Mandolin Song

what if the columns came tumbling down?
what if the visions of kings were skewed
by dismal heights?
what if the swimmers began to drown?
what if the stirring ocean foam brewed
a toxic night?

the meadows are timed:
each season couplet,
each sunrise a rhyme

what if the cobblestones broke up?
what if the towers where maidens lie
have no stairs?
what if their follies were enough?
what if the fields where peasants die
rose above the air?

the dead beat their drums:
the queens sit in silence
while the kings' reins are done
the harp strings are strung:
the angels start plucking
as church bells are rung
for the fall

Sand Spilt on the Ground [A POEM REVISITED]

for T. S. E.:

it is the heat that melts the March snow

that allows those dreaded April lilacs to bloom.

I

their faces are long, thin,

covered with dampness not from the sun

but from fluorescent lights,

kissed with dire breezes from silken bottles

whose liquids stream down over premature breasts;

how these figures blossom within gaudy robes,

the makings of queens if not for the ideals

of the princess: rogues whose simple trends

come from bulky arms, untamed tempers

and ever-pulsing hips. when once again time relinquishes their simplicities

their complexities remain blank and unmoving.

unknowing bolts down into wondrous nothing,

their eyes widening not to the sites of spring flowers

harvest moons or even little worms: they refuse

to bend at the knees and look at the ants marching

over the concrete and onto the seasoned mulch.

i see the cusps of buttocks yet i do not reach:

my hands only tremble, my blood only shakes:

when i know these figures die when they all become mothers

stiffens my flesh, widens my eyes,

and depletes any notion of lusting tact within my loins.

i can only see sparking cups and plastic coffee spoons.

any crown not fashioned from gold is a crown of thorns.

i am no martyr

but my eyes are open.

when the summer beats still i want to toboggan down caps

and sift through the beads and diamond rings:

i will hold my breath through the bitter wine

and let their stumbles befall only them.

when i see cotton clinging to their untouched curves

i will only listen to the hush of the heal-alls

and await the spiders to nest upon the pedals,

ready to tangle boney fingers in silken webs,

ready to keep their knuckles from clenching, seizing

themselves over tempters; the rapture sits

and calms itself as a storm before the hail.

brightness, gleaming,

native tongues tripped-up and bruised

by three-, four-, one-lettered words;

saliva fermented, born of stills. i wonder

if they have ever seen a silo, ever seen a blossom

or even a branch reach out from a brutish trunk;

the ground will become to them the most pleasant of thieves,

taking only their footsteps and using them to make

cobblestone paths.

how will they tread without their evening shoes?

II

do you have

more? can your hair stay bright

and in place? when do your arms become

shelter? when do your palms rest in your

pockets and not on

untainted flesh? when do you keep

your eyes from bulging from your

sockets like a cartoon wolf ready

to howl?

your chants are not of Buddha

who breathes eternal life into the Earth:

i see you more as Franciscans

who dwell in the doorway of our rapture.

when all is taken i'd rather your seed end up spilt

upon the ground to feed the Earth,

to breath,

than to simply bloom. i'd rather your vigor take the form

of a jolted fist than temptual glaring. i'd rather you

an Onan than a David: i'd rather you

faithless then to hear your calls over thunder

as i lie in my rain-soaked bed.

take the June and make it yours,

for September is your temptress horse with wine and sleep,

though you are no Trojans;

October are your Greeks who burn your city to the ground

while you slumber, your arms around the girls

whose nakedness keep your schemings rigorous.

i think when you both awoke in the fiery blaze

and boisterous haze

you grabbed the wrong robes.

to grow out is not to grow over reconciliation.

III

the notion is bliss:

the deep pride stuck over thrones

makes us still; it finds a way to exhale

and strip away the flesh of flower stems.

nails pricking

one

by

one

until there is only one Delilah left,

and Samson reaches down to find a barren patch of Earth.

this tale is unheard

when candles nestle their flame in Christmas tree branches;

instead

the stillness of autumn days becomes more elaborate

than summer storms: when grey becomes the Heavens' paleness

and raindrops are merely beating.

Christ's tale becomes a nothing

when strewn, gutted, and mixed with that of the city,

the way the concrete forms itself around stumbling bodies

is more than the Magi: our Wisemen brings gifts

of demons, lusting, and blood.

