Krazy Kat Poem

i’ll never be

your Ignantz:

i want yo be your

Krazy.

i want to feel

the roughness of

a mortar brick

booming

upon my pretty

(empty)

head.

i want to watch

you tie yourself

to a big red balloon

and float beyond

the cacti,

up beyond the redwoods

and over giraffes’ heads.

i want to watch you

fall to the earth

as i

leap out

to catch you

only to plant

a little kiss

upon your cheek

meh dahlink.

Blue Thunder (or something predictable like that)

there’s a reckoning in my marrow, i reckon

like the way the night creeps upon my forehead,

i on my bicycle, greeting bumps

with my front tire, breathing to the rhythm

of my clicking chain down a hill

where the wind and i are brothers

barreling toward desire—i am the younger

of us; he holds me still from the traffic

and the low branches which i cannot seek

for any good reason other than nature’s whim

upon my destruction.

under my bones, under my sinking

there are almonds ready to split

and feed the village i whizz by

on my aluminum chariot:

there is no fire here

only the swiftness of a thousand tiny birds

inclining to climb higher and swoop down

to catch their morning worms

as i wish to catch the cracks in Ann Arbor’s walkways.

i outrun the storm—i become the storm

as my legs pump up like lightning

and my breath pants and roars like thunder:

God himself could not make such a fine apocalypse

like how i’ve destroyed the pebbles in my path.

i shall give her a name.

SONNET: Finale

let us walk into the chaos that is

this August day: the finale marked with egg-frying

sidewalk heat. as the boys and girls return

to see their Holy Land desolate—

to see the columns by the wayside—

they sit down, let the sweat fall from their brows

and watch it dissipate in the moist air.

it’s the season of change; of removal;

of taking the old and melting it away

into conclusions, realities,

all senses of being; when the mind stands still

through the tired body’s burning untrainquil

happenings. this is the season where

the sky and the earth make love.

SONNET: Sparrows

as sparrows’ wings flutter

they blow the humid air

into the Earth:

it breathes deeply,

sending its undying bliss

into the atmosphere

and above the stars,

above the little sparrows’ heads.

they point their eyes

to God and Jesus almighty

who look down on them

with gleeful satisfaction:

their creations nesting

in the endless clouds.

Lake Pickerel

i went somewhere that America's hand had not touched—

where wires were nowhere to be found

and radio waves fell short of the horizon in the dimming distance:

where screens went black and telephones' rings faded off

into the night sky.

i went somewhere where Perseus watched over us

while Andromeda undressed (for no one was around)

while her mother sat twisted and abhorred us

because we were free to move and shift our bodies

in the lakewaters below.

i went somewhere that quenched my tired soul

and fed my skin's parched desires with a spring that flowed below my feet:

the currents swept up my hair and let the crisp waters wash away oils

from my scalp: the animals will drink from this lake

and know one of them was about, the scent is near.

i went somewhere where i could submerge my face

to baptize myself in the eyes of Nature: the trees made up a cathedral

and the Moon was my Father: each little pine needle a parishioner,

the leaves alter boys who swept wherever the Bishop Wind instructed them

to go.

i went somewhere were the highways were smooth and lingered

with the stench of murk and skunk; where the trip under the night sky

left my limbs leery but my eyes just so alive.

eternal nightswimming under the stars with deepness in tow

is forever a wonder for the disenchanted soul.

Friday the 13th

the steps are blind and the room is spinning like a dead-weight

on a chain around a man's bulging neck—tonight is the night when black cats

and walking under ladders make nothing worse, only slightly better

because the blind can only lead themselves so far.

i'd rather be dead than dumb: i'd rather be dying than alone.

it's all my curse, my separation from God and the Virgin Mary

all because i mixed holy water in my martini

and lit my cigarette with a sacramental candle.

Muses

I

here lies Navarro: the one the Muses forgot

when molding this steep summer's day

from the sunlight on God's own hands.

II

i was trapped by the shadows of the trees in the walkway.

the mulberry bushes were my shackles which bound me

to the Divine's tampered will—swiftly they leapt

and softly they sang around my tired restrained body;

i became their playthings as they kept this poet's hand from scribbling upon scrolls with a quill or charcoal

or even his own unholy blood. i was left there to consider

my trespasses.

III

they left me out in the street while they bathed in the Tiber:

they saw their lover Virgil and lied with him

beneath a pomegranate tree—he licked his lips

and reached up, plucked a morsel for his wetting mouth.

nine little morsels met him there and licked their lips

of his warm juices and he called to me,

asking me if there was no greater pleasure

than agony.

IV

they returned their robes over their shoulders,

covering their pale supple breasts and hearty thighs

as Virgil lay sleeping. they returned to me and moved their hands

through the air near my skin: temptation is my penance, it seems:

the art of deprivation while the poet stands, wanting to touch,

to feel, to kiss them. i pursed my lips but the shortest one

waved her finger at me, told me that this was supposed to be

agony: no lips would be involved.

