soon enough, my love, shall your pretty little head rest

soon enough, my love, shall your pretty little head rest
to make a fool of me in strains of the heat
that pulls me from slumber into the depths of awake
where i see your pretty little head breathing softly
and your eyes closed lightly, your hair mussed
yet smooth, and your soft hands rest deeply
under your pretty little head, where your lips
stay flat and tell mine to back away, as just one kiss
would disturb your sleep and your pretty little head
(with its one-two rolls from my body) keep on
resting, forever pulling your pretty little head away
from my unpretty thing

my mother is a cathedral, pretty and tall

my mother is a cathedral, pretty and tall
as her feet stand firm as marble steps,
her voice rings with a churchbell's call
her arms are pews, with whom recept-

tion warms her congregation with song
of her fingers grazing of their hands
as they are lifted for the prayer, sweet and long
as a little priest within her soul commands

my mother's words are Communion, taken with praise
and her kisses upon their cheeks are the wine
from which they sip, and the little priest shall raise
the cup of my mother's lips to the divine

my mother is a cathedral, pretty and tall
and her son is an alter boy, nothing but small

my mother father and sisters (dear as they are)

my mother father and sisters (dear as they are)
are not those of making: they are ones of things made:
they are ones who know not of marking but of scars
from hammers and markings from yellow paints

they know not of Hamlet's plight or Gatsby's love -
instead they know only of 26 letters and no more
their son's and brother's are ones that reach and shove
the stains of unknowingness in their leaking pores

instead my mother and father and sisters live still
on the tile floors and torn-up carpets they've made
and though i find their learnings weak and shrill,
i pray they keep their hands molding in the shades

of maple trees where letters are so afar
from my mother father and sisters (dear as they are)

if there is love in thy city thy fingers shall sweetly bear down upon it,

if there is love in thy city thy fingers shall sweetly bear down upon it,
picking it up from cobblestones and twisting it in thy soft palms
until all of it crumbles down unto the streets where thee once pranced
dearly in dear spring dresses with thy hair once so very blonde
but now deep and rich like the trunks of the pines which parade
within thy city: i see thy face illuminated by glass bulbs and torn
by winds from the lakeshore - still swiftly i see thy hair flailing
itself through such harshness, a power taken down through thy home
that buries itself deeply within thy moist skin, firm like the concrete
on which you tread in your city: without this boy to kiss in the trees


it was never about taking from Mother Nature
in our fishing trips engulfed by July heat
(at least not in the sense of taking which you thought):

sure, we took and ate, but i would like to think
that my father and i discovered some island in the middle
of that lake - somewhere where we could live alone
away from smog and concrete, a place where we
could carve things from wood and live on our own
with the little birds and fish that came about -
only taking what we needed

and we took more than that:
together we took each other in that old aluminum boat
and he took me to God and to Man
in the middle of uncrisp muddy water -
he took my hand and placed it on maple oars
and took my muscles (then undertoned . . .
still undertoned) and made them row, made them
grow, made them a manifestation of his manliness and mine

i took my father in that lake and turned him 'round
to someone who thought that maybe his son could be a son
(perhaps a ballplayer instead of a poet)
and into someone who would someday shake my hand
after my sixteenth birthday -
although he never called me son
and somehow,
i'm okay with that

so it was never about taking from Nature,
taking from the lake and reaping it -
in fact we always stayed within our legal limit -

it was always about those days in the sunset
and that wind that we used to cool ourselves off -
it was about my first Swiss Army Knife
and his old pocket knife -
it was about our matching soda bottles
and our tub of worms (he always told me that they never felt a thing)

truth be told, i hate fishing
but he loves it, so what choice did i have?

i often wonder (when you close your eyes)

i often wonder (when you close your eyes)
if you can somehow still see the flickering
of the moon over our heads
and the glisten of the dew on the grass
when we frolicked long ago:

i wonder if you can see the stems of leaves
that buried us all in Autumn, the red
that took our feet and made them
crunch all the once-live covers of the trees

i wonder if you perceive the concrete
on which we danced and swooned awkwardly
until the stars told us that time was not ours

right now, i wonder if you at all caught with your eyes
the little pattern in my stanzas:

five;four;three;two;nowone (are your eyes listening?)


when i was young (17 or so)
i wanted to be Gatsby:
a man of mystery, devotion,
love, and of solemn nature
while the world around me crumbled
at the hands of flappers, wealth,
and bathtub gin

only i wanted to get the girl in the end
and i wanted not to die

oh, and i hate the color yellow -
my car would be black

Love Letters

i imagine that i (at some point) will write you love letters:
something not beaming on a screen but scribed down
over precariously frayed parchment
enclosed with a daisy (which i hope you love)
and spritzed with my mother's perfume
(as i have no fragrance other than the white speckles
from my anti-persperent) - a wax seal
of two loving elephants and a Latin motto:
Vivamus, Mea Lesbia, atque amemus!*

i wish i had a fountain pen or a 1926 Remington
to make my words seem (only slightly) more elegant -
doll them up and take them out on the town -
perhaps i can put flowers in their caps
through that language i know which makes you melt:
Marcus meo amori spd.**

i wonder how far my letters will travel
through grey and snow until they reach
your pale hands - how dearly your eyes
may jump across my words in my makings
from my country villa (cultivating only dead grass
and baby boys) to your columns in your city
Solitudo placet Muses; urbs inamica poetis est.***

Solitude tears me up inside -
the where my letters will be sent is so prosperous for you and i

*"Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love!" - from Catullus
**Literally, "Marcus speaks many greetings to my love" ("spd" stands for "salutes plures dicet").
***"Solitude pleases the Muses; the city is unfriendly to poets." - from Horace

When You're Angry at Me

somehow - still - you are stunning.

maybe there's a window

maybe there's a window
where the moon can be pretty
our coffee can cool off
as the sky turns to red
and somehow we don't know
why the stars are so gritty -
we are in this stand-off
for our battle in bed

in blowing our labors
we stood up in covers
of clouds led by contours
we slept on in night
the sky's what we savor
and the swirls are our lovers,
but somehow we're hunters
with our deep spears in fright

will i am this burning
that keeps your room blooming
which raptures the valor
that you hope to dream
your stomach is churning
from the blood we are dooming
to coffee and colors
of the white seeping beams

For My Youngest Nephew

oh Mark, my mother will forever
call you "Squeakers" in remembrance of
your infantile wailings for milk -

but as one Mark
whose name was mutilated
by adorableness and cutesy desires,
allow me
to pass a little piece of advice
onto you:

don't take a nickname -
it degrades us all (especially me)

(what's untruly true) three days have waned

(what's untruly true) three days have waned
and we ponder some fullness in something
we once thought barren

the clock strikes us with ticks
engulfed in aliveness of the small,
the death of the big in you and i

how steady this tight wrangling
of a thousand drops from youth spills
like snowflakes that melt in our eyes -

only warmer (like the black breaths
that you gasped swiftly while i spat up)
and much more holy

always we were prepared for what this season
could bear unto us: the unbearables and the barren
until you could inhale no more and i

had coughed up all i could muster
and we fell asleep; thinking of what now
must be untruly true (but who knows?)