IV

depths and moves. skills unset,

drawn-out and beaten until the traffic lights hide what the blues are thinking;

we can only keep from shaking while their breasts jump up

and down with each cunning stride;

or their arms reach and grope more shaking moves.

no hips should sway as so unless children in them grow.

out out out

up up up

in in in

chanting

motives; moans;

cries; screams;

unknown.

bring it out.

lake waters are not brick walls: they can be penetrated

so far to let all ones able to squirm.

you'll find me on an engine, revving,

setting up a game of backgammon while waiting outside your bedroom doors.

you always seem to forget about the die when you play;

and you never remember that it takes two, and player two

always gets to move. sometimes i suppose you keep rolling doubles.

i'll teach you Latin if you put the French aside.

all of the R's deep in the back of your throat have made you think

that bearing more into your lungs is alright. remember to protect your jaw.

V

WHAT keeps the armies at will?
what makes them load their rifles and fire when they see
the whites of our breasts? what drives their insecurities
to be curious of our fertile drippings? it's time;

it's time once again and the moon is low, easy for baying upon,
ravenous ribs compressing half-filled lungs from centuries of only wishing
and not seeings—how (if when) the streams merge to make a flowing river
that carries armies over through the gorge.

when i was a boy (twelve or so) i had visions, i had dreams
though too grand to measure with my hands.

a pup not ready to howl, only to wail
until i took a sip of my mother's suckled milk
and i thought that was epitome.

they are always to hungry
when our gammon hangs about on our budding breasts.

Mid-Summer Night's Daydream

come with me
underneath the lights
you've dimmed
like the crimson sunsets
that mold the clouds, mold
into shapes,
the aerial stimulus encasing
our eyes—your fingers encase
my rising fully,
the darkness covers us
and encases our rising
fully

A.A. Poem

kiss—what these lips use to
appoint themselves to their copper throne which
rises high about the little flowers
that bloom as your legs brush against them;
i, the dreary and down-trodden,
kiss undeservingly—kiss boldly, meekly,
how i wish to build my gall up
again and again to simply kiss

First Day of Summer

over steady streams the sparrows call to me

under the trees, the smell of the cattails linger

in my nose, the grass pricks my thighs

like those pointed fingernails

and those curled fingers, the simplicity

of it all, the way the sparrows chirp makes me fall

down to the earth, as they fall when you clip

their wings with your pearly voice

and piano keys

Blissfield Village Railway

i've seen sixteen leaps off of a train platform

as steam barreled from a locomotive

like that Whitman placed so highly.

when man and machine are one

they mold together, making new from sparks

and currents, wires become imbecile cords

while buttons are the only sense of touch.

take a hit of ether because

it's a long way down to the metal tracks:

cylindrical barrels barreling toward your body

with nothing on its regard—nothing to keep it

from trampling you in a stampeded

of smoke, gnashing steel like giant bones

fed on coal. trees tremble, stones fear breaking

when men and machine become one,

become murders.

June

bayside: the bridge comes the water
and my hands are pulling currents
which makes the bullets as mist ring loud
my eyes are smitten with the blue
but my feet are bound by corse sand

Still

be still: these beats are one

they move up onto my heart

and finally settle below my chest,

my gut

to lay their eggs below my own

i am unsettling

i am nurtured so much

that my hands always move

down

like rhythms and harmonies

from somewhere under

keep still.

keep up.

upup

Sand Spilt on the Ground

for T. S. E.:

it is the heat that melts the March snow

that allows those dreaded April lilacs to bloom.

I

their faces are long, thin,

covered with dampness not from the sun

but from fluorescent lights,

kissed with dire breezes from silken bottles

whose liquids stream down over premature breasts;

how these figures blossom within gaudy robes,

the makings of queens if not for the ideals

of the princess: rogues whose simple trends

come from bulky arms, untamed tempers

and ever-pulsing hips. when once again time relinquishes their simplicities

their complexities remain blank and unmoving.

unknowing bolts down into wondrous nothing,

their eyes widening not to the sites of spring flowers

harvest moons or even little worms: they refuse

to bend at the knees and look at the ants marching

over the concrete and onto the seasoned mulch.

i see the cusps of buttocks yet i do not reach:

my hands only tremble, my blood only shakes:

when i know these figures die when they all become mothers

stiffens my flesh, widens my eyes,

and depletes any notion of lusting tact within my loins.

i can only see sparking cups and plastic coffee spoons.

any crown not fashioned from gold is a crown of thorns.

i am no martyr

but my eyes are open.

when the summer beats still i want to toboggan down caps

and sift through the beads and diamond rings:

i will hold my breath through the bitter wine

and let their stumbles befall only them.

when i see cotton clinging to their untouched curves

i will only listen to the hush of the heal-alls

and await the spiders to nest upon the pedals,

ready to tangle boney fingers in silken webs,

ready to keep their knuckles from clenching, seizing

themselves over tempters; the rapture sits

and calms itself as a storm before the hail.

brightness, gleaming,

native tongues tripped-up and bruised

by three-, four-, one-lettered words;

saliva fermented, born of stills. i wonder

if they have ever seen a silo, ever seen a blossom

or even a branch reach out from a brutish trunk;

the ground will become to them the most pleasant of thieves,

taking only their footsteps and using them to make

cobblestone paths.

how will they tread without their evening shoes?