V

hours passed: seemingly days

and the girls kept dancing, waving their hands about me,

licking their lips and rubbing their boney hands

over their cavernous curves. every time the crow cawed

they would return to the tree, wake the sleeping Virgil

and lie with him again. he would look at me chained by branches

to laugh at my misery. i wept with every moan

and cringed with every touch. whenever they would kiss

the Poet’s lips, they would look at me and smile.

VI

i now lie asleep on the sidewalk, the sun beaming down

warming my skin and opening my eyes

from the brightness. i rolled over, felt my hands move freely

and my legs squirm. i leapt up, felt my feet fall firmly on the ground;

i ran and ran and ran until i stumbled upon the church.

VII

outside St. Thomas i sat and lit my cigarette.

the wine had ventured from my blood and my head sit surreally

upon my shoulders. the bells rang above me

and mothers led their children in, hiding their eyes

from my smoke and tired hands. i looked down upon my wrists

and saw no marks: no signs of my shackle vines,

no pomegranate trees in sight. i looked up and around,

heard the arhythmic church bell’s ring

and waited for the families to rush inside. i drove my cigarette into the step

and began to write on the stone with the decaying ashes:

VIII

here lies Navarro: the one the Muses forgot

when molding this steep summer's day

from the sunlight on God's own hands.

Balloons

my hands were tied to two invisible balloons

and floated up over this mild breeze where the hush of your voice

whispered.

the day gone, the night retrieved from the story

jetting from my tongue, one i'm sure that made you glad

you cut the strings when you did.

Fashion Model

don't tug on your sweater.

don't let the taste of your bosom fall short
of tender lips; don't let the inclination
of a startled mind keep you awake.

the elastic sheath in which you parade
is uncanny. the way your hips form
a dire canyon makes my fingers move

over walls, bottles, glass boxes makes me tired
and weary—makes me breathe softly
under your breath; under mine.

Alive and Well 2010

a black moon on a whitened sky
means the ending of the age
when the world is one with all.

how and when the motion of galaxies
sound like a lullaby for the people of this planet
it is understood.

a star, a black hole
or anything with a hushed noise
makes my lips quiver.

a date, a time, a kiss lost
makes my heart ache for simplicity;
for aliveness

like the stars—alive and swimming.

Out of the Cracks

you can't peel her off the sidewalk.

she sticks to it as if her blood pumps right through it,

her veins are onions bulbs penetrating deeply in the concrete

—nothing can pry her out; you can't pick her

eat her or even taste her: she'll just hold on tight

and prick you with her fleshy thorns.

she clops along as a camel in the deserted city:

there's a time and a place for it all and her time is now.

her hands are still leaves in the Indian summer

as if glued to the boughs that are her arms.

she does not rot: she ferments like California wine—

she's Nappa's daughter, with a smokiness and a good bite

(more like a beer than a stiff Chardonnay).

i got too drunk from her fruit

and too full from her bulbs.

a girl whom i gleefully kissed dearly held her place

a girl whom i gleefully kissed dearly held her place

on the stem of a violet. once more she bloomed more up

than up can call (down left her away from entirety

while still kept her fingers gripping the pine tree

where a white dress had fallen). when she concentrates

she sees a sugar cane and reaches out to taste

ungranules with her dripping tongue. the earth pours her wanderlust

into a barrel and lets it age to gain some body.

the roots below the earth’s surface wish to drink

as i wish to take my lips and gleefully kiss dearly.

The Hush of the Sidewalk in August

I

Lesbia will ride again

upon the pulsing stallion she rode in on:

her mercury boiled up as each hoof

beat the ground in succession.

she held up a glass of wine

and dug herself a grave with her painted finger,

watch her father’s heart burst while he slept

everso soundly.

II

the stars are convex and the moon is on the plain.

when the plots collide with one another

constellations form, telling stories

and making up stories and writing love notes

above the horizon, above our heads

where the wine spilt in the soil bathes us

in this fresh grave. there are hoof prints

around the edge and the dogs are sniffing in the night.

III

it’s Sunday morning. the churchbells are ringing.

simplicity is our morning light, our hangover

from the bloody wine we sipped sitting in a plot

of moved earth.

the stone is timid, minimal

with only a few numbers and letters

and a little poem etched its side.

it took a lifetime to write—all twenty-one years.

Blackbird

i’ve got a blackbird in my pocket; he flocked to me

looking for a bite, looking for a bath and something to clear his throat,

parched from calling all night long into the shadows

about the city. the tilt of my sword lies sideways

as he rests his head upon the handle. there’s a kaleidoscope in his eyes

the shifts and shapes the light, the colors into darkness

from about my thigh. i’ve got a blackbird in my pocket

and a handful of feathers in my palm, dark as the soiled night.

