A bird is singing all night
He thinks it’s still the daylight
Opened my mouth and out it came
a litany of blame
not at myself
but at everyone else
I don’t consider it stark
That I can see in the dark
I know the place where I belong
It’s dancing to this song
without you
It’s what I like to do
Did you find yourself talking to me
Only accidentally
Accept my apology
I am so sorry
A rose isn’t real enough
until it signifies love
This one’s dead it was mine
I plucked it from a vine
just for you
Now it’s something new
Runyon Canyon is deep
The hills you carved are too steep
It is a well made out of dark
full of people’s hearts
thrown in coins
They go boing boing boing
Did you find yourself talking to me
Only accidentally
Accept my apology
I am so sorry
I was never Chinese
I only know how to say please
Did you forget that I was here?
Are you that soaked in beer
because of me?
It is flattering
Did you find yourself talking to me
Only accidentally
Accept my apology
I am so sorry
18 July 2013
16 July 2013
Walhalla
One of my first High School Friday nights,
we embarked from Staab's house, a caravan
headed for Walhalla in search of frights,
the girls especially eager. Slowly turning man,
I wanted to be wherever they were.
We wound through the bush down the holler,
wild between the parallel struts of High
and Neil, busy mother roads. She was shy
and so was I, but somehow more affected,
senses pumping her heart with excess legend.
Parked under the bridge, Charlie directed
us to imagine a boy swinging in the wind.
Giddy with fear, she grabbed my arm for security.
I could not wait for her to do what she did to me.
we embarked from Staab's house, a caravan
headed for Walhalla in search of frights,
the girls especially eager. Slowly turning man,
I wanted to be wherever they were.
We wound through the bush down the holler,
wild between the parallel struts of High
and Neil, busy mother roads. She was shy
and so was I, but somehow more affected,
senses pumping her heart with excess legend.
Parked under the bridge, Charlie directed
us to imagine a boy swinging in the wind.
Giddy with fear, she grabbed my arm for security.
I could not wait for her to do what she did to me.
15 July 2013
Tendering My Resignation or My Last Poem
I woke this afternoon
and no longer wanted
to be a poet.
There was no fame in it.
There was no name in it
and certainly no money.
(That was my last rhyme)
I fell asleep
to words twinkling
in my head like stars.
When I woke
the windows were
clean with light.
I began to speak
in sentences with
no metaphors or similes.
(Those were my last metaphors and similes)
The questions I have been raising,
the ones with no answers:
I put them down and
pick up a tennis racket.
My friend is across the net.
One of us will win one will lose.
I watch TV. I ride my bike.
(No more caesuras only plain speech)
I am not a poet.
I will not die for poetry.
I will live for life.
(One more
for old times sake.
There's something so
beautiful when
words are broken
apart
from each other,
when I
look at one
thing and see
another)
At last, I know
what I'm doing:
I'm giving it all up.
(My last stanza)
Goodbye
and no longer wanted
to be a poet.
There was no fame in it.
There was no name in it
and certainly no money.
(That was my last rhyme)
I fell asleep
to words twinkling
in my head like stars.
When I woke
the windows were
clean with light.
I began to speak
in sentences with
no metaphors or similes.
(Those were my last metaphors and similes)
The questions I have been raising,
the ones with no answers:
I put them down and
pick up a tennis racket.
My friend is across the net.
One of us will win one will lose.
I watch TV. I ride my bike.
(No more caesuras only plain speech)
I am not a poet.
I will not die for poetry.
I will live for life.
(One more
for old times sake.
There's something so
beautiful when
words are broken
apart
from each other,
when I
look at one
thing and see
another)
At last, I know
what I'm doing:
I'm giving it all up.
(My last stanza)
Goodbye
Why I Write These Things Down
I write things
down just in
case somebody
else might need them.
Their crisis might
intersect by chance
with my
words
their moment
searching through
a book with
this page.
They might be
looking
for someone
who's been
there before.
