions.
I want to ring down north beach in
the 50's with leather boots
and a white t-shirt digging
dizzy in rexroths cellar. I want
to stupefy the poor with
the brilliance of their discovery
I want to sweat in
bolivia learning english so
i can work as a telemarketer
for 10 cents a day.
I want to lose all belief in a
deity-- becoming one myself
and saving faith from doubt
in the process. I want to lap
the oceans with mana.
I want to
electrocute myself during my
first excursion from a trappist
monastery in kentucky.
I want to write my greatest
poetry at 19 and then blaze out,
pouring all my creative energy
into finding the bottom of a
barrel.
I want to visit parks with
dead grass overlooking panama
and stare up at the sky wondering
if a god exists why me at all
and not so much more nothing.
I want to solve all the riddles of this
mercurial life and then bury them
with elvis at the bottom of the
ocean.
I want to glue cell phones to peoples
ears.
I want forests to be named after me then
burnt down in utter confusion.
I want to write a word better than the
First which came
Back to me in the form
of a wardrobe malfunction.
I want to know what it means
to father a junky.
I want to find doubting Thomas
and shake his hand.
I want to meet one of those
800,000 murdered
rwhandans

I want to do all these things.
But I don't want to do it alone
I want the south african
and the girl in the pink hat
to come along
with me.
So they too can know
what it was
bukowski
wrote
about.
~Boston, 06/04

Untitled

2007-02-13T16:35:00.000-08:00

I couldn't title this poem
it should be blank
the same blank I feel right now
blank like the empty tomb on easter
blank like the mobsters face at dawn
blank like the fevers orange pitch
blank like the chalk boards of hume and dante
like the disasters in Uganda
like the spires of rome

all I saw

was blank.

when I asked
"whatever happened to
old Richard?"

looking at my friend
passively from the
passenger seat.

and heard he
was murdered
last year
by hoodlums
for his chevy sedan
and mitsibushi
flat screen.

damn, I thought.
poor
poor
richard.

and I remembered
the small
jewish man
from the Bronx.

who spent thanksgiving
with me when I had
no family.

who gave me rides
when no one offered.

who would laugh
for hours
so I'd feel
funny.

who offered class
when it was in
short supply.

who wrestled
with demons
no one
understood.

who'd fill
my rooms
with
color
when all
I could see
was

blank.

~Spring 2006

language and arms

2007-02-13T16:28:00.000-08:00

she fell out of my life the way
she fell in

blindly

without
pretense

two aimless
sparrows

full of air
and sadness

A numbers game

2007-01-05T14:11:00.000-08:00

lew welch spent decades an alcoholic cabbie
and a well documented week battling tremens
alone at big sur
just to get one line
down
the way
he wanted

in 1971
he wandered off
with a 30-30
near
gary snyders cabin
and
never came back

kerouac wrote over a million
words by 21
had a dozen unpublished books
by 35
died hemorrhaging his liver
to a toilet
at 47

they say to make
art
is to be
crazy alone
forever

but
maybe it takes more

there was
byrons painful club foot

joyce and einsteins
schizophrenic
children

matisses wheelchair

renoirs arthritis

huxley and homers
premature blindness

eliot a nervous breakdown
pound institutionalized
rimbaud shot
dostoyevsky nearly executed

franz klines 17 evictions

I wonder what it'll take you?

THE READING

2006-12-16T14:44:00.000-08:00

it was the boston university barnes and nobles
as I recall
upstairs on the fourth floor
a room I had never been
opened up with a podium
somebody with a nametag stood in the front
scanning for faces he recognized