Noctis

the clock shifts and time crashes into molten wax

from dwindling candles.

there's a sign on the sidewalk saying Last Call

as the wind picks up, rushing us back to our homes

to say goodnight in that starry night. i pour myself another glass of wine

and point it out to the man, telling him that if all were all okay

this would be milk from my mother's breasts;

this would be milk from her breasts if i could at all

decimate the walls and fences covered with grape vines.

For Coe

when convictions come to pass,

G-d knows letter floats above numbers.

an equal sign is not is: it’s not isn’t

but it is not is.

a plus sign is not the same

as and: and is a is the root that holds

a blade of grass in the soil while equals

makes things on the level.

a sine curve is not the breaking wave

of the ocean as the wind whips about it,

turning it, churning it solely so the crest

can find its place on a plot.

my death will be more than minus.

Siddhartha

keep the blood motives still—keep the dreadful mosaic open

for the masses to find some nirvana as they rake stones

from the base of the tree. i wandered with Siddhartha

and ate the same undercooked fish from the Ganges

where the dead lay—now us. as the heat came down my bare feet

wandered into the temple where i sat motionless for days

with my mother above me, rosary in hand, saying the only part of the prayer

she can remember in Spanish; your mother sat above you

with her stones in one hand and the Bible in the other,

switching from Korean to her soiled tongue. days and days

we abstained from the all to spoiled flesh and bone,

the wine we hid under the rug and the cigarettes in your bag

because we all know the clouding of the mind is something even our mothers

know hinders enlightenment or a round-trip to Heaven and back.

at thirteen i thought i would return to Earth a specter, something to offer

light to the dampened life of a twelve-year-old boy whose eyes look mysteriously

like mine. at sixteen i was convinced i could be a falcon or a rabbit

or maybe a woman if i really wanted to be: someone pretty so that the boys

would wish to never abstain like i would—Noble Truth 2: Suffering is Caused by Desire

and i wanted to be their suffering. but now when the glitch in the earth cracks open

so that i fall in, i can't see myself in the forest or in the street corner.

Noble Truth 1: Life is Suffering. i wanted to be life in that ifsofactso manner

but now to be the death of those desiring would be something more lustful

and sweet: i want blood to drip from my mouth like the sour juice from a pomegranate.

Noble Truth 3: It is Possible to Relieve Suffering in One's Life.

this does not bode well for the man sitting cross-legged next to you

while chants ring throughout the temple; while that putrid fish makes its way

through my belly and my blood; while the sick fuck aching from my hips sways

back in forth in front of you like a piece of raw beef in front of a starving dog—

though i know you don't starve: you are quite full so much that you can't eat another bite

(gluttony is frowned upon in this temple, but you had your fill before you left the rest

for the vultures). Noble Truth 4: The Way to Relieve Suffering is by Following

the Noble Eightfold Path. sadly i live my life in fours, and eight is too much for me—

gluttonous even. so while you consider chopping the hair off your head

i'll let mine grow. while you trim your finger nails to keep the boys at bay

i'll throw a coat of paint on mine to be a suffering. i'll trek with Siddhartha

and leave Jesus in the dust. we'll wait to see where you end up: to see if you'll stick with Gautama

or instead fuck him—remember the Precept of Misconduct: remember the Precept Against Killing.

remember that so you don't leave him dead: i'll be the one on my knees keeping him and you cozy.

Mementos

as thy lips become mere mementos for the dreary boys

the tangles in thy hair become riddles insolvable

by their doting fingers;

by their restatutions made by the hopeful stares

into thy eyes. about when the sun settles in its place

thy skin will become the zenith upon which their glares

settle, where they allows thy paleness to bathe

in their troubled misery. thy feet come leaping

over their dire lappings and into puddles

where once again thy legs clench from the chill

of the still water and their forever moving hands.

SONNET: someone i have never knowingly kissed

someone i have never knowingly kissed
has a smoother tongue than i; has a taller steeple
upon his behemoth of a cathedral;
has a birthday which no mother has missed
because her son is so grand. he reaches deeply into his
pocket and pulls out a dime
so that her teeth can reach for another glass of wine:
an indignation of a tombstone made of pearly glitz.

someone i have never willingly kissed shall meet
my tempers in a churchyard—a waking dawn
which evaporates the holy water from the lawn
and rains upon him to wash his muddy feet.

someone i have never knowingly kissed has left me dead
with a crown of forgotten kisses upon my head.

when my stature falls from the grander of this Earth,

when my stature falls from the grander of this Earth,

i pray the willow trees not weep for me:

i pray the lilacs bloom swiftly from the soil warmed

by the intrepid sun and do not delay the simple violet buds

from protruding the summer sky in all of its glory.