I hope
they find
me
and if
they don't I
can rest easy.
I tried.
I'll be
around
in case they
need me.
down just in
case somebody
else might need them.
Their crisis might
intersect by chance
with my
words
their moment
searching through
a book with
this page.
They might be
looking
for someone
who's been
there before.
I hope
they find
me
and if
they don't I
can rest easy.
I tried.
I'll be
around
in case they
need me.
10 July 2013
Excuse for Not Returning Your Text
The birds call from the vines clenching the church
next door but it’s the drums that clatter
me from sleep 8 o’clock Sunday morning
into that good prelude to the hangover
where you’re dopey and lucid as the young grey light
sneaks through the window without it’s pants.
I have no girl with me, so I remember you
by your rambunctious smell, not at all like the perfumes
on the shelf of the Rite-Aid, your feral hair,
the wide wing-span of your eyes.
I click right past your text. Leave me alone again.
Alone is where we belong. We can give each other that.
She didn’t mean that much to me.
I’m not sure what does. I’m not sure anything can
in the delirious corral of this city.
You’re the last girl I’ve got to think of.
Maybe you regret that. Maybe you don’t know.
The D-train sleepwalks the bridge.
The Gowanus lays down and dies. The Hudson does not.
I am a Mummy in dirty brown sheets.
I turn up the volume on the birds and go back to sleep.
next door but it’s the drums that clatter
me from sleep 8 o’clock Sunday morning
into that good prelude to the hangover
where you’re dopey and lucid as the young grey light
sneaks through the window without it’s pants.
I have no girl with me, so I remember you
by your rambunctious smell, not at all like the perfumes
on the shelf of the Rite-Aid, your feral hair,
the wide wing-span of your eyes.
I click right past your text. Leave me alone again.
Alone is where we belong. We can give each other that.
She didn’t mean that much to me.
I’m not sure what does. I’m not sure anything can
in the delirious corral of this city.
You’re the last girl I’ve got to think of.
Maybe you regret that. Maybe you don’t know.
The D-train sleepwalks the bridge.
The Gowanus lays down and dies. The Hudson does not.
I am a Mummy in dirty brown sheets.
I turn up the volume on the birds and go back to sleep.
saints
the african marigold's melt in the sun
orange burning black like hot plastic
dad asks how they're doing from
3000 miles away. it is the last thing
he is permitted to nurture in his son's life
who unexpectedly and audaciously became
a man, marrying and moving across the country.
everything warns against attempting sainthood.
the saint's irrefutable soul is alien to
this world. many diseases rise to the skin.
persistently misunderstanding the logic of man
until no other conclusion can be drawn than
to be shot with arrows
he voluntarily strays into a fragmented wood
of renunciation and illuminating morbidity.
conclusions chime as bells of light
around the edges of his eyesight.
he climbs new sierras of pain
and he is on no journey but to climb higher
his head is a golden apple and his heart
belongs in a dog. later eras will pray to it
for now it's on loan and wrapped
in a fast-food sack on the dashboard
of a late-80s econoline.
most are saints.
none are beatified.
A seizure lifts him
and he is gently eviscerated
by the stars
halo melting to his scalp
orange burning black like hot plastic
dad asks how they're doing from
3000 miles away. it is the last thing
he is permitted to nurture in his son's life
who unexpectedly and audaciously became
a man, marrying and moving across the country.
everything warns against attempting sainthood.
the saint's irrefutable soul is alien to
this world. many diseases rise to the skin.
persistently misunderstanding the logic of man
until no other conclusion can be drawn than
to be shot with arrows
he voluntarily strays into a fragmented wood
of renunciation and illuminating morbidity.
conclusions chime as bells of light
around the edges of his eyesight.
he climbs new sierras of pain
and he is on no journey but to climb higher
his head is a golden apple and his heart
belongs in a dog. later eras will pray to it
for now it's on loan and wrapped
in a fast-food sack on the dashboard
of a late-80s econoline.
most are saints.
none are beatified.
