i dream of the day when i can settle

i dream of the day when i can settle
and end this drive and drive to end
my life fat&happy,
when work is done and i can look back
at pages and books
and at faces in the crowds
to say that i am done

i have a little ani on the radio

i have a little ani on the radio

waiting for you

my blanket in the backseat will keep us warm

just in case

my hands will stick to the wheel

like frozen lips on a metal pole

and for all our sakes i will resist the urge

to put my arm around you

while i drive


does 250 miles make me crazy?

i don't think so

i think it is what is at the end of those miles that does that


i've got a credit card

a thermos

my phone

and a full tank of gas


i hate driving in winter

but i hate driving without you


i dreamed of a little old couple at a gas station

somewhere north

and when i told them i was driving 250

for a girl

they said that the gas was thirty

and the coffee was on the house

ALLISON [an acrostic poem]

all in all my love
leaps to me over
lands creeping
in winter and frigid
screeching wind, but
o how her fingers can temp me from seemingly
nowhere

PROSE: THE POETIC PARADOX

PART ONE: DONE

It is odd how writers such as myself always have this compulsive urge to get things "done." Those in other professions and other walks of life feel this compulsion, but with us, it is slightly different.

If you are an average American worker or student, you have a schedule and you use that schedule to get things done. You plan things. You make time for things. All in all, you are for time. Time is not for you.

However, myself and others that I know who consider themselves writers don't have that time. When you embark on a way of life that is almost completely self-motivated, you seem to loose track of everything. In a sense, what you don't get "done" seems like a failure.

An analogy:

Let's say that you are an average American, working forty hours per week (it doesn't matter where). You work 8am-5pm everyday. Fine. Then in that time from 5pm until 8am, you get things done: errands, chores, family/friends time, etc. Your day works for you.

However, let's say that you are a writer. You have no schedule. Unless you are a contracted writer (in which case I feel sorry for you), there is no one saying that they need this poem or piece done at a certain time. No. It all comes from you. When you spend your entire life making arts, it all comes from you. Inspiration does not have a time limit. Inspiration does not have a schedule. You will notice that most good writers carry a notebook or laptop or a pen with them wherever they go, because they are on the schedule of the Muses. When the Muses say that it is time to write, dammit, it is time to write (which is why you will often see most good writers in school scribbling what looks like notes during lectures—it's not notes, it's arts).

In relation to the idea of getting things done, when you write, you are creating something from the self. It's not like you're an office worker—that fax you just sent can hardly qualify as "the self," but if you are a writer, everything you do is from the self. Which is why I think writers take things undone so harshly—it is like YOU are not complete when a piece is not complete.

Often times, I will sit somewhere with my keyboard and say to myself, "I have to write something." An old poetry teacher of mine told me that if you write 100 poems, 10 of them will be good. Thus, my philosophy became that if you write a poem per day, you will write a good poem every ten days. So I went three months writing one poem per day. In all reality, in about 30 poems, only about three of them were good. So I suppose that he was right. But that was not the quest to get something "done," that was the quest to get something "good."

Being a writer is almost completely self-motivated (any writer will tell you that). The most ambitious writers will write many things at a time (although I am not speaking to my own ambition, I currently have a long poem and a screenplay in the works, in addition to many small poems that I write throughout my free time). And when you sit down to work on these things, you only have one thing on your mind—get it done.

I complain when I don't get things done. I saw [alp] before the holiday, and I told her that I was going to spend the day working on a long poem that I have in the works. She came over later and asked me if I had gotten it done, and I shamefully told her "no." It is like I failed. It is like I fail every time I don't finish it. Writing takes time, but the best writers know that time is something that we don't have, for a few reasons:

One: Inspiration comes and goes. You may feel motivated to write now, but what about tomorrow?

Two: For every second that you are not writing, someone else is that much closer to getting published over you (sad but true).

Three: We seem to not realize that writing takes time, as we sit down thinking that we can write a novel or something of the sort in that hour between putting our laundry in the dryer and taking it out of the dryer.