buried under the snow (somewhere) is our October love:

buried under the snow (somewhere) is our October love:
the slim kisses upon our unpursed lips,
the shaking thrusts of my hips
and the strained motions of your head

somewhere in dead leaves my hands found
the inclinations of your breasts, the soft caress
of your mouth and its words,
the taming that your finger laced through my chest

before the worry staggered home and leaped
into my chest, there we were, tangled up
and beaten down by unsure love,
like the summer had been beaten down

by October, the month of something dead
yet so alive


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 your nerves:
if i have have the guts that you do
then maybe i could keep my dinner down

i can only imagine how your stomach churned
back when this was you

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

you are not my sister, of course -
a mother too young, scared by babies
yet stern in her dealings with them,
as her belly is no longer soft like yours

the holidays are too much for us -
6 hours and one day
is far too long for me to wait
for me to be when i cannot rest my hands
upon you
and tell you that somehow things
will not grow within you

and pray for that brief candle
to go out

you have brothers - you don't really see
what i've seen with my sisters
and their bellies
until it happens to you

when you have to think of how your body
lies on anothers and what that does
to your youth and your drastic changings
you really start to wonder where things
went wrong

or maybe right

this should puff out our chests
and clenche our fists
and make us stand on firmer ground
in our bravery instilled upon ourselves
by our ignorant and hopeful love


right now i am lying in bed
the smell of tossed-up christmas in my mouth
and maybe
just maybe

it is for nothing


[an explanation of my next manuscript of poetry]

Poeta omnibus spd.

s = salutes: "greetings"
noun: accusative, F, plural - direct object of "dicet"

the object comes first,
how it all begins with ink scarred upon a white page
so that you can know what my mind wishes
to greet with my lips, my hands,
my eyes and my allthelikes:
before i know what i will strive for
i have to greet it, introduce myself
so that all of them know who i am
and what i dream

p = plures: "many"
adjective: accusative, F, plural - adjectival modifier modifying "salutes"

what my mind has in store,
stored in solid and wobbly wonderings
as it sits idle, waiting still for a motive
or a likeness to keep it flowing,
pumping, moving on through my hand
to have etchings engraved through space
and onto white happenings from the pit of my belly
through the cramping of my loins
and back down through my swift hands
for the sake of Making

d = dicet: "he/she/it speaks" (in this case, "he speaks")
verb: 3rd person, singular, present imperfective active indicative - main verb with "Poeta" as its subject

finally a speaking:
not a speech but a speaking -
a constant waving of the self through mindful mindlessness
still this speaking is not on high,
on a lofty column from which my voice
resonates through valleys and over streams -
instead my voice in unheard of,
but my words are strangely enough made
for them, for this speaking for them

. = period: "end of statement"
punctuation: end-stop - end of thought

finally still, this end
that makes one draw farther and farther
from my inherent unseen pondering -
from where did it come from?
only spd can say for sure,
only three can conjure up a four -
there must be three before four


steadfast as my stepping winter bore a final son -

steadfast as my stepping winter bore a final son -
a fierce babe, a thick wailing beast
nurtured by this piercing wind, the milk
from his mother's breast - his suckling exchanges
one thing white and pure for another white and wretched

i imagine the birth must have been brutal, as the babe
continues its weeping and his mother seems not worried
of her son's cruel nature - a post-partum apathy
that wrecks our eyes and face and feet and hands

so many times g-d have i begged you

so many times g-d have i begged you
to keep my days the same:
but now, as snow returns to earth
and all the little saplings i saw yesterday

are now buried, i ask you god why?

why again must the achings of nature burn
my love and i in frigid exploits, its motive
to keep us here, buried in snow
like such dead saplings?

no man would ever wish this for his love.

so g-d for once i ask you to make a change:
make the earth once again full of blood
and vigor so that my love and i
can walk around without worry and care.


This is a poem,
This is art.

(Not really).

that night -
lying on her bed
with welling eyes she asked me
what was my purpose
after i asked her
what was the point

in lustrous city, one was i
and claimed i to have found my voice
once lost in keys strewn across time
from 1923 until 1962*

in those years, somehow
before i even breathed
i asked those Muses to keep this
boy a poet, to keep this poet
a poet

still begging, through tears of loss
and jealousy
in years of shaking
i felt the sting of triumph
from someone else's hand

the Muses sang that day -
or at least they pounded drums of war

i told her four:
I AM i

then from Ken i remembered
so many others
and from those who took my poems,
wrought them until their letters
spilled off of my page,
i dreamed dearly of how
i would show them
that light
i have seen
so many times before

no thoughts here,
just writings

to abandon that thing which i
spent what seems like eternity
coddling until he
could walk on his own
in order to make something
stronger, forte
was too much
to resist

so i told the Muses
and my Muse
that i would take them on
for myself
for them
for the sake of my poems

i would take their eyes
and make them look upon what this
little poet could do
even without their dollars
and their little slips of paper
with my name in script font on them

a poem that is a poem but is not a poem

a poem that is a magnum opum
before i am truly dead

a poem that take the world’s eyes
with its eight little hands -
I AM i -
and rings its words
until all of its letters
fell on the ground

now Muses & Muse,
take these hands
see them alone
see them as one
see them as purpose
as all



the vulgars that fall from these brutal lips
are not those of mine – these are dry from the heat
that pours off of their poems that sting
my face when read aloud
by god, someone told me that because things
were soaked in plagues and hounded by friars
carrying gold underneath their rags
people needed something to let their minds wander
from the depths: beauty
now that the plagues have gone their separate ways
and the friars have gone back to their temples
to count their gold,
now that the flowers are blooming for once,
the grass is once again stiff on our bare backs
that we have had too much succulentness
and it is time to take it out on words
with words
any man who looks out his window knows
that sweetness does not return, never:
the beggars are no longer the ones who take away
from what other men give to appease the LORD
and sometimes the children who should kiss the green
(as Blake said so many times)
instead lie somewhere in sand or in concrete
waiting for something that looks green or brown
or red or anything to put in their mouths
and taste for once -
now i pray that that man, looking out his window,
will turn back to his work and find
a book
of my poems
and pick them up and see the world
with something that i will never let willingly die
then go out
into the briskness of the season
and make something for the others
from the self
from the love
from the beauty


take my poems and let them live
but not as teeth marks on your flesh-
stinging, widening your sad eyes as my verbs
make you cringe and my nouns send shivers
pulsing through your chilling bones

strangely of death i write but strangely more
not of my own
i have seen my funeral before:
my mother weeping and my father already dead
and three little boys and a little girl wishing
for something more from their fallen uncle than
"you are not my own"
but that is for my own mind to ponder
none of your concern

i have spent nights stooping hard
from far too much of too much
and the hair of the dog which bit me
because i bit him first
but that is for my own stomach to churn over
none of your concern

to you i will not shift thoughts to my veiny wrists
or my neck too far bony
or anything that seems to steal my breath from the depths
of my lungs or take my blood
in its pulsing smoothness
because if i wished solely to pull a Plath
or a thing of the like it is
none of your concern

still my harkings are subtle next to those
which speak of such things
or take pride in what vulgarness one can put
on a page
what one can do to make another spill out sounds
and cries of disgust

the self is one these pages
and vulgar is not my self
i wish my poems to be whispers in the corner of the brain
where you can draw upon them in times
of something good&pure
or notsogood&notsopure

my self wants to keep your eyes on the poem
for the poem
for my self
but not my self that steeps in darkness
and hides behind functions of the unholy body
or death by means of death of the self
or the pills or liquors or smokes that make so many
write nothings
(for what are things if not from the self unaltered?

let my poems grab you and let them hold you
but not for a thing gaudy and loveless –
attention -
let my tears be tears
my body be a body
my soul a soul
my poem a poem

not a cry
not a seizing thing

not for you:
it’s none of you concern


the state of the human condition is shattered
when we see the blood of men and women and children
(o god the children!) on television nowadays -
blood makes me squirm, i don't know why:

perhaps the idea of the body being open
makes me wish to hold my own body together
with staples and twine, anything to keep it
from spilling itself onto the ground

but i think i squirm because the thought of human life
in a red gelatinous form pouring from its body
makes me wonder what in fact made it so
that this essence can escape, taking a life with it

some come from accidents: a slick winter road
here in the Midwest, yet to be salted and tires
just can't hold on for dear life and then life
comes out and covers a tree or pole or the ground that caused all this