A seizure lifts him
and he is gently eviscerated
by the stars
halo melting to his scalp
08 July 2013
Second Life
they packed the town into a big box
and shipped it to southeast ohio
they packed bryan adams into a box
and shipped it to southeast asia
they packed the baby into a box
and shipped it to madonna
drawn up with a silver pen
the EPZs jurisdiction
the cease fires declaration
and the stockyards reopen for business
the hundred thousand leaves shrouding
the white house roar
like a crowd, like a nation
a few man's hands
shake that sound
like snake's tails rattling
into a megaphone
the heavy metal band pleads self-defense
they just play music. that's all they do
they're not protesting
except in a vague way
against everything, they're not sure what
perhaps specifically the chaotic volume
of their early adolesence
a child bent around a pen
is told to count the lima beans again
he counted too fast
a snarling dragon pulled up
and he rode, logically concluding
in a sorcerer's castle's broad construct
of speedy fretwork and overbearing tablature
the card game made us
wizards, frankly, and we enjoyed it
more than being what we were
I throw the dice and the king's head
tumbles with them into a basket
a burmese girl sews the silhouette
of a man performing a feat
not meant for man
into the side of a shoe
that will wing you to heaven
if heaven is as high
as a slam dunk. boys
in a park joust styrofoam swords
and a hand is folded
behind the back to signify its heroic
loss in battle. it is regrown momentarily
to dunk a chicken mcnugget
boys in another park no longer
kill each other for the shoes
they stand and admire and compliment
I don't know what's going on in the ghetto
jay z is in a booth with warren buffett
and jerry seinfeld at daniel
they are saving the galaxy
the only one we have to save
which nobody lives in anymore
the forest is off in endor
the snow belongs to hoth
a boy fights a war
on his television set
in an afghan marketplace
in hd and widescreen
it's practically photorealisitic
the guns sound authentic
coming in 5.1 digital surround
from every direction
another boy fights a similar looking war
in an afghan marketplace
he wishes it did not look so real
the internet, our new planet
i shut the computer down
404: File Not Found
and shipped it to southeast ohio
they packed bryan adams into a box
and shipped it to southeast asia
they packed the baby into a box
and shipped it to madonna
drawn up with a silver pen
the EPZs jurisdiction
the cease fires declaration
and the stockyards reopen for business
the hundred thousand leaves shrouding
the white house roar
like a crowd, like a nation
a few man's hands
shake that sound
like snake's tails rattling
into a megaphone
the heavy metal band pleads self-defense
they just play music. that's all they do
they're not protesting
except in a vague way
against everything, they're not sure what
perhaps specifically the chaotic volume
of their early adolesence
a child bent around a pen
is told to count the lima beans again
he counted too fast
a snarling dragon pulled up
and he rode, logically concluding
in a sorcerer's castle's broad construct
of speedy fretwork and overbearing tablature
the card game made us
wizards, frankly, and we enjoyed it
more than being what we were
I throw the dice and the king's head
tumbles with them into a basket
a burmese girl sews the silhouette
of a man performing a feat
not meant for man
into the side of a shoe
that will wing you to heaven
if heaven is as high
as a slam dunk. boys
in a park joust styrofoam swords
and a hand is folded
behind the back to signify its heroic
loss in battle. it is regrown momentarily
to dunk a chicken mcnugget
boys in another park no longer
kill each other for the shoes
they stand and admire and compliment
I don't know what's going on in the ghetto
jay z is in a booth with warren buffett
and jerry seinfeld at daniel
they are saving the galaxy
the only one we have to save
which nobody lives in anymore
the forest is off in endor
the snow belongs to hoth
a boy fights a war
on his television set
in an afghan marketplace
in hd and widescreen
it's practically photorealisitic
the guns sound authentic
coming in 5.1 digital surround
from every direction
another boy fights a similar looking war
in an afghan marketplace
he wishes it did not look so real
the internet, our new planet
i shut the computer down
404: File Not Found
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