when and if my feet slip from the dirty ground

i shall watch the faces of the children in the garden

to see their smiles on last time like a face

drawn on a red balloon floating upward over the horizon

where it floats down and nestles itself upon a branch

to give birth to thousands of tiny raindrops which come

and wash the dirt of the children’s sleepy faces:

again my falling body shall nestle in the mud and breathe

its sticky haze on final time—one final sip of sparkling

bubbly winter wine. when my legs break at points

as they crush the grass below i shall give my thanks

to the lushness that cushions my decent: the green

that stains my knees as proof that the soft Earth

does hold me true until that final gaping collapse

where my legs are pricked and poked by stiff blades

erupting from the soil—my blood flow not

from brutal strikes but from gentle doting hedges

who wish nothing more than to return my blood

to the parched earth. when my hands return to the shaking

shivering state in which i was born, my mother will hold them

shrieking, kissing it and raising it to God for one final

pulse from my everstill heart, one final jolt from my lungs

so i may repent my sins—so i may be a darling martyr for her

to hang from the oak tree in her front yard; to be the false idol

she lay her sweet unmoving eyes upon; so she may bathe me

one last time before i am covered in pale moist earth.

when my lips kiss the dreadful concrete where i know i’ll lay still

my father will know his name is dead—know that any platform

on which he and i would become a singular duality

shakes so hard when my bones rattle on the ground.

if and when i see my own body floating up and out

from the Earth i will kiss it on its tired forehead, giving it

subtlety as its parting gift—a way for the complex thinkings

of that last fathom: what i pray my mouth exhales

when i take that last scrumptious breath.

Yellow Card

my mouth tastes the salinic teardrops

from your brutal mouth: the way your teeth

sink deeply into the sourness of my sex—

here's the light that Christ and Buddha both lit

the specks of sweat in your hair, the moonlight takes it in

so the Man on the Moon can have a drink

with his dinner. we are his entertainment,

as he watches your body thrash into mine

and watch my limp frame simply lay.

remember the simplicity of my affection:

remember the deadly wounds left by the blade

of your sharp tongue. let the marriage of our figures

replace that which you have left soiled

like the way you left my sheets in the dark of night.

Ludington

my mother's on her way to her holy land
across the mighty Kalamazoo and through the smog
from the passing semitrucks which my nephews

beg to hear their blaring mating calls—

my mother hauls these three boys across
the hand of God so she can purify their still ivory souls
in the timely crisp lake waters, diverging their eyes

from pale girls strewn across television screens.

she bought herself a baptism dress with a dime she saved
at the supermarket as she bought Granny Smiths
to make the boys' lips pucker from tartness

as she prays their lips do when falling on marble.

she wants the angels and saints to meet her
in Galilee to watch the boys' accent to the darkened clouds
by way of virginal angels who grab these three youngsters

and flies them over the adobe huts and cacti.

my mother's on her way to her holy land
where she will build a cathedral from sand and clay
and marry my little nephews off to angels

dancing to mariachi.

Found a Way

i found the way to make the spirals bigger

when the culprit of inception makes his rounds

from the banjo player's smiles off to the farmgirls

reading the Bible to their boyfriends into the telephones.

Ode to My Old Apartment

the familiar must from the decade-old carpet

is overcome by the putridness of lusting

now in this eastern corner of my bedroom

where three colors blended all under a light

to form a healthy shade of flesh. this was

where elephants roamed and corks were popped

before all that in feeling came about

like a rabid dog facing off against rabbits in the garden:

the tomato vines grew and grew until they became black

in silence—the way the game is played.

Lights, Sounds, and Resurrection

a song—folk—key of Am

she asked the crows by the garbage can

to light her cigarette

she saw the way that the clouds came in

and didn't want to get wet

when the pick up came, they flew away

and she hurried up inside

when she saw the raindrops, moist and grey,

she begged him for a ride

and now she waits in the passenger seat for direction:

a light or a sound, or a resurrection

but no one knows just why

she's got that serpent in her eye

but she'd rather be out in the pouring rain

with no car and no train, and no sun to claim

she just wants to be left alone

and find her own way home

she digs around her purse for a coin

to pay the man his dues

he doesn't make a lot of noise

but he asks about the news

the flood is coming around the bend

but the tires hold them back

there's a hole in the ground where the water ends

up flooding the sidewalk's cracks

and now she waits in the passenger seat for direction:

a light or a sound, or a resurrection

but no one knows just why

she's got that serpent in her eye

but she'd rather be out in the pouring rain

with no car and no train, and no sun to claim

she just wants to be left alone

and find her own way home

she steps out of the pick-up truck

and thanks the man again

he watches her foot steps, he's out of luck

to ask for another chance

a bird is outside with a match and a light

for her lonely cigarette

she lights it up and she walks inside

to spend her night in bed

and now she waits in the passenger seat for direction:

a light or a sound, or a resurrection

but no one knows just why

she's got that serpent in her eye

but she'd rather be out in the pouring rain

with no car and no train, and no sun to claim

she just wants to be left alone

and find her own way home

A DREAM: 7:06am

Edward had no reason to be afraid.