(or something of that sort)

but the blood flowing by the means of hands
LORD, how have you forsaken them!
them is those who trusted you in order to make them
alive, filled with life - blood

with this spilling and aching i wonder why
my brethren write poems showing us such rage -
the same rage that makes blood pour from the bodies
of those undeserving

why in this world of blood on concrete and desert sand
do poets wish to keep another blood (anger)
pumping not only through their coarse veins
but also in their verses and words and voices?

is there not enough? the cacophony of the matter
lies in rage, lies in ugliness
ugliness in ideas and sickness of the mind
that gets its kicks from watching life pour swiftly (and slowly) from bodies

this poet, this "incurable romantic"
(thanks Lolita) lives for euphony - the idea
of beauty of prettiness and (most importantly)
of love

to keep our minds thinking, churning themselves over
so that when we see that blood seeping from wounds
given by the hands of men
one has to wonder "why?"

all of love - my poems are all of love because dammit
love just makes the world the world -
even those who cause strain in my verse
do so from lack of amorous things:

the love of humanity is what i fight for
and those that threaten that sacred love
that faith that i have striven so hard to retain in myself and man
will be at the hands of my verse

not out of anger, but out of love

what is it i love? beauty
simply beauty in the world that i can taste
and feel and smell and see and hear
and make love to every now and again

remember that every word comes with a little drop
of amor in my poems, and you should drink it in
because it will warm your cold bellies
and make you remember things you love


the ideal human condition in society is to be free -
the ideal human condition in nature is to be free -
the ideal human condition is to be free in the ideal human condition

i grew up loving freedom: the notion that i could color
outside of the lines and that i could try to put a square peg
in a round hole all i wanted because i got to be myself

the self is so true, through freedom we see truly how
we can pump our arms in attempts to reach something
up above us all, above the notion of man, above ideal human condition

so many times i have seen poets go upupup
and think that they could touch the sun, but remember Icarus?
like so many times the freedom can lead to the ocean below

then there are those who think solely in chains
of ideals presented in books of old, the ideas of poetics
passed down to them in a desk etched with hearts and curse words

balance is the mother that bears true creation:
how one can restrain oneself just enough to wring every last drop
of creation from one's mind unto the page

yet freedom, allowing all words and letters to bear something
wonderful, fleeting, bouncing around like radio waves in the air
unto something that is as free as radio free

i can write like that (hell, i am doing it now, right?)
and i love freedom, after all, i live in one nation under all,
so how i love to skew things up and around and over

skewed rhymes in a "sonnet?" sure.
tetrameter instead of English pentameter? absolutely.
i love it all, i take it all, i breathe it all

but sometimes it is fun to put myself in chains
of perfect rhyme and meter and restraint such as
fixed-width font or only so many letters

after all, it is when humans become trapped that
they become ingenious - ready to take on everything
with nothing but a few words and a way to go

i cannot think that the sonnet is all that there is
but sometimes, dammit, i want to be Shakespeare!
i want to woo women (now a) with meter like rose petals

to pluck and pluck and pluck and pluck and pluck
(kerplunk kerplunk kerplunk kerplunk kerplunk)
dammit all if i didn't just use a slant!

when i become Shakespeare, but oh, i cannot become Shakespeare:
i become me only forming like Shakespeare
because Shakespeare plus me equals newness from oldness

restraint is the mother of invention, not necessity, for the poet
because i cannot live without water
but poetry is not water - poetry is wine

and like all good drinks it is best
to exercise a little restraint here and there
because dammit sometimes it just makes it taste better


someone by the name of Ken grabbed me by my throat
one day
and burned me with a cigarette,
(right on my pretty little forehead)
because they would never say "thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous"
in Detroit
and we live in the 21st century
so no one says such things anymore
unless they want to be archaic

perhaps Ken had a point:
maybe i have outgrown thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous,
perhaps the world has outgrown thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous
and just maybe no one wants to remember when they were called thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous

remember when you were called thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous?
remember when you were compared to flowers and summer's days?
remember when you were treated as a queen because you were in the light of one's heart?
remember when the poems of the world made it so that
the nonpoems of the world seemed like nothings
if only for fourteen lines orso?

why take us back to those days? some will ask me
why, my good friends, the chance to remember when i could have been a man -
believe it or not an apple is still an apple if you call it something more splendid -
if thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous are too old
then maybe i am an old soul
but i can't be old because i am young
too young
twenty-1 (like our century)
to remember those days

remember when we were young and we pretended to be kings
and queens and knights and damsels?
sometimes i just never grow up -
sometimes i just speak as such because i wish to save someone
(not with a sword but with some poetry)

we were taught that thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous are only used
when slipping into love with our tongues
but remember LOVE?
i write for LOVE
so if i write for LOVE why not speak of LOVE?

in days of old LOVE meant thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous

in days of today, in days of this boy,
who still dreams
to save
and woo
love still means thy/thee/thou/thine/dost/doth/mine/'st/'ous


i was told that and is a nothing,
that a nothing is like filler
fillers are only brutal because fillers
leave less room

you shouldn't have eaten that extra cracker
before dinner
because dinner is now ruined
why would you drink so much water
when there is beer on tap?

but sometimes the fillers are what get left behind
shameful thing, really,
because i love crackers
water is good for you
so maybe fillers are too

maybe and is not a filler:
remember when you were young?
everything was "and then...and then...and then..."
why can't it be that way now?

maybe i just have too damn many things to say
maybe my mind just moves too fast for my pen's own good

more than that:
and is not filler -
and is a connector

it is all about connection:
to the reader
from the writer

thoughts, ideas, words, lines
again, all of one

filler, i think not
connector, i think so
perhaps something will become of and
in someone else's poems

remember LOVE, BEAUTY?
connection is LOVE, connection is BEAUTY

let us connect
be one
and one
and one
and one
and one....


the human eye
holds attention
and seeks only what it

look on
lists, tables of contents,
all of these things
looking only for what

if i use the word
(see, you jumped a little!)
you jump a little
and flip to it
to read about

why my poems
will never lead you on
i promise

with big bold letters
on the top
of the page
or in the middle of a page
or across from some dots
with a number by its side

i've always wanted
to write a book
of poems
where the page numbers
were off
so when you flip to
that poem
you will read another
that had nothing
to do
with the title
that you read

i would title a poem
and make it about
my first Communion

just to tease you

but instead
i let the poems
for themselves

unless, of course
i can tie them up
in a little red box
(i wish i had a little red box
to put the devils in...)
with a bow
in BIG
to make you think
about what it all is
then i will do so

or if
the title means
then it happens
to be

like my poems -
if they make sense
then the happen to be
as is

without a silly little hat
on top

just because someone wears a cowboy hat
doesn't make them a cowboy

I AM i

Eliot told me that to be personal
was to bleed on a page;
to make a poem an entrapping for
those who wish to steal away from itall

Fritz told me to never assume
that the "I" is one
because when you assume,
the one gets stared at in awe

Gillian told me that to be personal
was the ultimate form -
but to be the "I"
is something we cannot risk

Lolita told me that to be personal
was more than okay
and she will ask me how or why
a poem came to be an "i"

so now i will say it

i remember once i drew elephants
on my love's back
i told her "this one is you
and this one is me"

but someone told me once
that elephants are the only creatures
(other than man)
that can feel love of some kind

i am not an elephant
and nor is she
but i am an elephant
and so is she:

but maybe we are elephants
because we can feel love
of some kind
but we are not elephants

if i were an elephant
an elephant would be "i"

