Ridge Highway

riding along at 60,
seven p.m.,
the rabbits are out tonight—
i can't see them
but i know their eyes blur into
the Christmas light on the farmhouses.

in the backseat my mother adores
the tinseled reds,
ever greens,
translucent blues—
the closest things to ocean water
she has ever seen.

a Chevy ad on the radio—
my father drives our Ford—
my mother is a voyeur
peering at the ranch houses
and licking her lips
over these whorish delights.

my father is silent
as we enter Lenawee;
my heart drops as the melting frost
dripping into the ditches
along the side
of the road.

the stars shine here:
i haven't seen them in months
as the bustle of civilization
clouds the sky more than any cumulonimbus
in the city i live in
when not on this road.

i can see the moon out my window,
but i could be the star
atop the red barn guiding the cattle
to warmth as the frost
crusts over the wilted grass
and sharpens it.

we hone in close to hour house:
my father says nothing,
my mother oos and ahs
at the lights—the angels atop of evergreens
blaring in her eyes, her teeth
chatter—the air is cold.

alone we drive, alone the rabbits
hop across the ditches,
over the grass to the barns
and over acres—
dodging the Yuletide bullets
handing from rain gutters.

Inter Nos

or, The Ring and the Bracelet

i pray for the sound of the ring on your finger

rapping against the table

the engraving is new, and the echoes, they linger

all over the air of the stable

the leather is tight from the bracelet that you

bought me when you went to Chicago

it's engraved with the words you never knew

but i told you what they were when you got home

alone in my room, where the light can't reach us

the leather is weighing down

we make love although no one would teach us

how to tangle ourselves on the ground

i took of the bracelet, you took off the ring

because it turned our bodies red

the bracelet fells off like the desk light's gleam

and tumbled behind the bed

time of ours passed, and the ring now sits

at the bottom of your garbage can

i found the bracelet on my mother's wrist

and i stole it like a wanted man

i'm wearing it now, i still pray for the sound

of the ring echoing in my apartment

i wonder if you picked it up off the ground

and burned away your resentment

TERCET

someone write a grunge song about me—

that way, when i die,

we'll know who to blame.

For Adrian

a song—folk—key of A

we met on the road

by the maple tree on 223

where the pretty girls swung

while they hear the preacher's tongue

the cop car passed us

and we hid inside the overgrown grass

rolling all around

until we kissed the ground

like a cartoon or a clown

we both laughed at this town

how we longed and longed to drive away

still your skin was never tight

and mine was never right

so you'll stay

and i'll go away

then i drove you home

where your mother gave me biscuits

and said how nice i was

and we just grinned because

we both knew what

we were doing when the cop drove by

and it wasn't pure

but were sure

like a cartoon or a clown

we both laughed at this town

how we longed and longed to drive away

still your skin was never tight

and mine was never right

so you'll stay

and i'll go away

we met again in your car

said that you'd gone way too far

fall back

fall back

upon

a crescent

moon

the way

you fell

upon

me

and my

body

Chest Tattoos and Chevy Impalas

i’m ready to be the brunt

of a 90’s grunge song

in drop-D with the fuzz of a Boss

resonating from a Honda Civic’s windows;

to be a story for the bar

when the bourbon’s running low

and you have to get home

to pay the babysitter;

to be the reason you can’t look him

in the eye anymore

when he’s on top of you

breathing;

to be yet another notch

in your mother’s belt that she keeps

hidden from the world like the photos

of her pregnant at age eighteen;

to be the hint of caramel

you wish your son had

instead of the red-pale-pinkness

of his diaper rash;

to be a backseat that you see

as a king-sized with silk sheets

rose petals and champagne

instead of empty Budweiser cans;

to take you to the city

on a futon nestled in the back corner

of your village apartment

with an old lady ready to die a floor above you;

to be the reason you look

as if you’ve sucked a lemon

when you say i love you

as he walks out the door;

to be a phone call after being

two weeks late while a pregnancy test

sits on the sink, as you sit on the toilet

grinning through your tears;