II

do you have

more? can your hair stay bright

and in place? when do your arms become

shelter? when do your palms rest in your

pockets and not on

untainted flesh? when do you keep

your eyes from bulging from your

sockets like a cartoon wolf ready

to howl?

your chants are not of Buddha

who breathes eternal life into the Earth:

i see you more as Franciscans

who dwell in the doorway of our rapture.

when all is taken i'd rather your seed end up spilt

upon the ground to feed the Earth,

to breath,

than to simply bloom. i'd rather your vigor take the form

of a jolted fist than temptual glaring. i'd rather you

an Onan than a David: i'd rather you

faithless then to hear your calls over thunder

as i lie in my rain-soaked bed.

take the June and make it yours,

for September is your temptress horse with wine and sleep,

though you are no Trojans;

October are your Greeks who burn your city to the ground

while you slumber, your arms around the girls

whose nakedness keep your schemings rigorous.

i think when you both awoke in the fiery blaze

and boisterous haze

you grabbed the wrong robes.

to grow out is not to grow over reconciliation.

III

the notion is bliss:

the deep pride stuck over thrones

makes us still; it finds a way to exhale

and strip away the flesh of flower stems.

nails pricking

one

by

one

until there is only one Delilah left,

and Samson reaches down to find a barren patch of Earth.

this tale is unheard

when candles nestle their flame in Christmas tree branches;

instead

the stillness of autumn days becomes more elaborate

than summer storms: when grey becomes the Heavens' paleness

and raindrops are merely beating.

Christ's tale becomes a nothing

when strewn, gutted, and mixed with that of the city,

the way the concrete forms itself around stumbling bodies

is more than the Magi: our Wisemen brings gifts

of demons, lusting, and blood.

IV

depths and moves. skills unset,

drawn-out and beaten until the traffic lights hide what the blues are thinking;

we can only keep from shaking while their breasts jump up

and down with each cunning stride;

or their arms reach and grope more shaking moves.

no hips should sway as so unless children in them grow.

out out out

up up up

in in in

chanting

motives; moans;

cries; screams;

unknown.

bring it out.

lake waters are not brick walls: they can be penetrated

so far to let all ones able to squirm.

you'll find me on an engine, revving,

setting up a game of backgammon while waiting outside your bedroom doors.

you always seem to forget about the die when you play;

and you never remember that it takes two, and player two

always gets to move. sometimes i suppose you keep rolling doubles.

i'll teach you Latin if you put the French aside.

all of the R's deep in the back of your throat have made you think

that bearing more into your lungs is alright. remember to protect your jaw.

Be

i've got a corner and a traffic light:

some money for milk and a note from my mom

saying i was sick.

i am twenty-one, i am capable of

simply live, i am able to

understand what it is

to be.

Untitled

i cut my hair

trimmed my beard

put on a belt and black leather shoes—

all to write a poem.

Little Monkey

for Israel

little monkey up and down,

tumbling

over and through until nighttime comes

and the jungle falls silent:

the hush over the trees crawls over

to the mountains, and you reach

up, using your thin fingers to keep

your grip. you hop on your mother's

back and ride up the trunks

until you see that nest of banana leaves:

your eyes are weary, little monkey,

and your mother knows the stars

will sing you to sleep. she puts you

down, your arms curled around

your torso, and the humidity

is the perfect blanket for you,

little monkey.

Asphalt Conversations

alone your eyes are not dim,

i don’t see the dreams of Cadillacs

or the rumors of boy-hopping

under your belt: i wait to see

a fall apart—together—a way to

blend here with now, there

with anything.

underneath it all i see darkness.

over it i feel convulsions in my elbows.

i am not alone. i am waiting for

a bottle of wine, a moment when

it is okay to pop the cork

and indulge; you say

there is no “wrong time”:

only every time (except now).

what remains when i hear stories

of mothers and siblings?

how about your father? who keeps

such late hours like you always do?

i remember all of these. i remember every

flick of your tongue into the air

more than i remember my own name.