I am i
whenever a solitary i is present
remember that a solitary me
is on that page

For Eliot:
let my i be your escape
think that you want to live
this life that i see

through rose-colored eyes,
drenched in sunlight
and bathed in moonlight
where i can once again love

For Fritz: you were told never to assume
because when you assume
the poet gets jammed into
a life you want him to live

but don't you want me to live this life?

the life of love and beauty?
a life of incurable wonder?
a life where i can look down at children's
smiling faces and smile myself?

i want to live that life
want to live
that life

For Gilian: remember when you told me
that Plath couldn't be Plath on that page
even though there is proof that Plath is that Plath
on that page?

i will give you all of the proof that i can
that i
am the i
on that page

For Lolita: why I am i
is because i
am such
a small thing

but a small thing
with such large great wishings
dreamings, lovings,
and things desired

when you reject my poems,
you are rejecting i

will be good
will remain
will conquer
will be the one you look to when the darkness comes
and you need a little light

and all
can tell you
is that i

am i

to be thy love is an unholy thing

to be thy love is an unholy thing
for how, in any sense of a thinking of "love"
can one find it worthy to be loved
by thee and all thy wonders?

black are the hopes of those who wish
to keep thee at bay with three soft words,
those who wish to keep thy loving fingers
from picking up thy wondrous makings

still thou art known to be at ease
when thou see'st the strains of boys
continuing their wishings, as thou dost smile
seeing them ponder their dreary heads

to make thee open up thy wonders
and make these boys thy undead

the stars became convex as we looked up

the stars became convex as we looked up
as the sky was beginning its syncing to our eyes,
its lunar declination beginning to explore
our faces, your face no more lighter
than the moon itself - through chimes of the
stars' gleaming, your ears perked up
just as the sky grew into different shades
of violet and red, orange in spots and grey
but never blue and the depths of the pulsing clouds
drifting overhead entrapped our gazes,
this night, still blooming, was ours

Te laudo, Puella, quam vir Dominum laudet -

Te laudo, Puella, quam vir Dominum laudet -
sed femina Domini non es.

in somno, dices ut Juppiter est tuus pater,
Juno est tua mater, et luna soror tua est.

credo ut omnes res tu es,
et mundo conjunx es -
ut carpes vitam ex mundo
bibere dulcem rem -

simul amor viri Domino.

Girl, i praise you as man praises the Lord -
but you are not a woman of the Lord.

in sleep, you say that Jupiter is your father,
Venus is your mother, and the moon is your sister.

i believe that you are all things,
and that you are a wife to the earth -
as you pluck life form the earth
to drink the sweet thing -

like the love of man for God.

finally! a force of nature to keep us sane!

finally! a force of nature to keep us sane!

no longer shall we be victims of the madness
instilled by heavy snow - how we were trapped
becoming senile, losing it as we lost all
of our contact and our ration and rationale

and no longer do we have to look to the news
to see her force, to see her blowhard face
within the tears of the poor, no more do i
have to turn a channel to see her wrath

lo! a turn of the dial so that i can see
dryness, parchedness, still thinking of how
the heat can make one think things
that are unruly, unright, unstill, unthinking

now nature has given us something to think about -
let's thank her for finally trying to keep my sane
by driving us crazy with every waking day

the moon sprints

the moon sprints
across the sky, treading over
heaps of snowflakes
until it pants and moans
as it is out of breath
and falls down in the west
where he begins to lay his head
in slumber

the moon and i
are racing -
trying to see which one
can first make
a beautiful day
for you

i thought we told this story before:

i thought we told this story before:

how once i thought of you waiting for slim markings
that showed something called "fate," which we don't believe in -

how once you shared the creeping dire seams of your love
before me, what became of that boy (not a man) who
cried upon your shoulders too many times

how blood once made you weep but then became a sign
(which we also don't believe in) that everything was empty

how the rapture of our bodies form a thinking
that keeps this one somehow awake after hours
of crashing and waining that leaves his eyes strained

how with some soft kisses you eased my breathing
and my eyes could somehow softly still fall asleep

i thought we told this story before
and the ending was so pleasant then -
let us only pray now,
but we don't believe in prayer, either

(as a church bell) today Spring is ringing

(as a church bell) today Spring is ringing
as the Sun pulls on the cord in the steeple
of the trees - once again we can hear
the leaves singing hymns of forgiveness,
begging god to let them resurrect themselves
upon the boughs of things once dead.

all the little children pile into the pews
strewn over the grass and they sit
to hear the prayers of the birds whistle,
raise their voices to solemn Heaven

they offer up their sacrifices in the form
of laughter, jumping, running, & play

after this steep and solemn mass

the candles that the Sun lit still go out too early


& still i dreamt of you alex&er,

my son
flesh & blood,
a molding from mine
& your mother's h&s,

waiting for that day
when you could
on your own
& walk

upon the ice

upon the ice



her feet taunted
tampered and struck
with surprise

her hips sore
and her hands

her breath thick
with wine
and sleep

her eyes welled
with tears of pain
and shame

the ice black
like her eyes -
once blue and bright

last ni( love you)ght

last ni( love you)ght
we awoke
to( feel our makin)gether
in our(selves)
to feel our
mo(an)ve through
our c(reeping finge)resting eyes
unt(ying all of our limbs)il the sun
r(eaped our soft bodies)ose

i remember when death was something

i remember when death was something
that scared me dearly - every little screech
of my brakes and every slip of my shoes
on black ice tore me away from whatever
i was doing, making me think that every breath
could have been my last

now death is not nearly as frightening
as the prospect of life -
mine or something else's


leaving is not a problem -
the problem comes when you're gone


the strangeness of light
coming along the inside
of the room we make
to burn our hides

my neurosis in your hair
and the deep window glare
from this sun that burns
our loving air

all that we will drink
comes on in to make us sink
just as fast as our weary eyes
can blink

this part of fingers in the flesh
take up the dreams of rest
that lay upon your head as i
sight your chest

the temperature's as 63 -
still a little warm for me -
my breath is something that
i would love to see

i can be the one to brave you
the one that can maybe save you
from the chill you're facing
in breathing tunes

the water laced in blood and sand
coming down to soak our hands
as the stains on the bed rise up
from 'round the bends

now we're back to life again
beaming up with awkward grins
as i'm walking down the street -
our evening's end

if you're hands don't shake then you're not alive.

if you're hands don't shake then you're not alive.

when you look down that hallway and see the sheen
of your roommate's poster - the teeny-bopper flick
that makes them think they know what love is -
if your hands don't curl up and shake
as angry clenching fists then
something is wrong with your pulse.