So we have this compulsion to get things done. And when you are a writer in academia, it gets worse. If you have to turn in a piece a week, then, perhaps for the only time in a writer's life, it is IMPERATIVE to get it done. I'm afraid to go to my teacher and say, "Well, wasn't feeling it this week" and turn in nothing. I can't do that, because it is at that point that I admit failure.

For those of you who read this, remember that compulsion. I want to study it, slightly. I want to know just what it is that makes us (or at least me) feel this way. Those of us who work or go to school, we think not of our vacations as relaxation time, but, rather, more time to write. Why are we like this? Is it some kind of natural ambition? Or is it something else that only the Muses can explain?

(I would also like to note that I did not leave my computer to stop writing this. Again, it's the compulsion).

Act V

i should be the only babe that rests upon you


my christmas roast now lay in the garbage

in a pool of potatoes and pasta and vegetables -

a slight hint of Pabst

and a huge helping of my nerves


lord knows how you are taking it

if i have have the guts that you do

then maybe i could keep my dinner down


i can only imagine how your stomach would churn

if this were me and you


my sister's life seems almost too close to mine right now


you are not my sister, of course

but dammit 6 hours and one day is far too much

for me to be when i cannot rest my hands

upon you


and pray for that brief candle


you have brothers - you don't really see

what i've seen

until it happens to you


when you have to think of how your body

lies on anothers and what that does

you really start to wonder where things

went wrong


or maybe right


this puffs out our chests

and clenches our fists

and makes us stand on firmer ground


maybe


right now i am lying in bed

the smell of tossed-up christmas in my mouth

and maybe

just maybe


it is for nothing

CHRISTMAS EVE 2009

[for alp]


and the shepherds saw the star

in the east and they moved

with it, knowing that it was for

something great


then the wisemen bearing their gifts

followed behind, searching for their king


and the star fell upon the manger

where the babe lay, silent and still

the babe that all knew would bear the name

of man upon his standing deathbed


as i was born to do

for you, my love

CONFESSIONAL POEM [for alp] (COMPLETED)

CONFESSIONAL POEM

[for alp]


strangely i once thought you a strange thing-

it was hard to say if you would take this page

and rip it and my thoughts of futures uncertain

or take it to your lips and breasts


our words appeared on screens, left alone

for us and the entire world to see

(i knew not what i was doing

but you knew what you were grasping the whole time)


i did not lie to you when i told you

that i don't like to walk alone

but of course i had other things to say that only

the sounds of my feet on the concrete could say


it's odd, the ways in which we try to impress-

"i want to tell you about this building"

"you know when this thing arrived here"

it's all some sad cry of "please love me"


and when the darkness became too much

you showed me your house and i was unsure

of what to do with you

so you just grabbed me and told me with your arms


still, our words appeared on screens, left alone

for us and the entire world to see

(i thought i knew what i was doing

and so did the rest of the world who read my words)


in that basement we made eyes at our coffee

and we made words with our awkward

i thought about your hand on the table

and i thought about mine grasping only my cup


i don't know how to talk to people

because i spent to many years talking to myself

and i told you to tell me to shut up

but you just sat and sipped and listened


hours went by, not seemingly hours

but hours that make one think that death comes

much much sooner than expected

the basement was drab, but i didn't want to go


i coaxed you with dinner:

stale bread and sold cheese

and although my sandwich looked divine

i resisted the urge to tear into it


then we went and skipped across bricks

and rambled on and on and on and on

so much so that i remember a man looking at us

and a lady smiling at our sight


we sat and heard their words, half of which

were made things in my brain

the other half were yours and yours alone

although history says that they are mine


i tried to place something to you

an arm a hand a thigh a something

but the best i could do was pretend as if

it was all an accident


when i got up to leave,

i didn't want to

but i grabbed your shoulder

as if i was never going to see you again


on my way out of the door

i tried to glance in the window

to see if i could see you

but the bench on which i stood was too short


that walk was so lonely

those three hours were so lonely

i kept glancing glancing glancing

at the clock and my phone, for you


now our words appeared on our own screens, left for us

you and i alone to see

(i maybe knew what i was doing

and maybe you knew what i was doing)


i saw your words, telling me that the hour

was something you thought was a bother to me

but (although it was and my eyes were fighting)

i gave into you and me


we sat thinking wishing sometimes hoping

closely, wishing and me (unboldly) putting

my hand on your thigh (and o how tender it was!)