I was early so pretended to be interested by
the calendars in the next room over

I waited a few minutes
people milled in

Doug Holder was supposed to be there
a friend and coworker of mines' friend.
Holder was a little bigshot in the boston
literary scene and had his own
publishing press

he was about 40 and bald with a white
beard
he sort of looked like a poet

others wandered in
a couple college kids
a couple old folks
a couple bum looking dudes with wild hair (the poets)
a young 30 something with a wedding
ring and a smile like a high school history teacher

probably about 20 in all
one girl read
she was nervous
she was pretty good
she had friends there for moral support
I think Holder had published a chapbook of hers
or she was in some compilation

this other annoying woman read who had an art gallery
and was Holders bestselling poet

her stuff sucked something awful
there was nothing in it
just the way some chick smelt
who she fucked ten years ago

one bum poet read pieces by a dead friend of his

he pretended to haul a giant bag behind him when
he walked up and when he sat

why I have no idea

towards the end, holder introduced the guy I wanted to see:
jack powers

powers had rolled with the beats in the 60's
north beach, yada yada
he has some pretty serious mental issues
apparently
break downs
institutionalized
all that
I'd heard he'd just been released
he snuck in late
sat in the back
he had black and gray crazy hair
was rail thin
tall
took no paper with him when he read
muttered nearly incoherent
half making up the poems as he went
they were kinda cool
only cuz he was cool
only cuz ferlinghetti still kicks it with him when he passes through
town

then the featured reader read from his new book of short stories
it was something about a room, a kitchen
this room was special for some reason I couldn't figure out why.
he was fine. could probably do some writing for the globe
I had no fucking clue what he was talking about with his
special room though

apparently I shared a minority opinion; when he was done
everyone roared

afterwards, I walked over to holder
reintroduced myself
(we'd met before)
he said I looked different then when we first met
he asked about our mutual friend

as I was wandering off, powers caught me with a pastoral look.
the kind I used to have when i was a leader in youth group and I recognized
a kid who didn't know anybody.
he came over to me, shook my hand with calloused ones
thanked me for coming
and started reciting a poem
some weird thing about god and death

the kinds of things I think about

it was shitty and he knew it
and threw his hands in the air.
a girl next to him stood smiling
beaming at him as if he'd just
uttered a Pauline benediction

she looked at me and said
"we all have those special places, don't we?"
I nodded still having no clue what the fuck
the dude was talking about

but I had to say
I kinda liked that powers guy

Exhortation

2006-07-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

on the street this morning
I cried

about all things life
pertains
I cried that
your feet don’t know
the burden of care
I harvest
daily

what is tolerable is cruelty
what is cruel is tolerance
what the years do to the
hands of our youth
is criminal
is cut from boxes
of jasmine
and scattered
in the currency
of regret

you and I both know
the trials and trails
of homelife

you and I both know the
ever shifting sands
beneath my feet

you and I both know the
idle dreams behind
your eyes

but still I feel—
this uncertainty I dispel
which so worries you
could, in your hands,
become more certain—
more stable

yet the short memories i
have of you reflect
like a movie
of my entire life in
tiny broken increments
and so much is beautiful
and so much is triumph
and so much is happiness
I’d never known
before
and much is sadness
much is staring at 2 AM walls
asking questions
answers haven’t been invented for.

but having seen your sunshine
smother my harrowing days
in having felt your legs move
nearer mine
in having felt the wonders
of your mind
collapse the deserts of my arms
you may never know the
small
grace of loss
you’ve granted me.

and I sit here

exhorting you
to remember
that
in the arthritis of my soul
in the Siamese night

i miss you always

~winter 2004

Grace

2006-07-27T20:52:00.000-07:00

what this world has left me
is a
pen

and you know more than I
that it’s
not enough

but in the room
with unlocked doors
I crouch

and tigers rear up
on haunches

feeling wounds beneath
fur long ago
I inflicted

where shadows once lept
I fold envelopes of doom

sending them off to the
boarded up town of love

while the tigers
surround my bed
prrrrring

King Triton

2006-02-02T17:29:00.000-08:00

Johny Tulluck 1980-2003 -- Written December, 2003

He wore dark curls
red flannels, ripped holes
He was something other than
most. You knew this a few
moments after meeting him.
He was one, we all hoped
would make it.
He lived life at the sharp edge
between brilliance and insanity.
He embraced neither.
Yet was greater than both.

