Wednesday, February 28, 2007

I can be anything

Where does my mind wander?
Why does it go there?

At night.
Always at night.

When I can’t help but remember.
Because it gets cold, even under covers
And I feel alone.

I can be anything
for you
I think these thoughts.
I can be anything
to you
I come from naught.

Because I am alone

The taste of face and cheek and collarbone in the morning
were proof enough to believe in the twelve Olympian deities
of w

We touched until the clocks struck eight,
when our alarms finally got off,
before we really woke up.

Now it's
Always like this. Late and a… al
Are you at home,
asleep and holding your cats close?

Maybe you’re dreaming
or next to a Caucasian European
(Russian, German, Polish, Hungarian)
not sleeping.

Latin. Spanish. French. Swahili.
I can sing the planet’s geography.

So lay down, breathe,
forget your brain, and listen
to the sound of another heartbeat racing
the thrusts into your body.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

A World

In a world without god
flies gather on shit
and men and women love each other

In a world without god
the loneliest people find solace
in the fact that there are others
who are as lonely as they are.

In a world without god
there are people crying and children
who laugh purely at the amusement
that life itself provides.

In a world without god
the empty staff paper is filled
with notes of rejoice.

In a world without god
the future is bleak and the possibilities are endless.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

When Strangling a Friend Make Sure That He's Really Dead

Hear the camaraderie from fifteen feet away.
Two people. One interest
that is shared.
So it’s okay.

Two Glares.
Send them over. They’re all too flattering.

The talk,
the thoughts ring deep
within this body.

Filled with blue blood.

Look, it bleeds red
so easily.

Crimson flow dissected between the calluses on red-right hands.

But it's too late,
it’s receded beneath twenty unpainted fingertips.

Now, just listen to the blood beat,


A mantra for terrified insides because their lungs are polished so bleakly.
And their livers limp longingly.
And pancreases stagger painfully.
And hearts that palpitate distastefully.
And two stomach to digest food dangerously.
And small intestines that pass black waste so inefficiently.

But outside, where lovely hands land effortlessly
and perfect lips part seductively,
two noses snort real quietly,

"Baby, you’re so good at pretending.”

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Treasure Maps Breathe

[Look for an area that is known for pink, ripe peaches. Where local folk boast of its small town beaches.]

Brown grass covered by big pussy willows.
Dirt ground filled with moss covered stones.
Tree trunks long sunk pile on the lake’s floor.
Submerged brown logs have long since been gored.

The water is elusive and can’t be seen from shore. It’s always disguised by foliage and salicaceae branches. If curious enough to still brave the swim, be like the seamen and bring extra pairs of britches.

The water itself is too green with algae.
Scattered lily pads scathe feet slimy with weeds.

If a boat can be found or one wants drown, two legendary white flowers soak in the only sunlight around.

Adventurer Be wary:
No one knows how or who to place blame, but those two rare lotuses always get picked.

First sign of spring.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

On Writing

I like it when a poem doesn't say a whole lot.
When it dances around a message
like leaves around that statue of Garibaldi in Washington Square Park.
When the poem can speak
without ever really saying anything.

I like to read three pages and think two sentences,
like the author has you by the ears and he's dragging you along,
and you're kicking and screaming.

I think the finest poets can stare at a sky so big it seems to end below their feet
and sum it up in a few short words:
"No sky is bigger than another."

When a Decision is Made to Stay in One Place.

The snow was light and sparse and reminded him of the pubic hair on his first real red-headed girlfriend.

It was the kind of snow that fell and melted the second it hit one’s skin.

The way it inhaled and exhaled itself toward the pavement was nothing short of a visual phenomenon. It breathed just enough to maintain a light barrier over the preexisting sharp ridges of what was once it’s brethren but now, it’s inevitable fate: Ice crunched under foot like the sound of bones breaking in a high school football game.

Minus the fans and all the noisemakers, he glided across the thick white patches with finesse and straight-back confidence. He’d remember this walk when he’d get home. He’d use it as an excuse to not go out again. It was beautiful and he knew it. But the beauty was not worth the risk to step outside his apartment. To walk the nearly six blocks, for water, to an always empty corner store.

Leaving wouldn’t be worth the work come Friday when he’d still be sick and have to spend another late January weekend with his friends completely sober on feeling alone.

The phone rings and he ignores it. He doesn’t try to do it; he’s just doing something more important…

Tending to his eyebrows.

Swabbing out his earlobes.

Flossing past the canines.

Dabbing his face with coarse hand towels.

Unlike snowflakes, his beauty would stay. Yet, snowflakes are not susceptible to eight a.m. headaches or vulnerable to the dentist's ultimate nemesis, teeth sick with fits of decay.

Flakes lack hands and wrists and five digit fists. They are truly unable to ensure long lasting survival. Come rain or shine, in the end, snow just dies.





They breathe down to the ground. Dissipating like an airy “o” from a drawn out southern belle’s “hello.”

He’d make sure he was preserved. He was cold, yeah that was it.

He was cool. It could be seen in his alizarin colored cheeks.
He loved the winter weather.
He loved to see that he could outlive the existence of his very own element.

A Brief and Charming Trip North.

Platform fifteen at 4:33. Upper deck, green vinyl sleek seats.

Cue north suburban scenery.

Lake Forest, Illinois.
Quaint. Sun setting pink on a middle class neighborhood.

A church and a strip mall and an out of place green and white fast food establishment.

Most excellent wait service.

“Big” Mac is an overstatement

Forty-five minute walk toward some liberal art writing retreat on a cement stream littered with trees. An hour and a half is all we can spare. Not enough to walk. Call a cab. It doesn’t show.

We give up.

We get distracted.

Circle three sidewalks and a parking lot. Make the short journey one square block.

See a bank and an empty gas station. Perched above pines a pale cuticle shaped satellite. Astral decor for centuries. Accessory to everything.

Skin looking good underneath a waxing “Wolf Moon.”


The train station is deserted.


A vagabond talks to a dark man mopping.

The train does not arrive.

Stranded in Lake Forest.

An old-fashioned clock tells the time. A big clock with both hands points toward “panic.”

Quickly calmed down -Sunday schedule reads that we are to leave at 9:00.

Seconds smoke by until there’s one last cigarette.

At 8:55, we're sailing south on once green, now burgundy, sleek vinyl seats.

Monday, February 19, 2007

"On mushroom-top trees"

On a bus to chicago
the third I was supposed to catch since
last night,
I see half a dozen pine trees in a forest of dead oaks
as if to say "we understand our purpose,
but serve it only to the hawks that nest in our piney branches"