to be the reason why you would tell

someone not to pull out—to come

inside and to never

ever leave;

to be a Planned Parenthood brochure

on the counter that you look at

but can’t really read—Jesus

stares down at you from the door frame;

to be the slam of a door

after nine months when clearly

the crown upon the baby’s head

is not of gold but of thorns;

to be a WIC coupon—a gallon

of 2% milk and a box of Gerber cereal,

bottle liners and a can

of formula;

to be an extra shift at McDonald’s

because it’s time for shots—

to be a call to Comcast

to cancel your service;

to be unknown, reflective,

a shadow of that night in November

when the frost covered the ground

and i covered you.

Home

a martyr

for a pint of home-brewed beer

my father:

alive for seeds spilt upon my mother

a groundling

A POEM REVISITED

my mother is a cathedral, pretty and tall

with her voice as bells which chime through the fall

her towering cross dangles above her breasts

and her ares are the booths where sinners confess

her fingers are the drips of holy water drops

and her rings are her candles, her oils, and props

her hum is a hymnal with which her babies sing

and her palms are the baskets for all the gifts we bring

her skin is the bread—tough, chewy, and blessed

her tears are the wine—so smooth to digest

her daughters are parishioners, so lost and so blind

her husband is a bishop—behind the alter he hides

my mother is a cathedral, pretty and tall

her son is her little priest, so ugly and small

Tumbling

a song—alternative—key of Em

i had to believe in the power of dead men:

i had to believe that men could fall

the funeral bells rang so loud out my window

then gravity pulled us to breach when we call

the shadowy lines from the branches in winter

as the sun pulses down to our sweating skin

the motions engrave us with powder and darkness

the light on our tongues is the light within

so it's all much more than nothing

it's all more underneath

maybe i'm born to beseech tumbling

down to a daughter's dancing feet

i had to believe in the power of dead men

when the servants were left to starve

i had to believe that the timing was just right

for us to drink the milk from the stars

the way that we say all alone on the porch swing

made me wonder what we just heard

i had to believe that dead men were coming

to give us their dying words

so it's all much more than nothing

it's all more underneath

maybe i'm born to beseech tumbling

down to a daughter's dancing feet

i'm not alone, i'm not alone

who could have guessed what i would say?

where did he go, where did he go

when the Hearst drove away?

i had to believe in the power of dead men:

i had to believe that men could fall

the funeral chimes make me call out for answers

they don't make you cry at all

so it's all much more than nothing

it's all more underneath

maybe i'm born to beseech tumbling

down to a daughter's dancing feet

HAIKU: Post-Thanksgiving Poem

the only things that

makes the food go down better

are good wine and sleep

The Dead Men

i have to believe in the power of dead men

when i dream of my son—the little spitting image

of his father; i wonder who his heros are

and if his are mine at all. when he looks in books

i hope he finds requisites in undermining

the shades of black conjured from the white.

SONNET: One

behind the lamp posts—the taste of wheat

along a beaten righteous path

lit by carnations white and red

like the hotel bedspread where we once laid:

it's all blueberries for us

as we thought it would be

and i hungry and wanting sugar

let the juices drench my tongue

i can barely keep my eyes open

as i wonder if you will be

alongside cows and goats

while i am left picking berries

like my family did so long ago

it all makes just one poem.

Les Quatre Nobles Vérités [a poem revisited]

I. Dukkha

August heat and aerial moisture
drives us to the river; to jump in
and drink its amber liquor—
it’s a calming haze and a cigarette after.
the foam shimmers, this sunlight deludes
in slick industrial passage;
the water’s cold.
nearby the bitter dry grass and shrubs
are ready to kindle; to feed the flames
birthed from the swelter we breathe—
the water reaches not so up to it.
above us only rollers paint the sky
not sponge dabs or brush strokes
but it’s utterly smooth:
i need to see roughness to know i can rattle
i need to see roughness to sooth it out with my hand.
up is endlessly slick—
here is jagged and brutal.