She said she would be there ten minutes ago; but—per usual—she had no sense of time. She was always worried about years rather than minutes, and Edward always wanted to remind her that minutes add up to years. But she wouldn’t listen, so he stood out in front of his car, parked on the nearly-deserted downtown street. The sky was grey, the breeze from the lake filled his bones with chill, but he maintained that he wear his thin black sweater with the grey slacks because he was convinced that his scrawny frame looked best in them.

He stood outside of his Ford waiting for her to approach. He knew where she was, where she would be coming from, but he continuously looked in various directions about the sidewalk to see if she would change things up, like she always did. He considered climbing back into the car to warm up and maybe listen to some music to help pass the time, but his legs were already cramped from the four-hour non-stop drive and there is only so much Joy Division that one man can take while at the wheel.

He didn’t realize how eager he looked until an older woman carrying a grocery bag glared at him as she walked by. He nodded at her before she could say anything and she carried on, her eyes wide and unforgiving. He rubbed his dry, cracked hands together for warmth. He thought he knew where she was. He knew it wasn’t but a block or two, if he remembered correctly. After all, he had only been to this city twice in recent memory, but he purposely parked in the same spot he always did so he could have something resembling bearings. He decided to brave the concrete and walk around.

Edward pulled out the keys and locked the door to the Ford (careful to check the handle because his two-days worth of luggage sat in the back seat) and trekked toward a set of somewhat familiar-looking building—a pub that they drank at together, watching a middle-aged band play Tom Petty covers while equally-middle-aged drunks danced about, reminding them both of their parents. He wished he could remember that night fully.

Things became more and more familiar as he walked about, although he wished he had an address or something to use as a reference. He kept going for another block and turned to find a group of teenagers walking and holding skateboards. They looked at him and he looked back, wondering how on Earth they could skate in such dreary weather. He looked above their heads to see a few flurries fall past their faces. He continued to hope that he was walking in the right direction.

Up the street a little ways he saw the blue Victorian house with the white trim and the porch swing. The odd thing was that the door was wide open. If there was one thing that he knew about Leah it was that she hated the cold—a shame for a girl who spent her formative years in this northern lakeside town. He carefully walked up the porch steps, peering into the window to try and catch a glimpse of her. There were no cars in the driveway, but he could see the shifting light of the television screen from inside the front bay window. These old houses frightened him a little, mostly because he felt so unprivileged setting foot in one because of his ranch-style rural upbringing.

He stepped into the doorway and knocked softly to announce to anyone in the front room that he was there.

“Hello?” he half-yelled, careful not to startle anyone who may still be in the vicinity of the door. He then heard the bang of her winter shoes coming down the oak stairs in front of the door. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

Leah stood there, dressed in a flowered knee-length skirt, a blue blouse, stockings, and a black cardigan. Her hair was darker than her remembered (she was a notorious dyer), but it highlighted her milky pale complexion well. She stood there, her hands on her full hips and finally took the last step, her black shoes creating a booming echo throughout the front room. She smiled with her childlike grin and he couldn’t wipe his off of his face.

“Hi!” she said.

“Hey.”

“When did you get into town?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” he responded. “I parked about two blocks away.”

She grabbed his arm with her thin, soft hand. “You weren’t waiting too long, were you?”

He shrugged. “No, it’s fine. I guess I got in earlier than I expected.”

“Alright. Come on in.”

“Thanks.”

She led Edward into the living room where the television showed House Hunters: International, a show he was not particularly fond of. She plopped down on the white sofa as he noticed a gleam on her breasts. He looked at the gold name tag pinned on her sweater.

“Just get out of work?” he asked.

She looked down, slightly embarrassed.

“Oh yeah!” she giggled. “I forgot about this!” She reached up and took off the gleaming tag and set it on the coffee table to her left. “Come sit!”

He nodded and sat down on the couch, maintaining his distance from her. She looked at him with her shining blue eyes and she buried her head into his chest. He slouched in the sofa, and she grabbed his hand and put it around her shoulders. He secretly sniffed her hair.

“I like your new color.”

“I’ve missed you, Edward,” she sighed.

“I’ve missed you too.”

She weaved her thin fingers into his dry hands.

“I can’t kiss you, you know.”

She grinned. “I know. Michael wouldn’t like that so much.”

“I want to.”

“I know. Me too.”

He picked up his chin and began to kiss her forehead like he used to all those months ago, before the snow and before the long drives, before the city when they were together, before Michael, before they fell apart and he clanged to her and her memory in his head every day, with every message and phone call asking him to please just be her friend even though he knew he couldn’t. He picked up his chin and puckered his lips. His dry quivering lips barely graced that holy spot on the side of her forehead.