I remember shapeless nights sitting in his
room with the flicker of black
lights and two toned tv
the only illumination.
He seemed to hover in there
like the bat cave—discussing
Ginsberg, joyce, Aristotle
He says he related to Stephen
Deadalus more than any other
character. I see him more and
more, every time I read

I wonder, as I always do at this
point, if there wasn’t something
more I could have done.

He was someone desiring
so effortlessly to be saved.
I wonder if maybe I could
have

I recall one night at a lakehouse
in Maine, we stayed up till the
wee hours drinking beer and talking
about life. He agreed when I told
him he seemed like the kind of guy
that never had close friends who
really cared for him. I told him I was
one who would care.
But I’m not sure I did.
At least not to the degree
I wanted.

I kick myself now. Thinking of the
many afternoons I wanted to write him.
The many days I remembered him
in conversation with others but
never told him so.
The times I’d quote him,
laugh at how he’d order me around.
How he’d hop around the kitchen
in big work boots on Friday nights.

After I traveled seven long weeks from
coast to coast he
was the first to greet me in Massachusetts
gathering that high pitched voice of his
and skwawking and bannyroostering
around with carlos rossi
and hand rolled cigarettes.

We shared a certain bond in the beats
When I read him a poem in Lowell
overlooking Kerouac park
he told me I had incredible powers
of self perception
I never told him,
He was the greatest of the young poets
I had ever read.

I guess this is how life works
the great ones slowly die off,
what we’re left with
are the burnouts
the boredoms,
the sad deacons
who give not
enough of life
to ever contemplate
losing it.

Truth be told
I never really
expected johny
to live a long life.
He was something
more than most
of us deserved.
yet less than
many could
tolerate.

He would not sit
quietly and watch
life pass.
He would not allow
the energy of industry
to guide his steps.
He would carve his own
path—towards his own
destiny.
And in the process
enrich our shrines
with the glow of his
sufferings.

The last time
I saw John
he was high stepping
in an oversized
tweed coat
towards Harvard
square

Yelling over his shoulder
to watch
his nick drake
imitation

And it dawned on me once more
as a smile crept across
my face

that I would probably never
see a kid like that again

And I tell you what
I never have

4/15/06

2006-01-29T12:45:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-25T14:43:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-17T13:48:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-09T15:30:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-05T11:10:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-12-30T17:25:00.000-08:00

the raptures of fall

spoken in so many tongues where quiet and meter adjourn
a soft foot upon your bed
a twinkling smile upon your porch
everything wafts of straying memories and
strophing knees

over the dress
where the leaves drop effortless
there is a symposium of light where
all the clusters of confusion dwindle
until diffused

unbeknownst to me or the boorish
depths of you
is this moment
when we can speak
as if lifelong
mates
and
know
that the waves
of tomorrow
with all
her sinewy horrors
can limp
unaffected

walled off
from oblivion

and the two
of us
alone
in pictures
and silence
will
walk
straddling the
lines of
impossibility
at last

The Rain -- Written 2/2005

2005-12-30T14:25:00.000-08:00

I've found more poems
today
discarded and in
old heaps of
guttered piles
across
my room

than most
write in
a lifetime

this place
is a sanctuary
to paper

to the word

I throw nothing
away—
everything sits
and waits
for me to find
it
months,
decades
later

I read poems
of my friend
john
dead two years
now
listening
to tom waits
drinking red wine—
three candles
and
a piano
accompany
me

frogs
outside
make their
unique noise
and the wind
blows slowly
my blinds
until they bow
and scratch above
my books
the painted
awning

let us talk awhile
in silence
and remember why
we came here
why there must be something
somewhere that matters

why we collect back to
back in groups
to stave off the
November wind

why we have babies
who smile
baby smiles
we once knew

my back cracks
on the chair
and I love you
mom
I love you
dad

a little rain
never hurt no one

but what is left
is song
is the word

and the rain