SONNET: Anti-Ode to Jack Keroauc

drink the still. keep the oblivion

close, keep the matters of the matters

shaking like my fingers. i've skimmed the blood

and shaded the denial—silver, beaming.

take the pillars, take the beacons: make them

skip a beat like a hundred notions

over the hill and under the clouds.

days of sweat and vigor, weights of seventh chords

and staccato. i'm wailing, my head cranked up

as the coyote, the wild dog a-brewing

who bears his teeth and sinks them into

dry, chewy flesh. what goes up

must be my envy; what comes down must fall

into my drooling mouth.

Et Cetera Song

song: alternative/indie—key of ???

Stranded on the corner:

The consciousness is left behind

The motives of unbridled stares can hide

The depths of our ignition

Keeps the lighting red and bright

Carrying the flames of gold, justified

When the hands of time are swirling

The wonder's creeping up

Solutions come, solutions go . . .

Order of the moment and the wounds of this begin

The power of the grander makes me remember again

Balance is scripture

Chaos is rapture

Following the stammers breeds my sin

Papers on the carpet

Bleeding like an exit sign

I'll snap out the meaning on my hands

Psychotic keeps its distance

Mental gaps are left behind

Caring for the greatness can expand

When the tongues are all moving

The turmoil stakes an end

Excuses come, excuses go . . .

Order of the moment and the wounds of this begin

The power of the grander makes me remember again

Balance is scripture

Chaos is rapture

Following the stammers breeds my sin

The skins of drums are pulsing

The beats are ringing loud

Keep the rhythms up, keep them around

The passions take advantage

Of standing in the way

The voices and the borders walk in fear

Intimidation's calling

To the setting day

The knowledge of our blaming's drawing near

When distractions keep the safety

The glory holds us still

Persons come, persons go . . .

Order of the moment and the wounds of this begin

The power of the grander makes me remember again

Balance is scripture

Chaos is rapture

Following the stammers breeds my sin

Crush

I

one day—

a bolt

gleaming

about; the mood never seems

pure but

Christ

my hands

itch to run

over this

skin

II

the way my eyes

are thieves

is lovely:

they keep my fingers

at bay—

they are tethered,

bound by my gazes,

fantasies, thickness

III

thick

stretched

worn and constricting

does this mean pure?

does pure

mean pure?

IV

up & out, over

through—my eyes

are demons, running

through—

through and through

SONNET: Soothing

there's something soothing about letting your eyes

slowly creep closed. the way your eyebrows inch upward

to elongate your face, your lashes weigh tons

and the little crick in your neck begs to be soothed,

but time does not stop: your eyes cannot close

for the night is only half the day—the sun is not

the maker and i am nocturnal when i want to be.

but now my eyes are sagging, my mouth is dry

and the summer air through my fan pushes my hair about,

forces itself into my eyes and over my skin

like the touch of a lost kindred lover—i am alone

tonight but the breeze blows into my eyes

and i will have a good love-making with this woman

in my bed, known as sleep. she soothes me.

All in All

all in all these days are warm.

all in all the rain is soft, wet and stewing.

all in all the sky is clear and the moon is out, low.

all in all all in all is well.

Ma-Mas

Mamas come with me; give me

your silken hand, dark as mine

and we shall let our hair be

the tether to the Mayans that my mother

(your grandmother) spoke of:

we shall move through time,

the beacon of the development

of zero, the eyes the turn up

to the stars, looking to find our way

through the jungle.

Irish

if i had some Irish blood

i supposed i could understand

my temper:

how much i sweat

and how red my face gets

(if not covered by this unthick beard

(which would probably be red,

matterofact)

and caramel skin)

would make much more

sense, would be okay,

accepted, in fact,

so much so that i would simply be

the product of my father, my mother,

Benedict, and Guinness.

instead i am an enigma,

an anomaly,

someone who missed out

when the Latin ease was handed out:

i missed the last bottle of Corona

and instead had to drink whisky.

it angrers up my non-Irish blood

(i think i'm impure).

Body Bent at the Hips

i'm on the skids: i can see you backing away from me

awkwardly, your sandals scraping the brick path

and your body bent at the hips, that smile of yours

wide, waiting to fade when my sight evades your eyes.

i wasn't looking at your breasts—at least not this time around—

or your legs exposed and glistening in the June sun;

i kept my eyes up, into yours, even when they fell

when your body bent at the hips, those long arms of yours

covering your chest, your hands running up your neck

where you think i am looking—i swear to you

upon this evening setting sun that i was just listening

to the birds and the rustling of the trees and i was watching

your feet when they finally settled and stopped their clomping.

is there any other way that you can look at me?—i saw you

a thousand different ways, some needing your breasts

and your lips that coat your teeth pearl with moisture,

others seeing your voice resonate through the air

while your mind pulled away with your jet-setting tongue.

but i saw your body, bent at the hips

and i myself had to back away, stamping my feet on the red summer brick.