Dear German Girl

a response to this article from The New Yorker

dear German girl: i am someone who tries to take
the ugliness of the language from yours
and make it something that my Roman tongue
can properly recite.

still how can my tongue be something that you claim
was lapped up long ago?

dear German girl, who told you that i was not
original? i was made the same way as you (perhaps
with just a hint more Romance) and yet i am not the same way
that you are.

since i was made from similar pushings as you
does that make you and i the same?

so am i you, dear German girl?
am i just a spitting image like those pages
you took from the little guy? or am i
the little guy and you are just a big mean frau?

let's not remember Teutoburg Forest -
instead remember who you're talking to.

while sleeping i felt the queer inhalations

while sleeping i felt the queer inhalations
of your breath, a stern drawing in of thick air,
while i lie breathless in my moist bed -
i felt your lungs leaping in your body,
a still sadness manifested through
soft sighs, unfinished dreams, and forgotten apparitions
that bid you farewell as you close your eyes:

the strangeness of your chest pushing up and down
to bold and soft filling - i can hear groans
buried in your arm from my pillow -
the fig leaf where you hide some womanly shame

i wait for your breathing and your groans
to awaken and take up their leaping
upon my chest to beat me with thick air


an inmitation of "Treetops" by Beat Radio
lyrics by Brian Sendrowitz


A million inhabitants sink in the sea
The bells in the evening ring out for me
My hands are shaking like the leaves in September
I think I'm alright but I don't remember
I know I'm alone but with you I'm better
So I'm sending you flowers, I'm writing you letters
Summer is starting to feel like forever
Burn down our love and we swallow the embers

In the treetops of my mind and you are hard to keep in time
In the basement of my head I remember what you said
On the jukebox in our bar I heard the sound of old guitars
Changed something in my brain and I've never been the same

Tried to keep an open heart and everything falls apart
There are things you want to say, but you're so many miles away


A thousand snowflakes stirred in the street
Alarms in the morning stir up our feet
My face is solid, like the ice in December
Yours is so good, free of your temper
I feel we're our own, together in fetters
So we're stepping on sidewalks, we're late-winter treaders
Winter has started to feel like a never
Unlike our love, a beatiful tether

On the sidewalks left behind, left in time to be refined
As we wake up in your bed after last night's fall to dead
Like the driving in my car slid into the tree afar
In winter's little game to try to place our blame

Listen to the sounds of starts, the way the rings empart
The state of child's play on the concrete cold today

Screenplay Idea Ten

a boy (sixteen or so) and his father
(now unadmired) drive cross-country
to bury their mother and wife (respectivly) -
they are forced to speak
(god forbid)

TIME: 1990's
SONG: Galaxie 500 - "Walking Song"

Screenplay Idea Nine

a farce: black and white films
(perhaps in French) with a close-up
of a young woman's crying face
as her lover kisses her goodbye
as a man in a giant pink bunny suit
walks by nonchalantly

TIME: 1930's
SONG: Faure - "Le Contique de Jean Racine"

Screenplay Idea Eight

tensions in a basement studio
blanketed in radio waves:
tensions of power, tensions of lust,
tensions of the notes in the air through
the dank darkness
as the popping of the record player echoes

SETTING: Ann Arbor
SONG: All of Them

Screenplay Idea Seven

something in Eden, perhaps here too
but there is nothing naked:
a tale of two lovers and temptations
beyond that love - flashbacks
maybe but what would be the Fruit
in the Garden of Concrete?

SETTING: Real and Unreal
TIME: Now and Then
SONG: None (?)

Ode to my Yellow Legal Pad

on its final page

this is it, my good friend:
your last throughs, yet i am still fighting -
scribbles are my fists and letters are the blood
that drums up

i wonder if you will be like
Keats's Grecian Urn: a telling of history
from an unknown poet (my name does not appear
on your pages, as jaundiced as tulips)
that is found under the rubble if my house
were to collapse on me - someone will write newspaper articles
about you! - of if that blood that harbours itself
in your pages drips out from me in wounds
from other (perhaps myself, though highly doubtful)

would you say such nice things about me?
and, moreso, would they believe them?

your leaves are filled with blackness
which began solely 17 days ago:
60 pages (or so) filled, your life cut short
by my ramblings, my scribbles -
if you had entrails they would be strewn
across hard desks and covered in black ink

i feel as if i murdered you for the sake
of my history, some fantacized "legacy"
in the form of indecipherable script

so for you, my dear friend, i weep
for i will miss your brightness
because without it, i would have to kill
something far less bright

Little Black Dress

your little black polka-dotted dress
fit me snugly, my arms traped in sleeveless sleeves
and my squeezed by the flail,
the shape of your breasts leave my flat chest
untouched, the peaks of your bosom
found in the tightness of the dress:
what is long and flowing on you
seems constraining to me.
i am motionless, afraid of tearing
the stiff fabric and the look
on your disturbed face -
yet you were laughing, giggling
as i became your little big doll
(with a suspicious buldge, however)
you speke of braiding my hair
and giving me a pretty little pearl necklace,
peraps piercing my ears (if i were not
utterly terrified of needles) and i gave you
a courtsey, my face red with shame,
yours red with laughter -
from 40 miles away i can hear my father groan
but it is muffled by your laughter;
i think of myself on a stage dancing
and singing, but then my body remembers
the soft constraint, and the laughter ceases
as i turn around and implore you with my shame:
"unzip me"

Screenplay Idea Six

based on a true story - almost my own (but not quite)

a poet, middle-aged, end of the line,
living for nothing: wife gone, children with her
across town, meets a younger woman, she lets him
write again, a miracle, though completely
misdirected (as all poets are
with pretty girls)

SONG: Beat Radio - "Treetops"

Screenplay Idea Five

two men (there were no boys back then)
walk through the Yard, one is
murdered; the other remains broken,
near-dead, dead in the eyes of those
still in the Yard

SETTING: Harvard
TIME: 1926
SONG: Camille Saint-Saens - "Prelude" from Oratorio de Noel

Screenplay Idea Four

a couple, young (not much older than myself)
on the road to their wedding,
her father dies, wedding delayed
by a funeral, delayed by her questions
on death and purpose

SETTING: The Midwest
SONG: Slowdive - "When the Sun Hits"

Screenplay Idea Three

a man with two loves: women
& men, meeting two loves:
a woman & a man, hiding
his loves (a woman & a man)
from each other (a woman &
a man) and himself

SETTING: Seattle
SONG: Neutral Milk Hotel - "Two-Headed Boy, Pt. 1"

Screenplay Idea Two

something of the age of twelve:
a boy finds that first girl,
his first suffering, his first sickness
and for 120 minutes adults ask him
"are you okay?"

SETTING: The Midwest
TIME: Then (20 years ago or so)
SONG: The White Stripes - "The Same Boy You've Always Known"

Screenplay Idea One

something about an artist lost
in redwoods of skyscrapers and
some too-deep caverns of creative psyche,
drowning in order to stir his music or fiction
or poetry or painting or anything with cigarettes and burbon

SONG: R.E.M. - "Bittersweet Me"

Wall Stains

somewhere down your deep black hallway
i saw drippings of blood on the wall:
a concoction of overmixed paint
and pumping from your thin blue veins

white walls seem to hold on to everything -
the stains of childhood dreams
and youthful lusting,
all of which still lingers on your walls

there is a spot of blue on mine
from when you crashed into it
within my sheets and the fabric
bleed from the sickness on my bed

but that will come out with some elbow grease
whereas yours will take some back rubs
and many more kisses
before i can clean up this mess i left on your walls

you are intricate in your dealings

you are intricate in your dealings
with words (far more than myself):
your tiptoping through verbs and nouns
keeps me guessing, your delicate laying
of adjectives keeps my mind jumping
and my eyes swaying - my heart hoping
that any and all harshness comes not
from my words (far less intricate
than yours)

i reap madness from your silence -

i reap madness from your silence -
solitude pleases the Muses but it leaves me aching
for what you and i could make with words

and the city is supposedly unfriendly to poets
but since you were brought to me
in a sea of concrete and through allyway winds
i would say the city has been good to us

so why are you silent
and why do you drag me deeper
into madness with your lack of words?