He woke up, this time not in shock or disgust—his eyes merely opened.

He looked toward the wall then rolled over to look at the clock on his nightstand. 7:06. This was the latest he had slept after thinking about her. This time was different: he actually dreamt about her.

He had not dreamt about her since the day she left. He knew it was all a dream: the hair (hers was lighter than ever now); the house (she lived off in the suburbs in model-type home); Michael (the man she was with now went by a different name).

He waited for that sinking feeling that he usually felt when he thought about her, but it never came.

He grinned a little bit, knowing that his dreams were a place where it could all be okay. Then he realized that the dream was probably the closest he would ever get to kissing her again.

Although he was sure that he wouldn’t be able to, he closed his eyes and fell right back to sleep. He thought his body would be able to help him get back into that glorious state again where he could hold her hand again and maybe even touch her lips with his.

Pessuli, Ejus Pessuli

this is my call to arms: my bellyaching to the moon

to draw up her smokestack swords in the sunset

and hear the wind kiss her thigh. the skirt she bought

in Paris blended with the sky while the breeze

blew over the rooftops. we climbed onto the ledge

and i thought my head would become Newton's apple

on the steps below: my mind was spinning

as my finger pressed firmly against her skin

to silence any notions of her nonsense. the crickets gave

a song from their loins that our ears drank in

like the waining gibbous drank in its own moonlight.

i can smell the elements around me, aboard the construction equipment

readying to tear down unsightly trees. she asked

if i would read minds if i could but i only saw

four stars in the sky and thought how much

i would rather read those instead—their patterns

match those of the mist made by the lawn sprinklers

as it dances in the streetlights' glow. now is the inclination

of her hips' swagger, the oscillation of the concrete bench

where laughter keeps the urge to kiss at bay.

A Cup of Tea

i'll fall down upon this tattered bed

and let your hands slip over mine,

let them clench and clench until blood

drips from my palms that you can lap up

with your whip of a tongue. your hips lock

onto mine while i weep something harsh,

all the flavors of my boyhood stinging

like my tears, and you slurp them up,

the way your hips drink up my pleasures.

Red Wine

a song—folk—key of G#

here's the wine with his name

here's the dime for his carnival games

that i found on the pier

while the carousel's song is near

all the horses are white

all the poles are golden bright

now i think of the time

we drank so much communion wine

it's that time of night

here's the pond, Mary Jane

where the frogs and ducks lay their eggs

and we brought ourselves here

to keep up on drinking our fear

in the form of Merlot

but we have no idea where to go

water's still, grass is firm

but the wine is beginning to burn

it's that time of night

one more time, we will drink

and we'll wonder what our mothers think

when we end up asleep

within one another's bed sheets

covered in red Merlot

in the morning, we've no place to go

not a glass to our names

so good day, my sweet Mary Jane

it's that time of night

HAIKU: Parking Lot

there's danger in this

parking lot: where the caverns

gobble up our feet.

Buried in April

a song—folk—key of F

we don't need the birds

to make restitutions

all we need are words

to ease our confusions

i should have given you

the ring that i made of hemp

held on with violet blooms

i picked from behind the shed

it's plain to see

what the summer has done to me

and you, the girl,

buried back in April

walls behind the church

where saints make their gravestones

covered with jumbled words

hidden in robin's winter tones

we left after we drank

the wine from the cellar

then we left for the woods

hand in hand, hearts together

it's plain to see

what the summer has done to me

and you, the girl,

buried back in April

we were unaware

of what June could harbor

the loss of your body bare

the loss of our daughter

i remember her name

but the wind has forgotten

and who is left to blame?

on my knees, i bargain

it's plain to see

what the summer has done to me

and you, the girl,

buried back in April

SONNET: Someone with a Glitch

i have these bare-boned fingers

that crack when they grasp for air

and scrape up nothing. i roll up

my sleeves, wait for the song

to belt from my lungs and my straining

throat—my chest is burning

with every daunting breath. my skin is the guru

sitting on the ground, waiting for

someone with a glitch

to seek out wisdom and unwind

from the perils of drought. this is what

days alone in summer reap from me:

all days converging, congregating

to make one long blood vessel.

Tapestry

sometimes when silence is ringing about my ears

i imagine you across the river, weaving a tapestry

where a story dances in bright colors—how you sit

working your bones, making them creek

with every last plucking and lacing of the wool

from your mystic flocks. how so these stitches come up

with roughness in your voice, the shining of your

untuned tongue, the one whose deadly pearl teeth

clench as your knuckles bend and break over yarn.

sometimes when silence haunts me for years

i roll up your kindred tale, the one soiled and free

from the bitterness of sour fruits and peach pits

from wounded trees where for truth you seek

refuge in the shade—the delightful singing in the cool

darkness and a sip from a maple leaf as a cup

that God has stricken with crisp rain waters. he pours

them down, watering the grass and trees with His wreath

of flowers adorned with your story, your blanket, and stars.