Honeymoon

hold my still: my fingers are thick and cunning

like the sly smile grinning upon your face. there’s a step

in the stairwell a little lower than the others

and i always forget to take an extra stride. i always

feel my teeth shrivel when i take a sip of my thick

coating ale, but i always feel my tongue moisten

and my gums dry up. i must stop sipping

but i cannot stop thinking: sipping is the only thing

that soothes.

Couplet

darling, my darling: how does your garden grow?

(for cultivation, this boy, the gardener, must know.)

Poema Pueri Tempidi [Part II]

II

i am unblind: for once now

the trees are green to me

and i am left pondering how

i felt them in the breeze.

how once did i walk

with my hair over my eyes?

how again did each growing stalk

elude my in my demise?

when i walked upon this ground

i left my ears so deaf and still,

i payed no mind to look around

and see the girls through window sills.

Poema Pueri Tempidi [Part I]

I

around the corner we shall come again

to watch the puddles crowd the streets

while we wait for summer rains to begin

to wash the dirt and oil from our feet:

my necktie tied too tight for my throat—

i gag and rub my neck to try and ease

the choking line, the ending coughing note

with which those bony fingers shall reprieve.

my shoes are shined, stomping wryly on the cracks

where grasses creep their way into the sky

and rest and wait to heal on soiled backs

as i dream to keep my hand between those thighs;

instead they rest within my pocket’s lining.

my jacket’s pressing up against my skin

and my hair is humid; it’s undenying

to wonder where the sweat flows on my skin.

the sun sits so pretty on the coastline of the land

and this table is set with such pristine:

a glass of wine engulfed inside your hand,

a porter sings a drunken song with me.

a light spring dress: a little late to have a go

but once again your legs startle even my bones.

we cut our steaks, the sizzling still so quiet,

reminding us that we are not alone—

this party hall, the place where men can meet

the women they seduce inside their heads

becomes the place where women feel discreet

as men imagine them fleeing from their crowded beds.

you and i, alone across the table still,

the chaffing from my collar my plunder,

i look around, stroke my face with stunning will

then keep my eyes awake, simply looking under

the table at the marks upon a treason:

stigmata on my hands to keep me alive

to taste persimmons out of season

which come about in blushing ocean tides

with cunning smiles: streaks across the room

that make my fingers curl and reap my flesh:

a chance to save myself from itching doom

and ease my muscles, smooth and stretched.

Conjunctus

I

this is not going to end well for anyone;

or this could end beautifully and i would never know.

when you keep your eyes on the peaks of glaciers

your feet always slide—when you look down you lose sight

of the apex. there’s only one thing that keeps me aching

for deepness and sea vents spewing hot air making a bath

from the darkest ocean depth; and i keep the sunlight on me

so the simplicity sears my skin, it keeps me jumping

and keeps me shaking rightly. only one man can save us

from the wretched finale that we oversee when our pencils snap

when we press too hard on cosine graphs—nothing really makes sense

to me at least unless it’s in a straight line across the page

and i can see a beginning and an end. when maggots are born

they eat away their homes, the keep gnawing until the breach

the gap between alive and dead: what most people call sleep.

i can feel birdsongs in the air and i must say they sound so full

of themselves—how they can echo, resonate through leaves

and over branches and i wish i could somehow sing so well

that it makes me purities sink to the bottom of a bucket

used to collect sap from the trees. i am thick somehow

with motor oil as i sip on plastic acid. watches are such lovely things

when they tick away to keep the sun in line with what our eyes

need from us, what they crave as the horizon becomes that shade

of deadly pink and when orange swirls melt above the ground,

onto the sidewalk, the beaten path of this wasteland still churning

below my feet when i walk through the terminals

made by hanging boughs and the greying sky. the earth collides

with the phases of the moon to make the rise and fall

of seamless tides—there is a mechanism behind it all:

there is someone turning a crank the keeps us up and down,

smooth as the day rises, falls, darkness becomes safe

like the warm coddling of my mother’s thin arms.