now twice have i felt the stinging of your teenage love:

now twice have i felt the stinging of your teenage love:

those times when you told me that no one knew any better
i was unknowing of everything, i was sitting alone on a too-big bed
waiting for someone to sneak through my basement window
and make some form of mishap with me

when you told me that you had to make choices i had already chosen
not to force myself to make choices, i had already told myself
that myself was for myself and not for others, not for the old
and especially not for the new

then when you said how you had to find things out i knew
what i had been told by my mother and father - i had seen
my sisters (who were told nothing) find things out as you did:
unknowingly, unwillingly

how you somehow dealt with a death not a death but a ceasing -
as much as my mother would hate such ceasing
i have to think that at least one of her rosary beads would know
that god would want me to live

most of all you tell me about leaving - it's all about the leaving
and i thought not about leaving but about grasping when i was young,
i thought of grasping someone with whom i could leave
and move on, move up, move forward

but somehow after hearing the sting of your teenage love
i wish to move on
with you and your sting

this candy laced on your lips

this candy laced on your lips
tastes like something my mother gave me
when i was a boy -

an overindulgence of cane sugar
from smuggled from somewhere South,

still it does not compare
to the granuales the drip slowly
from your tongue
and down to your breasts
as i wish to taste


the furnace blows cold
air into your darkened room
but still in our sweat -
in fingers piercing over skin,
warm, but still somehow, shivers


i heard one clicking
of your keyboard (the "F" key)
and with that i looked
to you, knowing that you were
about to write a poem


you inhaled
as i kissed your nose
that was cold
and you exhaled just as i
pulled away


the cold drip of the
icicles on your window
falls deeply to Earth
and makes that little pocket
for our gaze to hide in snow


the hiss of the heat
pulsing through your auburn hair
kisses your face as
you look down not knowing that
i'm watching you heatedly

though dually temped by slumber and bodies

though dually temped by slumber and bodies
you close your eyes and parted your rose lips
until my hands fell deeply upon the pale
and stepped gleaming in the cold of your room -
we rose as the sun rose in winter

still this sterling beam trickles down

still this sterling beam trickles down
from your hips and down over your thighs
where my natures (unpious) are still held -
the bitter warmth seeps through your skin
and onto the sidewalk where we tread,
the liberties of lust have taken you
by the wrists and thrust themselves through the wind
the drips of lewd icicles from your body
and the squirming of your face begs me to beg you


A Beer with My Father

together we raise our bottles -
yours a product of years of trial and error,
mine an unknown homage to my mother's father -
and we will let the bubbles pop on the fullest lips
that you (of all people) gave to me

part of me wishes you've been hoping for this moment
since my birth; the altering consciousness of the watery brew
and the laughter that ensues as you
pat me on the head - "attaboy" -
like a stiff breeze from the lake where we caught so many fish
your hand comes beating my shoulder gently

my twenty-one years, your forty-five - when you were my age
you dreamed of having a son with whom to have a beer -
perhaps a smoke too if my sisters had not
made you quit so soon

we can sink our teeth into animal flesh
and overindulge ourselves, as you taught me to
to be merry, to reward a hard-day's work

i often wonder what you would be like
if you drank brandy or cognac or wine instead
of the thin deluded brew we now share -
then i wonder what i and my sisters would be like
if you drank brandy or cognac or wine instead
(somehow i think that we would be
so utterly boring) - bottled lagers are so Midwest
and i know you wouldn't have t any other way:
wine is too west for you and stouts are far too east
but this brew, brown like that old lake water,
reminds of you those days with your grandfather
who died as i was conceived - your aunt told me
that i was sent to replace him
but you guffawed as such pressures:

not that i could not keep up with the dead
but i am your son, not your grandfather,
and you remind me daily as i bear your name

i am always your son upon introduction,
but no one can tell as we hold our bottles -
they can see it in our eyes and lips
and hear and beards, our laughter and our rages

you like Bud and i like Pabst
but sometimes beer is just beer, Dad.

the molding of two lovers over the ocean's wake

a response to Max Pechstein's "At the Water (Am Wasser)"

the molding of two lovers over the ocean's wake
forms a body firm and one softly aching through eyes -
in what dire sands shall these two finally move
closer to the sea where passions flow?

she leans over as he picks up a stone - a token for himself,
something from the water, he inspects and thinks not
of her smooth body, worn with time, worn with everything
but the firm pumpings of his body's love

he looks down and she looks down, she at him,
he at the sands, the waters, thinking not of her
and her potential love, but instead of himself as man
begging the ocean and sands for something dear

yet just by turning and seeing her eyes he would see
something much more grand than the ocean and sand

Valentine's Day 2010

this day (somehow) is of god
yet it is ours:
your bed (the one in which i fell
in love with you) remains unmade
and all those little things to be done
remain undone

the useless shuffle of your papers
and shifting of some many things
that are not your body
seems so much less than our nothings
of today - our nothings of lying
softly beside

that bitter coffee that you left behind
is still warm - like this spot here
on your bed where i sit and wait for you
to return from your somethings
so that you and i can once again have
our nothings

the whiteness glow;

the whiteness glow;
the one that you know drapes over
your breasts, your naked torso
as it sits contemplating upon your dear dear bed

your delicate little fingers brush through
the redwood forest that is your hair:
truly your eyes can meet the screen
which you ponder softly within your head

still you naked and i naked makes so many things
that take us out of that whiteness glow:
the day gone, but our night still infantile
as it lays down pressed against a pillow of oak

and i am pressed against the pillow of your redwood hair—
the splendors heightened sweetly by the whiteness glow

this (or any other thing of love or equal matter)

this (or any other thing of love or equal matter)
is not something pure - instead it drips with murky waters
under the night sky traversing the inhalations
of mourning over our dead loving bodies

sometimes our love is not a wonderful splendorous thing:
instead it seems to brood under the clouds crashing
like waves upon rocky shores, tidal waves that burst
through the sea to bury all those sailing

still this rough thing is our love and still it is reaping
of our mouths, of our notions of those things that
keep our fingers shaking like winter's boughs
about to shatter in the frigid moaning of our love

now we rest and reflect upon that darkness
that somehow molds and forms into our love


i get my news from Wikipedia now
rather than CNN or Fox or anything else
because i can edit Wikipedia
and sometimes i like it when
i can give a story a happy ending

poetry is a victim of the blogosphere

poetry is a victim of the blogosphere
as this poem will tell you -
i have seen a poem shot down
by unlimited bandwidth
and a YouTube video

i remember when a poem was a poem:
not an accompaniment
not a soundtrack
not a caption to a Photoshopped image
of Megan Fox on a dude's Facebook page


@me you still remember when every little thing
was unimportant
and now you haunt me still
but i can't get away
like a lover come crawling ba[...]

The Two Navarros

the two Navarros that i am
are one and One, and they both bear
their burdens, both small and big:
though different in their means of death

the smaller one, the poet's man
who takes the world within his palm
and wrings it, drinks its juices sweet
to let the poisons through his veins

the bigger One, the fighter's son
the swinging brooding plight of man
who burns with passions, stern and born
to never budge, to always drink

the two Navarros that i am
are one and One, and they both are
the drinkers of the poisoned Earth
but only one can never die

18th-Century Coffee Houses

the heightened sense of being drips with brews
like bitter beans that taste of roasting fires
that take upon demise of earthly hues
that within within the soul as Knowing Pyres

the cry to make the art as common praise
in forms of clinking cups and stirring spoons -
thy cry to take the arts in mortal days
as London's best and brightest sing their croons


1. the awkward state of trying to impress
2. the silent moans of early morning lust
3. the riffs of morning after's bleak distress
4. the reassurance of their nature's trust
5. the doubt and stares of naked body's form
6. the rush abandons crowd to be alone
7. the frolics in the sun, so swift and warm
8. the haunting of the truth, now being known
9. the roughness sworn in bottles flowing deep
10. the hard decision made, through still unsure
11. the travel to a land in seeming sleep
12. the photo of the growing, small and pure
13. the realization of the form of love
14. the great farewell to growing from above

Today's Poems

i have to let you know about my scheme:
my poems for today have a metered theme.