when we lie out naked
the vittles cling to us as we roll;
when we rise the desolates prick our feet
when we stand: our blood is all the moisture
these barren morsels shall drink today.

this strip of Earth is barren,
but the air surrounding us is so fertile
that even to feel it against our faces
makes our minds wander:
as a swarm of sweaty palms
the river currents rush over the riverbed
quenching the eroded rocks below,
and they smooth out like the skin on our backs
when tampered with. it’s all part of a vision
—sacred, perhaps, is
what the LORD commanded of us—
where we can swim with the gushing current
and we can feel the foam pop against
our torsos and our loins.
all this makes me thirsty,
all this makes me know that no rivers flow in this building
where we sit,
side-by-side
hoping for a slice of air to cool us,
and for, if anything at all,
a way to ease the burning on our skin
and on our flesh—
it’s too much to handle right now
without a glass of wine in my hand
and a bottle of champagne on my head.

this land is of dying, suffering,
we are of dying, suffering.

II. Dukkha Samudaya

across the table, through the haze

a streetlight concerto bears the night,

holds the starlight steady

under which we (tired from the drunk)

leave our padlocks empty—

it’s been a long time.

the vodka flows and the wine engages us.

burning chicken smells ground us—

we are not in Eden any more, darling;

we are not surrounded by fertile hills

and ramped plains. instead,

we sit in a crowded bar and imagine what the other

would look like sprawled out on the floor;

i imagine you under my bedsheets,

in a slumber that only exhaustion and strain

can induce.

around the bend there’s a car horn

and once again we shake our heads.

are you alright?

i’m okay.

just okay?

could be better.

let me pour you another drink,

let me wet your lips and you can wet mine.

of course—who knows who leaps up—

every word hangs in the air

because i can’t drink them in

as i can drink this glass empty.

are you okay?

i could be better.

another drink?

could be better.

she brings another; my hands tremble

and my fingers curl around the glass.

it’s so cold but my hands give more moisture.

my words should only be so chilling.

when you brush your hair aside

my throat dries up. you tell me to speak

but i can only dream—what you would look like

without these lights on; how soft your body is

when i lay my bony frame upon it;

how when you finally fall asleep

i can finally fall asleep, too.

the bar is loud.

are you okay?

i’m fine for now.

i could be better.

III. Dukkha Nirodha

light up;

a light out

from the tunnel—

here’s a way for us

to shake off

these feelings

desires

these

in

fa

tu

a

tions

these

amores juvenis

a light now;

a light when?

we need it

to anoint us—

by simply kissing us;

rubbing our aching muscles;

and not fucking us

—to tell us that it

is there

IV. Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada Magga

Prajñā

ONE

starlit echos tantalize the

eyes; the pupils dilate, they

open wide. the water drifts to

show the temp’rate kisses that we

scorn obtusely. deadly symbols

scare away our hands; they kill us

dead with beauty—blinding us

evermore with fleshy torches.

TWO

kisses always kisses; always

aimed at lips instead of hips and

bones. when minds align they cherish—

hearts denied remember only

hurt. but how does recollection

make intention? understand the

body, understand the mind and

think of double, not of single.

Sīla

THREE

girls, rejoice! the boys are here—they

want to play! and said they’ll travel

arm in arm to pick the flowers

growing tall beside the river!

boys, rejoice! the girls said yes!—they

said that we could grab their hands to

follow them and kiss them by the

riverside! to pluck their flowers!

FOUR

Annabelle came home one day to

find her husband naked. then he

said profusely are you my wife?

Annabelle conceded it; she

buttoned down her blouse and skirt. he

fell asleep but Annabelle got

up to make his dinner; salty

tears adorned the steaks she made him.

FIVE

stirring coffee; looking out the

window; alive and well. statues

still parade the park where

girls and boys remember how to

play. remember when you used to

know to play? remember when you

had concern for games and for

making pawns from those in dresses?