II

lest i forget: lest i keep the currents spinning as thermals above

carry it all upward—if i could see a mountain range i would look away

because snow is blinding when it’s off of your tongue

and the angels you make from it disappear every spring:

how droll that the season of life ends the immortals’.

i play backgammon like i have no control—one is one, one and one

is one, but two is four and i can’t manage all of this splitting, budding

that reminds me of coral reefs underneath tropical settings.

white keeps me standing as i am: black makes me move faster

like i have everywhere else to go, through i cannot see and i cannot be

ready, able, prepared, alive for the plight that i undertake with each

final flip, twist, and spin—i am no acrobat but i can sure swing, baby.

III

would you like a cup of tea for your throat? would you like

a shepherd to hook you by your neck and take you where

he wants you to go? would you want a harvest moon to make you harvest

when your knees can give out at any time? is it worth the sugar

and gluten to make yourself plump for a lost sake?

Quatrain

when tigers finally silence their roars
i will be born a little lamb: i will nurse this earth
for all its leaking foliage is worth
until my teeth form jagged muddy scores

Hotel II

you, dear, drained under scrutiny

until your muscles relax and leave your body

lifeless yet breathing will stay awake

only so long to see my clunky frame collapse

and roll over like a dog obedient—i give you something

still, beating like an infant's heart faster faster

quicker and quicker only pumping blood much thicker

and unpure. keep me as your hands resting.

SONNET: Kings

if there is a moment when kings fall i will reap their spoils.

i will be there with my knees upon the cobblestone waiting for coins

and trinkets, scepters they grasp with white knuckles until they hit the ground.

their silk robes—now tattered and caked with mud—will kiss my hands

as i seized them from their plump backs. the gems from their crowns are mine

when they skin their foreheads and let the ruby drip, brighter than the jewels

that adorn the tacky caps grazing their mortalized heads.

as they lie there i will climb upon their marble thrones and steal their beds,

wives and all, and i will speak of their nature as gaudy fools

who are the product of some unholy being's eternal patriarch design:

i will bound myself to the tops of concrete columns with leather bands

and wait ever-so-feverishly for the hooting calls and cheering sounds

of those below me with a deep-seeded burning tussling in their loins.

i will rise above these dreaded kings and slaughter their earthly toils.

Neon Signs and Grey Skies

if this air i breathe rushes breathed by all others
in this busy electric glow that makes us We
i will keep it neon: i will keep the sparks embeded
and sunken into the depths of my lungs
so long as my breath holds still. the groan of the current
is silver, seemingly planted into my ribs
where it takes root and blooms—it burrows through my chest
until my heart stops its infernal thumping. it is a plug
into the lightningsmooth crecent that drains my blood
and keeps me forever grounded—i feel no more pulsing.

Forget-Me-Nots

could you tell me why
i have never seen a bed
of forget-me-nots?

if there is a when
upon which our fingers
can mold than maybe i am just
clay
rather than flower pedals or buds;
maybe i can only lie
in a bed made out of my own
slick substance:
i can only sleep where i
can be—

stones
dirt
mud and crust:

i have no other places to lie
so my head i rest
dreaming of beds
of forget-me-nots

Eleanor

[for alp]

when all the children lie their heads down on their mother's breasts,
our daughter—a poinsettia potted in winter's heavenly glow—
shall have the deepest slumber: her plump face will trace the curves
of my love's pale breasts, milk streaming though which keeps my daughter full
with earthly spoils. she will purse her lips, thin and sickly, upon the rose pedal
upon which sticky nectar flows—her gums gnashing, gnawing,
taking in the softness through their moist smacking.
her caramel cheeks push against the whiteness of my love—
blending their tones to make a honey that my tongue
cannot deny nor disgrace: i wish to tear them to grab them with my teeth
and let my mouth linger on the softest forehead and the most darling breast--
i hunger only for slick untainted flesh—a dichotomy of sweetness.

The Red Brick

the red brick

crisp

hushed

dances like the shadows

from the maple trees

in the wind

crisp

hushed

Short Poem

hear the creaks of my joints outweigh the sirens,

the puttering engines singing Detroit spirituals,

and the faces on the sidewalks—

each crack a wincing eye while my feet pound upon,

booming like my aching knees

Andromeda

i saw Andromeda as i turned my head skyward

and i grazed her open thighs with my pupils wide

like the crinkles in my lips that wet looking at

the milky swirls around me from her supple breasts—

dripping in the birth of her daughter, now a black hole

from which blood cannot escape. the specks dote on my face as the clouds

part, and her hips lie still in waiting,

her knees rest on the ecliptic that traces the dirt

on their caps. i saw Andromeda twisting about to the hum of white dwarves

and the melody from the quasars as they radiate absurdities

through her darkened skin—she bathes her bruises

in celestial dust, soothing themselves from the burns

of the red giants; their murmurs are bold, deep,

undertaking the solar winds—burying them in particles.