i heard in Iceland, it is more acceptable
to have a child out of wedlock:
low-cost child care ensures that all
are cared for, a nation of mothers and fathers

i was raised with a hint of Mexico:
it's not okay but what else can we do?
remember the Vijen had her child
so now we must have ours

you were raised on lakes where
homes blend into one another -
there babies are things that ruin
until they are buried secretly

i've heard that Iceland
is very pretty in the summer


we are (of course) not animals
but at some point (5:51am, to be
exact) we balloon into heat -
still in something there is love
but love can be carnal
love can be the product of ancient making -
the dripping and writing, the same making
of beasts, though we are none.
such love is unpure, unfeeling,
laced with dire drippings of my boyhood

how softly i love to think our love
is no such thing

how truly i know that we
mean what we say as we love


a black sock with argyle patterns
is missing his partner:
lost in a sea of blankets, jeans,
t-shirts and sweaters -
a sea that smells muskly
of love - moonlit hazy love

you gave me a long black plain sock
to coffin in which my lost sock is returned
it is like my sock
but is not my sock

i sill miss my dear sock
but i know it's warm and drifting
in the sea of our love -
the coffin fits my foot well


[an unserious poem]

all poems from today
shall forever be known as
for all i remember is what
i don't remember


go on: the hands of the rogues
will burn you as they stroll their knuckles
over your flesh, how tenderly they will speak
until their tongues begin to bleed

their mouths gap and draw in
deep breaths full of apparitions of their
"i love you"s, a spirit dealt a raw deal
as their hips and thighs will show you

what simply can three or four
or five little words do to one who felt
the sting of more than so, more than this,
more than all the waning of the moon?

still i wonder as i wrap your hands
with white cloths


over you
this morning -
i felt the heat and eruption
of your womanly moans
under my hard body
where all i did
was keep pushing
as you pulled
the deepness from your back

"here - here -
why not here?"

"because i want
to kiss you"

but i think the three of us know why


[from last night]

my love the days felt smooth
as you ride down the plains
through bouncing hills:
how long have you danced
upon the grass of this garden
before you dreamed of the softness
of my chest?

i saw drawings on pages
of two lovers in embrace
and i thought of you:
how i wish to be the charcoal
that keeps you drifting
over to me
where i dream

For Allison

on your birthday

i will not call to attention
the fact that i am a fuck-up:

the bars are beginning to close
how the hell was i
supposed to know?

i spent weeks thinking
of how i could make this day
how i thought you were
and still do.

through your slumbery eyes
i saw a woman stolen in time:
you were always older than i was
despite what the calendar said.

i went from dreaming of perfection
to just trying not to make
you cry.

you don't deserve my vulgar words.

this poem is not nearly enough for you.

i am not nearly enough for you.

i will abandon my heightened
flowery language
just one more time
for you:

i love you
and i thank God (whoever he/she is)
that you are here
with me.



Your tilling done, my hands
on your back, sweat-laced
drenched in stinging warmness
of your hard day's work.

I asked you to rest
under that Tree
as you buried your face
in our Earth -
your eyes drifted off
to closing.

Then the force of your breathing
left me alone.

I took my hands off of your back
and wiped them in the grass:
its greenness was something strange -
the greenness that I had seen before
only more lush
and not as dead-looking.

You were drifting, I was stagnant
through the Sun's creeping hours.

Then I lied down next to you,
my arms gently grazing your back
(now dry):

My eyes were dry.

My eyes were tired.

My eyes were now closed.

The startling came, that noise -
that hiss - of a narrow tongue;
a smoothness that sways through my ears

My eyes jolting,
my arms stiffening
solely until I arose
with sweat of my own.

All I saw was green.

I looked over, see you
(on your stomach still)
in deep

You did not even jostle.

I looked around - no beasts -
only the rush of the river
which lulled me before.

My eyes shifting,
my arms shaking,
solely until I heard
the sounds of his own.

A look down at my feet caked in earth
and he was crawling
over me,
taking my feet in his coils,
taking my calves in his sheerness.

I was left squirming.

He was there taking.

His eyes met mine -
red can do so many things.

He took the tip of his tail
and his mouth hissed –
his belly was smooth
over my pale thighs. –
then slowly
touched it
on me –
nearly in me –
as you had done

One touch.

My voice wanted
to shriek,
my eyes wanted to
cry out in tears,
yet my body liked the feeling
of being wrapped up
as it liked being wrapped up
in you.

With my body stiff,
he slowly moved up,
grazing my belly with his scales
(strange how he moved so well
with no limbs in which
to entangle me)
and moving up toward
my soft
stiff breasts
(my teeth clenched
and my jaw stiffened
as my breath drew in deeper

I arched my head back
as his belly slithered over my neck,
tense and strewn
with veins
and blood rushing through
the pillar of my throat.

I saw him daringly move up
to my mouth, his fangs dripping
and his eyes widening –
his tongue slipping in and out
of his thin, hard mouth,

His body became more taught.

My body became more tense.

I pined to shriek,
to wake you from your slumber,
but I could not move,
I could not speak.

He grasped tighter
tighter –

then let go.

I was left breathless.

I was left speechless.

I was left.

He slithered off of me
and arose (again, so strangely)
and stood over me;
his eyes softened
and his fangs stopped dripping.

I crept up, looking to you
(still sleeping),
my body sitting up in the grass,
now wet from my sweat.

My throat was parched.

“What do you want?”

He moved your head slowly around
and opened his wide mouth -
his voice was soft, yet harsh:

“My dear, I think not
of what I want, for I know what
you want.”

He laid those charmings on me again.
I was trembling, puzzled.

“How do you mean?”

He strode up to the Tree
and began to grasp it tightly
(as he did me)
and he slithered up
over to a thick branch
(as he did me).

“Sadly, I see you here,
taking in all those wishes
from God, Adam;
and sadly I must say that
I know that you
cannot take it.”

My forehead crinkled
and my heart raced –
more than when he grasped me
and stuck his tail within me.

He continued:
“Dear, your time has come
and I know how you can grasp
all that they have.

“They have more than you –
you are a product, a making,
the result of their need
for subordination.”

My voice came back to me.

“You lie!”

I bolted my head over to see
if you had awoken.


“I adore Adam, I praise God
and I do not obey Adam –
I am his equal,
his wife.”

He slithered over that branch
and came upon one piece
of the Fruit.

With his thick tail
he reached over
from the branch,
its ripping seeming to
echo throughout the Garden.

Still, you did not even jostle.

‘You adore Adam,
but do



Long before this poet sang
the words of Israel rang through
to the West, where they were met
with praises -
how men would know the plight
of their wives came from Israel,
its stories, its strains,
its native tongue
telling them that wives were always
at fault, since that fateful day.

Long before this poet sang
a man across the Pond cried to make
something that no one's eyes read before -
a chance to tell the world
the story behind the story
of Israel,
a chance to tell the world
that in fact he (blinded) could see
the Muses of Homer, of Virgil,
and make them his own
in a language much more vulgar -
vulgar so that he could
faithfully blame (yet again)
the wives.

Long before this poet sang
a woman rose from the slumbering
body of a man,
a master who kept her body
under his, who kept his arms taught
around her moist body,
keeping her down in body
and mind.

This woman is hailed
as the mother of all;
this woman is condemned
as the damnation of us all –
though what man
in all his right mind
could damn his mother
for eternity?

When man wrote of man
and woman
he made the cunning of the Tempter
that was soft,
dying to be bolted down
by the hands of man.

Though she had not been given a voice.

This poet – a man – now sings
of such harshness,
of such ease of temptation
through any sort –
especially that of
demonic notions.

The unfair trial of Eve
breeds remorse for fallen woman.

But woman is very much alive.

But woman is very much here.

But man takes woman and makes her
temptress in our fall –
when woman only did it
for love,
for being,
for man.