QUATRAIN: Months

dance for me, o fleeting eyes!
let the bound temptation set free
my heart from such bleak oppression:
August is the deadliest month.

On the Steps of the Michigan Union

i am a disciple of the chaos bred from hearty fists

pounding on podiums—i am a riot ensued when the call

of injustice rings loud through the corridor with terror.

i am one with the blackrimmed eyes that linger

through the moors in mist and shadows and watch us

lay siege to the whips and chains that leave marks

on our tender flesh. i am the exodus from the dry untidy

desert that holds us bound in the sand. i am the Messiah

for a lost cause: a beacon for those undressing then bathing

in words, verses, stanzas, rhymes—those who take rose petals

and make bandages to cover salted wounds. i am a brother

to a nation of those standing below gaudy pedestals

covered in the blood of our mothers and fathers, their pale skin

strewn over the backs of the conquerers who raped

our poetry until there was nothing left, nothing but manipulation

and molestation of the settled lands we rode upon

as once valiant warriors. this is where it all crumbled—

but here i stands collecting pieces and moving them

into their old structure of expression: of one.

i am a single thing, an i in a world of wes

that takes the juices from the earth and sprays them

over those dead and dying—over those who keep still

while the impressions bury themselves into their bones;

i am Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; Matthew, Mark,

Luke, and John. i am prince and pope; i am pauper

and lord—any one who can save this from such rapture.

i am.

Manhole Cover

the manhole cover looked like a sheet of pure February ice

i was afraid would slip
fall
crack
my self up
although it is so humid
that the air is thick enough
to swim in
while August stews us
from above

i have grip on the ground for once
by my head remains cranked upward
to await the snow

Wilderness Love Poem

the sound is like birds nestling in the bushes
over these hushed common grounds
where Autumn sparsely lingers—

the breezes grab the twigs
and thick looming boughs while forest berries
let their juices graze the prickly leaves.

this is a garden laced with temptation,
waiting for out simple depletion
we can feed the earth our soiled moistures.

the buds are spontaneous awakenings in moonlight
when tall redwood trunks look like Roman columns
that hold the night sky above us—

this is why my hands seem brittle as i reach up
to capture one of God's tiny flames
for you as we rest our heads in this August night.

Whale Song

the Devil scrapped his knees

before eating the tongue of the whale—

i heard those whale songs soothing my head

down to sleep. the Devil yanked it out

as the whale belted a high F i believe

and let it sink from the blood pouring

from his parched mouth.

the Devil came back up and fell

onto the sand where rocks and shell

drew more blood: the sea is bloody

and the sand is crimson like the band

above the horizon at sunset.

the Devil just kept eating,

hoping to get that whalesong in his soul

somehow so he could lure us to the sea

where we could drown in whale’s blood

and salt water: ocean foam looks like it’s been kissed

with fresh autumn cranberries

but the elixir is not nearly as tart.

the Devil stood back and opened his mouth

but nothing so soft swayed from his tongue:

he made a deal with himself that he

regretted, looking at the body of a dead whale

wash up on the beach.

now the Devil has nothing but half a whale’s tongue

and some scrapped knees.

Nectarine

the setting sun was fleshy and bright

like a fresh-picked nectarine

straight off of the branches of the galaxy—

the stream of clouds above makes a stem

and a bright living leaf that soaks in

the stars above: i wish to take my fingers

and slip them around the fuzzy cool flesh

to pluck it roughly from the sky

and send this earth deeper and deeper

into eternal night

with my every selfish, moistly bite.

SONNET: Persimmons

this is not one of those evenings where my fingers picked your breasts

like persimmons, where my hips stampeded over your fortunes

and i stumbled upon your vials of womanhood in a toosmall bed:

this is where the crispness of perfection stood while it crumbled

at bay from your hips and where your skin sagged and molded itself

around my hands—where you stretched out your neck and told me

to dig my nails deeper and deeper into it; to pound the flesh

above your thigh; to make your wails echo off the white plaster wall.

this is where our breath was thick and panting while my legs

stood perfectly still; stood while you arched your back and slid down

past my knees and onto my roots where you drank the liquid

that i stored for a drought of such: we forgot our raincoats

but the water soothed us just right and the storm was no concern.

this is not one of those evenings: all of them died with the persimmons in summertime.