i saw Andromeda, chained to the rock

by the celestial seas, leaving her hands still and bound with chains,

rusted, burned-out like the future sun; they are worn from the mist

of a thousand stars, solar systems where indeed stellar dust form the sands

that coat her pale feet, worn from treading upon the earth with undoubted purpose—

this day is hers, as she stands weeping for more, more from the foam

that kisses her face, more from the hero who claims her womanhood

whose body and muscles ripple beside her in the sky. i saw Andromeda

stern as her empire crumbled while her feet twisted

below the rising tides: her monstrous streaks of her morphing hair

rise like autumn wheat and fall like a meteorite finally landing

upon the hollowed ground; her sweat gleams upon her ripened face

when the clouds come to cover my view—her eyes whirling about

in a daze of humid emptiness, something cold yet burning like hellfire

from the Sun again, rising to take her from my sights

and bury her again below the still horizon.

Bloody Sunday

i am alive, standing up with my chin out,

my jaw rock-hard and syncing with the crags

and their creases—today is still just motion

where i bear the fissures of the earth like a bottle cap,

rigid and slick beyond the grace and stillness

of gravity's pull. i am pregnant

with boisterous vigor and the pound-for-pound trend

from indignity: there is only one silver screen where i can show the scales

of my upwardly rigor; proteted from inspections of the divine

and simply left unedited.

i am the box cutter, dulled, that formally broke someone's skin

after swipe-swipe-swipe, digging a trench to keep

the outlandish bound from forcing through

into death. i am a gallon bucket of menstrual blood.

i am doomed to live with an elastic wristband

that pinches my flesh but i endure just to have

at least a tricking from you there, near my pulse.

A RESPONSE

we are not a couplet:

i am a single entity, enjambed against space

and time—i am one and you are one

but one and one is not two—

one and one is one: one and one is i and I;

one and one is you and You; one and one is we

made beyond a memory: i remember being one

as one with you and frightened of being one as one

as i without I—the you.

one is we and i wish for one.

we are a villanelle, a sonnet, an epic, really;

a screenplay, a one-act play or even

a sermon; you are not dead because we have not closed the curtain:

at least i am pulling to keep it open,

but i might be pulling so hard that the rope will snap.

A RESPONSE

this was unreal—not a statement
for the few among us two who cannot take
a metaphor and run with it:
if you and i slipped apart then you would be

unalive—at least with me. if we were to drift
like iceflows from one another i would think myself nothing
in whatever form of heaven you have planted
from Burning Joan of Arc.

you were once ready for it and i was once asleep,
waiting to see if your poems were in fact
too personal—it was something i wished false
i wished dead itself because being alone in your bed

is alright; but not knowing if that would be
forever true is murder—suicide really.
i know not these boys
under which you fell

but i know the plight of wishing to sleep
warmed by your nakedness and i thought you
would be that pillow where i could rest
my head—i was king of something and you

we(a)re a queen and that something was
death—we were bound to that, we simply did not know
when it would be. but you made a poem
and i may have cried.

i still do. remember that. i never wish
to write a poem about yours—
i am the first among us doomed,
remember?—

now more than ever, i suppose.

Something 18

your death was supposed to be a clean slate:

a chance for me to drain the marrow from my hollowed bones

and chase the infestation of gnats from my garbage can—

a chance for rain water to clear the oil from the streets

in a swirling gasoline rainbow, slick and undressed.

it was supposed to be erosion, peeling the carved letters

from a sandstone gravestone where mud and earth left insignias

of their own—blue bonnets around covering whatever was left of the years

as the ground bubbled up.

your death—quick, unknowing and enthralling, really—was supposed to be

a drug or a drink to keep the mind slow so that the dangers of sulking

were brought out on an earthen platter for the world

to gorge upon; a way for all the men you have loved and lost to raise a glass

up to your name, your lips and sex and remember the good times

when you seemed so alive under our motioning hips.

your death was a dream, a nightmare interrupted in nightsweats

and a bang of the heater in the room, whirring loudly unlike your final breaths—

solemn, unheard as you gasped and spoke that name you knew only for a brief time

in your once-tense body—but those gasps were nothing final,

nothing but a laugh-riot chased away at the hand with an American Spirt Light

encased in its fingers: the smoke will kill you

before your death ever would.

your death was supposed to be a poem, a moment and not a thing

that you yourself would draw out like a scatter plot

a line or even a line segment: it was supposed to be a point for you

and a race to infinity for me and my poems:

instead you're alive

and if not for your poems i would think you were dead

like you said you were supposed to be.