You would have eaten the Fruit from her hands.


i fell in love with you on a Wednesday:

you always told me that you hated Wednesdays,
that you were born on a Wednesday.

i was born on a Tuesday,

whereas you were born in the rays
and beaming of the West Coast,
i emerged here, a child of aluminum
and premature love
that only the Midwest can harbor so well

in all fairness i probably should have
been born on a Wednesday:
that Thanksgiving my mother whined
as my father and his uncles enjoyed
a beer in the name of his son-to-be,
my mother there, aching, hot and straining
to push me out

Wednesdays always had a strain on me:
P.E. at 8 in the morning,
that day i hit my teacher's car,
that terrible stomach flu the day of dress rehearsal

i was born on the cusp of winter:
in Adrian the snow is not white
but gray
and laced with pebbles,
and dead autumn grass

i remember that it was the cusp of winter
when i fell in love with you:
it was before it got too cold to sleep naked
and we would roll in your big bed
making ourselves sweat
because you always had the heat on too high

if there is a such thing as
a good Wednesday
that one
and the one on which you were born

Corrinia's Baby

i can feel the strain of my sister's belly
as my little niece curls up inside -
from 40 miles away i can see my sister's face
writhing, yet beaming
as she feels that little body brooding inside her

(to call it brooding seems unfair
yet what more can one do when bound
to the soft warmness of that belly?)

my sister's hands jump and her face beams
as that little wonder shifts inside -
her little fingers curling and grasping
all that she can

all that she will
in the arms of my sister

Dead Leaves

dead leaves tell the tales of reaping nature:
that night we walked, i never knew -
never would have guessed -
that your floor was once covered
with dead leaves, branches
and a season - the summer is so cruel
sometimes, the heat and anticipation
really takes a toll on the idle mind

still i never thought of you, walking,
writing and pushing, pulling and holding
on to something soft, something yet-to-firm-
up within, something that you perhaps miss
but something to whom you bid good riddance;

though what is good if not built to better?


i did not grow up on beaches
like you did:

i felt not the crinkling of lake sand
in my brittle feet,
nor have waves ever been
my childhood dreams

i was raised on a mixture
of concrete and corn:
a cultivation fertilized by
smoke stacks and scrap metal

my waves were gray
and my poetic discovery came in the form
of pink slips and "CLOSED" signs

unlike your clear blue washings
my baths were brown-murky
and taken from runoff from the makings
of the lower-middle class

i had no lake effect snow -
instead my angels were made
to look tan from the asphalt scrapings
from speeding cars
and broken shards of beer bottles
in the ditch in front of my yard

whereas you were blue, i was gray

while you were West i was here
thinking of crisp clear waves

anything but the gray

The Last Time

this is the last time
you will get my nonsense:

once again
i promise
i vow
that my poems will be
things that are the product of

not doing

four days of nothings
leaves me with nothing

now i need something

is what i need


i promise you that i won't cry
ever again
because that would mean that i
am not a man

and you deserve a man
(though i was the first you ever had)

can i cry please?


[for alp]

i am not
mad at you

just at everyone else

i should go back to therapy

A RESPONSE [not for alp]

i fucking hate
all of these goddamed
post-modernist mother fuckers
who think that they can take over
the beauty that i fucking make
from my good fucking life
and i hate it when
they use the word fuck
in poems
because fuck (as fun
as it is) is not beautiful

if i do not win,
God have mercy on my soul

Last Night


i thin
k we
DRanK t0



the tragedy of control scrapes the skin

the tragedy of control scrapes the skin
of my teeth, like i am clinching
the fleshy skin, of your poets
for control - how tragic

Red Shoes

you asked me to wear red shoes
with my tuxedo at our wedding -
you in your off-white single-strap
with the removable lace flower
and i with sneakers
you get to be stunning
and i get to be bright

but i cannot outbright you
on that lovely day

Photo of My Grandfather

i saw a photo of my grandfather
last night:

he held two babies at his knees, aching
from bending over too much
while plucking sweetnesses
for alabaster mouths

he face was burned, manipulated
by the sun, haggard, his jowls
sinking lowly, his moist lips laced
with his firm grey mustache

his hair is concrete, wet with oils
that pour from my skin, he gave them
to me so that God could
anoint me

Crazy Feminist

i wonder deeply if
it is at all possible
to hold a feminist ideal
when i have a penis

On the Bus

to look down
the notion
of your ob
ness to how
i reach for
your strunning
bleeding palms


this cunning time greets the day
as our kisses greet us as the sun
takes his place over our earth,
this opening screen of day:
exactly as open as our bodies
concealed simply by our selves -
mine on yours
yours on mine -
the continuous cunning warmness
seeping down below your curling hands
your eyes wandering as the nibbling cantor
of your moans, the false speech from your mouth

such a dream
unreal, yet cunning


i brought you coffee
only because i did not have
and flowers
and candles

so until i have those things
coffee will have to do

and the only metal that you will get
is the hot thermos
until i can buy you
something silver

i love you more than i ever have
because i always love you more

a whirlpool

a whirlpool
in counter-clockwise cones
drags this body against time
but the soul moves
rapidly forward

In Modo Tuo

Back off!
My stage keeps the whispers of my life
behind the curtains from your eyes.
I will put duct tape over my mouth
so you can't decipher my muffling -
My ramblings are incoherent to you
and I am glad!
I'd rather you'd be blind
than to read my verses!
I'd rather you'd be dead
than to hear my weepings
on the page!

I love you too much
to make you know -
ignorance is bliss
I am your bliss

so now look away
while I get naked.

Krazy Kat

i (ambiguous)
await the
that you (smaller
than i)
at my
in love

The Missing 9

the face on my watch is missing its 9
i was banging the links to get them to stick
and the 9 popped off - the outline is there
and the 9 is logged by the 2,
upside-down and twisted

i wonder of my watch things
that time stands still:
26 times a day (once every hour
and once between 8 and 10)
the time (according to my watch)
does not exist

i figured out the secret to stopping time
though my watch still ticks

LOST - The Final Season

[for alp]

please don't write a poem about anyone
but Sayid
because he (with his arms spread out)
is Christ, and i (with my long
thick hair and thin beard)
am Sayid


For Don Cellini

you (an Italian) told me
to be more Mexican

i chuckled as my grandmother does
when i try to speak Spanish

you told me my heros
were Paz, Alagon, Aragon, Soto,
all of whom wrote of their Aztec fathers

hate to break it to you, Don,
but my mother said we are Mayan
and my father said we are Spanish
which means one killed the other
so i'm dead, i guess

guess i can't speak Spanish when i'm dead

Stone Wall

i had dreams of a stone wall
where you and i let our lips fall
into one another's, as we sat
upon the ground, backs against the wall
our hands licked in fingers that lay
on your hips - under my hips
my body is sore; my knees are cracking
and my feet tingle in bloodless slumber
tapping my toes upon the stiff grass
to prick and poke my feet awake

The Cross in the Frost

the blaze of white puffy winds
over the bricks of our Ann
keeps those afraid of purity at bay
until Spring, when (like Christ)
greeness resurrects itself after three
months (not days) - Autumn is Judas
for those who Summer seduces
with its Gospel of Sun and Rain,
that all those of Earth can betray
Spring though means of its death, each
snowflake a nail on the wrists
(the boughs) of Spring - now those
afraid of death (of resurrection)
are themselves Judas

Real Men Cry

real men cry
despite what my father told me
at age twelve

at age twenty-one i've cried
more in two months than i have
in six years

cries over

my father warned me of spilt milk;
though he has only cried over spilt bodies
(when i was twelve, oddly enough)

there's something enlightening in tears
there's something warming in bringing my head
into stiff shoulders and leaking

i feel like a man