Friday, November 30, 2007

a father and the sun.

when i awake
i see the morning entirely
the mountains are cold
but they'll make this day grow
it will flow up from the ground
with the sunrise

i am a father to the newborn sky
and we will rise together like a family

and when the day is done
i'll die

then cleanse myself
in the mornings foggy eyes

One Great City

when smoke retreats to beautiful fair skin
what is left is whats within
wish it was the summer's daze
but there is only a winter haze
which follows me to death's bedside
and asks the question, 'whats inside?'

Tuesday, November 27, 2007


There was a freezing wind along the Oregon coast and the birds rested there
There in the saturated coastal air.
Two boys sat on logs near the water
And played songs to summon tsunamis
To crush the town that has kept them
Strumming songs about the road.
They sang for waves to send them floating
Across the continent, where they can sing
First for the ocean, then the sunflowers,
The tornadoes, the hurricane and finally
The apple orchards.
There the boys sit,
Playing their tsunami songs
Summoning the end of their stay
On the beach at Newport Bay.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007


A forked path, divergent in a wood.
one, a landscape of wooden men
who love to build fires from their arms
burning the inside first, then the out
my path is birch, all bark and no bite
burning bright and quick
and leaves little left for the beefeater to warm himself
(warmth is what you need when you live only in time)
Alas, eternity has its price
for I have taken the high(er) path
and it has made all the difference

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Prophylactics Keep Us Clean

After daylight savings time
but before the first snowfall
night doesn’t last
so long as we’re up for it,
huddled close.

And life isn’t that bad
when spent in twin sized beds
with naked strangers. Sober
(“So long as your okay with it”) one
asks to hold my hand.

A whole season comes and ends
and said stranger becomes a friend
as a confusing haze dawns a question,
“So long as we’re both alone....”
A squalid love is formed.

And a year later, after I meet her family
I can’t stop seeing her mother while
she's on her back and coming hard.
“So long as you’re cool with it,” I ask
if she can start to straighten her hair

But our once pleasurable sex turns
vanilla at best and reaps sorrowful
results huddled close
(“So long as we work for it”) we agree,
something needs to change.

And then nothing begins to make sense.
And mascara stains twin sized beds.
And what ever happened to true romance?
“So long as we’re both upset,” she starts
and confesses she's three months pregnant.

How can it not?

After "Nothing changes, I suppose"
When he left to walk
into that oak door,
he left it half open
as if to welcome the rest of us
into the roomy comfort
of pictures, no regrets,
no age, no tired eyes,
no hangover mornings,
no embarrassing drunks.

We took note of the impact
face up, rain down
it was stupid
and stubborn
and selfish, right?

The night after we
tapped his forehead with
crucifix and sang
a couple of down-tempo songs
(echoing in the vaulted ceilings),
we armed ourselves
with strength in numbers
and drank, like Mitch had
that morning
before the funeral.

He went home early
and frequently
I think he was the only
one that really
got it.

Saturday, November 17, 2007


I am my own god
and therefore the only truth.
So, here it seems as though
the holy life is one alone.
I look up to
the late fall sky
(the mirrored pond
placid now, rests
among the buildings high)
and see my face
smile to the sky-
as-sea, -as-mirror
or -as-clouds.
A window bright
with sun and dust
reflects my God as
pure and just
and right.
The holiest nights I am alone
with saints: appendages all my own,
and light a candle- vigil's smoke
now darkens holy Narcissus' home.

Friday, November 16, 2007

For My Kids

I drink coffee from a cup I found in the dumpster behind my apartment. It’s black and reads, “Chicago” in messy block lettering. I look at the skyline etched in gold below its brim. I look at it and think, “that is where I live.”

I found this zip file on the internet. I got it from a website that gets off on thinking it’s important. That it creates 90% of the humor transmitted wirelessly to pixilated screens and HTML pages. It is trash and thrives on the immediate attention given to people who place coded images immediately on the web. But, still I found this file, and still I downloaded it.

I drink coffee from a cup I found in the dumpster behind my apartment. I sip, tongue the hot liquid, sigh and grin. I whisper to myself, “this is where I live.”

Fifteen hundred pictures, taken by tattooed and pierce laden women. In front of bed and bathroom mirrors, they’ve hidden themselves discretely in a folder titled, “Scene Girls 15.” But I didn’t name them. Some kid on the interweb did.

And I looked at all of them. Fifteen hundred self-modeled poses. They made me feel sick. So I looked at them again and watched as fifteen hundred women looked through me and drooled at their own sordid reflections.

I drink coffee from a cup I found in the dumpster behind the building where I live. I get too hot. I move outside and sip and lose myself in an airplane circling the cities grid. Eventually it lands, and I imagine it a ship. I’m on it, sailing across Lake Michigan

Earlier today I tried to masturbate. Twice in bed, I dreamt of old girlfriends. Then three times in front of a computer screen. But the internet offered nothing and left me feeling empty and now I think about the fifteen hundred women oblivious to the fact that I know their bodies. That I’ve thought only of them as human between gasps and heavy breathing.

I drink coffee from a cup I found in a dumpster behind my apartment. After I exhale into the steam that rises from its moist, obsidian brim, I try not to think about the world in which I live.