though my hand still quivered


then with a smirk and a lovely glance

you could tell where my hand wanted to be

and you seized it, making yourself more Adam than i

but all in all my hand didn't care


you stretched the night out

until the morning almost broke and we were tired

and as that closing music began to play

i had so little time to become boldly me


i leaned in, leaned so far in

and my lips caught nothing but your cheek

(your dear cheek! how i still dream of it)

but could a think or dream of more?


with gentle firm hands a grabbed your head

(o how soft your face was!)

and pursed my unholy lips on yours, so rosy

and did not move, for i had nothing to lose


now our lips appeared on our own lips, mine for you

you and you alone to kiss

(though some for me, for i was the boy

who kissed you as i did)


our kiss led to kisses, kisses led to lips

lips led to cheeks and cheeks led to foreheads

and foreheads led to ears and ears to necks

and from your neck i was led down down down


the bed was cold that night, but our bodies warm

i asked you uneasily for that yes

that yes that i longed for and ached for

and you without delay gave that dear sweet yes


now our bodies appeared on our own bodies, yours for mine

and me and noone else that night

(i still wonder if i was there

or if you were there with me)


we slumbered restfully, our bodies limp

and our eyes shut down, our skin exposed

but our arms were entangled in one another's

and through the slumber we kept kissing


in the morning we rose

and (un)boldly i kissed you and you i

and we rose again, our bodies cold

once they parted from oneanother's


then right back to where we started that night:

coffee in our hands, little words on our tongues

the clothes on our backs itching and aching

and our hands and bodies unsure of what to do with themselves


we walked out into the rain, going our own ways

you stuck to me and my hands, my lips

and i remember what you told me, over and over again;\-

"don't go"


i went, but i didn't go.

CONFESSIONAL POEM [PART I / for alp]

CONFESSIONAL POEM

[PART I]

[for alp]


strangely i once thought you a strange thing-

it was hard to say if you would take this page

and rip it and my thoughts of futures uncertain

or take it to your lips and breasts


our words appeared on screens, left alone

for us and the entire world to see

(i knew not what i was doing

but you knew what you were grasping the whole time)


i did not lie to you when i told you

that i don't like to walk alone

but of course i had other things to say that only

the sounds of my feet on the concrete could say


it's odd, the ways in which we try to impress-

"i want to tell you about this building"

"you know when this thing arrived here"

it's all some sad cry of "please love me"


and when the darkness became too much

you showed me your house and i was unsure

of what to do with you

so you just grabbed me and told me with your arms


still, our words appeared on screens, left alone

for us and the entire world to see

(i thought i knew what i was doing

and so did the rest of the world who read my words)


in that basement we made eyes at our coffee

and we made words with our awkward

i thought about your hand on the table

and i thought about mine grasping only my cup


i don't know how to talk to people

because i spent to many years talking to myself

and i told you to tell me to shut up

but you just sat and sipped and listened


hours went by, not seemingly hours

but hours that make one think that death comes

much much sooner than expected

the basement was drab, but i didn't want to go


i coaxed you with dinner:

stale bread and sold cheese

and although my sandwich looked divine

i resisted the urge to tear into it


then we went and skipped across bricks

and rambled on and on and on and on

so much so that i remember a man looking at us

and a lady smiling at our sight


we sat and heard their words, half of which

were made things in my brain

the other half were yours and yours alone

although history says that they are mine


i tried to place something to you

an arm a hand a thigh a something

but the best i could do was pretend as if

it was all an accident


when i got up to leave,

i didn't want to

but i grabbed your shoulder

as if i was never going to see you again


on my way out of the door

i tried to glance in the window

to see if i could see you

but the bench on which i stood was too short


that walk was so lonely

those three hours were so lonely

i kept glancing glancing glancing

at the clock and my phone, for you


now our words appeared on our own screens, left for us

you and i alone to see

(i maybe knew what i was doing

and maybe you knew what i was doing)