HAIKU

you by the river

scribbling the angst and wonder:

Christ i miss those hands

Untitled

wait! the beat from the fan

is cold: the dead air coming from

the vents as the summer heat filters in

the fluorescent barrage frightens those

who have yet to see the stage before them—

those who keep their blankets over their heads

until mommy says it's okay to look.

they don't understand, the will never

understand; skip the lesson and

let's keep this kosher.

Ford Freestyle—22 May 2010

here, bound

a step over

our bed, the day

gone but the night

o so kept, held by

knuckles, running through

our palms like blood

when you pick up

the broken glass

of our love—

headlights keep the sun

at bay, far from

the squeak from leather

seats, the rockabye motions:

seasickness from the suspension springs

with your back pressed

up

against the window; the moon

is full and so are

the stitches.

Morning Jog

i will tear the fire down 'round the swells

of the summer thermals; the grass will be my kindle

and my feet flint and steel—i blaze a trail as i dart

through the fields: a string of Christmas lights

on a moist, green tree.

Drive

a song—Folk/Alternative—key of ???

There's a house by the sea
Where a woman is waiting for me—
She is tall, firm and dark,
Boldly and willingly stark
She is so bright
When she moves through the night

In the car, I drive home
To the sounds of the roaring sea foam
Far 'way from tumble weeds
Sprouting from tomato seeds
They have died
In the wake of the tides

Now she waits by the door
With her sand as her floor
And she hardens the air in her lungs
While I'm driving by
There's a root in my eye
Where the ocean's entirty's hung

In the road there's a tree
The points out the way to the sea
Branches long, fruit is sour
Just like my girl's lovely hour
When she is mine—
The darkly divine

Now she waits by the door
With her sand as her floor
And she hardens the air in her lungs
While I'm driving by
There's a root in my eye
Where the ocean's entirty's hung
So I sit in my car
Driving in from afar
And I wonder what she wants from me
But the road it is long
And the sea's stunning song
Is holding my mind as unfree

Untitled

when coffee is your blood there is just so much
to pump through your body—your heart filters out
the lonely grains and keeps them from bittering
the crimson through stainless still paper filters.

Splitting Space-Time

the birds wind upward until the wrinkles in the sky

follow through your fingers' tracing—your finger nails slice the air

open, the clouds drip out like lemon juice wrenched

from the rind. i can reach up, stretch my neck toward Saturn

to taste the liquid that makes my lips pucker, your sour mash

that burns the fingernail you cut too close to your cuticle.

there's something rough about the Milky Way,

the way it swirls about—a saw blade, tearing the universe

in half, splitting space-time until a wormhole forms

and all the lifeless matter finds itself anew scattered across the stars—

even i was sucked in, my tongue wincing from citrus

here on earth: the state in which i took a good sharp paring knife

and made a white red giant give its final kiss goodnight.

there are no birds in space: there is nothing there;

no up for them to travel, and a wormhole is not what they have

here on Earth—they would fly upward

until they saw the earth again from the bottom

and fly upward again, like a film reel clicking before the cellulose rips

to show only the white light behind—the poor birds would never find

the white light from Heaven of any kind: they would keep moving

past the earth until their wings withered and they died

because there are no worms—early or otherwise—in the great beyond.

there are no fruit trees: no place for them to nest

or for me to find a sting for the tip of my tongue,

to make my lips crinkle. space is nothing but big

and big is only so frightening when it is the void that comes

with speaking love on the telephone.

Up

a song—Shoegaze/Ambient—key of D Major

the Milky Way is calling to us in the car

Saturn's rings are falling—crashing through the stars

if you were a Pisces, i would swim upstream

to the earthen chimneys where the smoke can scream

up up

thunderbirds are roaring—flying overhead

we are merely soaring, landing on our bed

and we look up up up onto the violet sun

then we get stuck stuck stuck on where this night's begun

now we are searing, lost among the streaming sky

we're floating nowhere, waiting for our sights to die

the ocean's melting, butter-smooth and ill

the water's pelting on our open window sill

if you were a Pisces, i would catch you now

over the high seas—i will show you how

up up

and we look up up up onto the violet sun

then we get stuck stuck stuck on where this night's begun

now we are searing, lost among the streaming sky

we're floating nowhere, waiting for our sights to die