Samādhi

SIX

it’s enough to put the bottle

down; enough to put the light from

cigarettes completely out but

not upon the skin of dear ones.

it’s enough to steal the bottle

‘way from angry hands; enough to

spray the flames with water while you

count how many times you’ve done it.

SEVEN

evermore remember what your

mother taught you—boys always

will be boys and girls should always

keep their hands outside their dresses.

evermore remember what your

father taught you—girls never

know to keep their hands out where you

want; remember to remind them.

EIGHT

take these verses; pick apart their

veins to find what makes them bleed. a

hint and recollection makes you

see the light before your eyes. now

take your thoughts and keep them picking

out the rivers, when currents

flow about the land to quench the

throats of rightly tired women.

Nibbana

Untitled

watch the breath; her nerves are shot
her hands fall limp fluid unlike
your putrid fuck—you've made a fuck
made her a fuck in your head because
you can't stand
losing grip—the choking one around her neck
and the suffocating around her heart:
the blood rush is not for you—the gush
is for humility, humanity,
paradise swiped by the clutches
of sickly torment: do you notice
how she says nothing? do you see the look of none
in her eyes? can you see her personhood poured out
with blood and tears?
your bones rattle as chains—your skin scrapes
as jagged rocks on a booming shore.
her skin soft, your muscles hard
her moment dead, she left weeping bitterly,
silently

listen; know; hear;

what will she tell her son?
how will she warn her daughter?
how much of her feeling is lost?
it replays: a spotlight, an empty stage
two in—one out; one acting dead
but so much alive
that moment: alive
your lips, groaning those words
now so seemingly dead

when she hears those words
that you grunted as you kissed her clammy lips:

i love you

Animal

a song—shoegaze—key of F

if there were something up my sleeve
would you want to see it?
would you like some guarantee
to know that this is what i commit?

a cannibal, unlovable,
i am an animal

the naked truth that you can't see
is wrapped up in smiles
i'm not different—don't tell me
that it's unreal, it's not denial

i'm cynical, tyrannical,
i am an animal

unmovable, celestial,
i am an animal
a cannibal, unlovable,
i am an animal

maple tree—

maple tree—

my steeple, each leaf a bell

rattling tones into the air—

i kneel before your trunk

kiss your roots

bite them gently and dip my tongue

into the leaking wounds to drink

the mirky holy water

maple tree your bark

is the Easter robe;

every groove i follow with my finger

says Hallelujah;

it gets caught under

my nails and i weep

from beauty

maple tree the ground beneath you

is my nativity scene:

Christ is the patch of dandelions,

the Magi the worms coming to bury themselves

below the stalks

maple tree you are my little church

The Diminuendo on a Soap Opera

to break (not so much) to compliment
a work, a sign coming down from the rafters
to jullianne the slice of life:
a Fisher Price keyboard
replaces the piano—the history known
of history dooms us to Europe

it is salt—it is canola oil
surreal is a wind-up monkey
clanging and banging:
it's a cup of coffee to
wake up the eyes—
to jumpstart the heartbeat

a woman, a man
and baby makes too many masks
that build a dimensional wall—
a TV screen dead, white,
fuzzy and belittled
with a big bowl of popcorn

dialect stabilizes, emotion rectifies
but rhythms shake and shake
while melodies lull—
echos mash up sentiment,
deludes them through two thousand eyes
tapers them in ears

Recollection/Introspection

a song—shoegaze—key of D

oh, diamonds fall away
and nothing can protect them
from falling on a bed of flowers
on her crest
oh, you never heard her say
that she just wants protection
from Saturn rings and hours
forming on your chest

sun-drenched recollection
is hard enough to find
moonlit introspection
with Autumn on your mind

oh, no one makes a day
that no one can remember
and no one makes a night
that makes you fall asleep
oh, remember children's play
in blanketed December
it reminds you of the time
when you were soft and sweet

sun-drenched recollection
is hard enough to find
moonlit introspection
with Autumn on your mind