Brick by Brick

a song—indie—key of C#

[the glory of being reunited with my electric guitar]

in a tower i can watch flowers grow

or i can just watch them die

all i see, nobody knows

but i can claim that i'm on high

and i lie and lie again

i told you it's all okay

to let you think that you're unknown

brick by brick i lay it down

to leave you wondering if i'm alone

by the beach i have no reason left to swim

the water makes me wonder

i have to think of me with her and her with him

and the currents pull me under

and i think and think and think again

i told you it's all okay

to let you think that you're unknown

brick by brick i lay it down

to leave you wondering if i'm alone

whoever knew this was so damn right

whoever knew this was my alibi

whoever knew this was a mother's scare

whoever knew this kept the secrets in her hair

underneath the soil there's nothing left to grow

it's burnt up, burnt out, diseased

and i plead and plead and plead again

i told you it's all okay

to let you think that you're unknown

brick by brick i lay it down

to leave you wondering if i'm alone

Here

a song—indie—key of C

[for JP]

when the drinks are running low

and the smoke has cleared the room

i find myself sitting alone

wondering what's left to do

i pull out my arm, i put it up

toward the light

i look at my veins, running through

where my skin was tight

all in all i wish you were here

all in all i wish you were here

all in all i wish you were here

all in all i wish you were here

on the stairs i sit and wait

for a body i can claim

it's not a way to fill my plate:

it's a way to say your name

i pull out a light, i light it up

all alone

it moves on through and through and through

in my bones

all in all i wish you were here

all in all i wish you were here

all in all i wish you were here

all in all i wish you were here

Hiatus

for the first time in a long while

i have never seen my future

in a crystal ball over which

a madam waves her hands

to frighten me. last night

i saw nothing but timbers falling

and my mind was left white

when all the brush was cleared.

here there's no complexity

or no desire to seek specters

from whence i shall go:

there was only my bed

and the curiousness of waking up

only an hour after falling asleep.

instead of calling in sick

i decided to call in dead—

that's the excuse for those committed.

Laughter

it was funny, really:

i expected red

but all it was

was brown

from the rust

of this old cutter i stole

from the office downstairs

it's about an inch or so

and it's this murky nastiness

flowing down my arm

like a polluted stream

i remember falling asleep

with my hand off the bed

to keep it flowing

and i expected a pool

of crimson slickness

whenif i rose

this morning

i laughed and i laughed and i laughed

"Contemporary" Poem: Personal Wellness Day

who would have guess the world

would leave me tumbling out of car doors

onto the streets where marching bands

thump the earth in matching shoes?

when i found Jesus, he was under my bed

so i called into work, tell them i wasn't going to come

but they told me that i needed to even though

i was sick, so i came in late,

told Jesus that i would be back in a while

and to not touch anything, especially that red box

hiding in the drawer in my closet—of course,

if he were under my bed, he would have heard

everything anyway.

the air smells like fried fish. it reminds me

of the pub where we saw everyone.

i still have to go to work.

Flowers by Your Feet

a song—folk/indie—key of A

the call of the wild on the farmhouse where the babe was born

it's all a sign from God to stay here and wait

the sound of the fury from the wind whipping up this storm

reminded me to close the wooden gate

and when two lovers meet up

in the back of the truck

a man can't wait

a woman's out of luck

call him out over the golden wheat

tell him he can't come inside

until a ring takes shape, the flowers by your feet

must stay alive

the crows are endangered of being scared when the noise is heard

they'll fly away and make their nests

they've never heard such turmoil, such rounded sharp words

they think about the way the two undress

and when two lover's agree

that there's no time to be

so petrified

they're both so meek

call him out over the golden wheat

tell him he can't come inside

until a ring takes shape, the flowers by your feet

must stay alive

the riverside is left alone when they come crawling back

that's not they way they left at all

the day the Christ was born they found an abandoned shack

and made the summer's heat invade the fall

call him out over the golden wheat

tell him he can't come inside

until a ring takes shape, the flowers by your feet

must stay alive

Shift

i plan to reroute the paths of rivers
and the roads carved into mountain sides
by rains eroding stone.
the course of the seasons will see my hand
and tremble, shift and take new realms
in different months. the sun and moon
will battle in the sky at my own will
of change. i will shift the gleams of love
back in time; forward.

SONNET: Overused Words

miss
the kiss
of lips
and hips

dread
the bed
as dead
instead

let
the death
beget
the rest

skin:
our sin

A Day for Love

below the sycamore she sits
her legs crossed, hands between her thighs—
she looks toward the sky with tired eyes
and contemplates the day about her wits:

today is not a good day for love

the branches slit, entangle budding boughs
engulfing her skin in sunlight
through her tortured words take flight
wrapped up in little shrouds:

today is not a good day for love

beside the roots, her legs and feet shake
as the summer breeze arises with humid air
like warm fresh fingers through her hair
and makes her think again, for her own sake:

today is not a good day for love

i approach the sycamore, looking down
to see her straining worried face
an i look about i sit and race
to speak of my delight upon the ground:

today is a day for love

August Poem

blooming
ing
up
to death
up
toward God
and the
sun
up grow
ing to break
the clouds
master heaven
this dandelion
grows
up
up
to take its place
on high
up
up
until September
when it dies