steadfast through nightly storms i trekked

steadfast through nightly storms i trekked

through this winter graveyard

buried in white frost and thick moist dire things

with branches curled over my head

as if to grasp me shake me rip me

of my feeling


all to warm myself in the arms of you

the difference between death and dead [poem one of seven]

the difference between death and dead

lies somewhere in the hips (i'm sure)


for when i am in death

it's all in my head and things flash

before my shaking eyes

my hands turn to god

in fear


but when i am dead

it's all the alls i wish to take

and all that flashes in my eyes

(now wide and gapped)

is you


my hands reach not for god

but for you in piercing winter

to make it spring

in our bed


the difference between death and dead

lies somewhere in the hips (i'm sure,

as billy shakes told me manytimesover

and you assure me every night)

god if you make this blizzard

god if you make this blizzard

harsh and deep

i will stand in your nature

and hold out my arms

so that your gusts can carry me

to my love

one held on to three

one held on to three
from a shaking tongue
and three went into one
to make these two ones
two

love's happening is not through mortal reign-

love's happening is not through mortal reign-

it keeps the dandelions blanketed under snow

while somehow keeping branches stiff and strained

in winter's ice's crisp pale white glow


love's happening is not thing easily done-

it leaves the throat unquenched and dry

when words come with vain so that even one

can sink and drag those you hug so spry


love's happening is not for boys or girls-

all in age the gray can only beg and plead

that in their silvergolddiamond finger furls

there is a truth, an unfalse kiss to heed


love's happening is a thing

so cruel yet makes this poet sing

when today begs for yesterdays

when today begs for yesterdays

i wish to be remembered as the babe

who nestled upon

your breasts

to weep

and whom you suckled sweetly

as yours


i wish to be remembered in late mornings

picking my dark thick hair

off of your ambrose body

one

by

one

and releasing them to the ground

where i pray they sprout

into thicktrunked trees

for you to shade yourself


i wish to be remembered as kissing

your belly

filled

dearly

morely

that

holds

one

little

more

and run my hands over your

bumps and creases

until you drift to sleep


when today begs for yesterdays

i wish to be remembered

as remembered

by you

simply - for a feeling -

[walking from your house in the morning]

simply - for a feeling -
i will face these chills
deep under my skin and stiff
on my fingers as my feet
shuffle, treading on concrete,
over leaves dead and cracks live

i will feel the wind strike my
face, leaving it red and burning
while my legs move long and
into the wind, head-on-face-first
until my lips crack and my teeth
become stiff peaks capped in ice

i will take these firm breezes
in with my eyes, until they rain
tears into the wind, flowing down
reddened cheeks and onto the stiff
frozen ground

i remember when my poems were things untouched:

i remember when my poems were things untouched:


they sat strewn across my floor on lined pages

torn from notebooks where numbers and definitions

and other nonpoems were written, at the time written

as busy works, freedom from enlightenment in things

i wished not to bear in my own


they stayed away from the eyes of Muses, thinking me

hopeless, wondering if their words would ever dance

in the eyes of the darlings for whom they were made,

hoping that their purpose would come as wooing

(useless wooing, nonetheless)


they remained unchanged, stern in their wake,

thinking their perfections as all, thinking their

all as perfections, thinking that no stranger's

eyes and mouth would make their form anew, would

take their words askew, would drip their inks

upon crumpled pages and change the slightest

slight thing


alas, now, my poems are touched

again

again

again

and now these poems ache for touch

Nature, feel my mortal wrath:

Nature, feel my mortal wrath:


you take away the spring

with this crisp frost

and even that i can allow


and i was willing when

you took my hands in your

cold cold piecing wind

to make them burn

with stiffness and shivers


i even said "alright"

when you poured rain over

the grassy plains

that i love

and turned them into

your own swamp

unfitting for any man

to love


but now you have taken

my love's body away

in womanly dreams

and i am left

without her touch


so Nature, feel my mortal wrath:

for this man

without his love

is beyond mortal

in vain