Saturday, April 11, 2009

The Undergraduate on St. Patrick's Day

It’s warm tonight.
An early spring to mark
the conclusion of March
while the wind blows itself
in circles against alleyways.

Out there,
on the sidewalks the men
and women are lazily clothed
in last summer’s fashion:
dull green from head to toe.

They spill onto the pavement.
Cars swerve and honk
at the oncoming barrage
of frustrated souls embodied
in youthful wet dreams.

These people squawk back,
shouting at the motorists
to learn to drive their ca….
Onto the other sidewalk,
the mass marches onward

to the safety of a toilet seat
in such times of uncertainty.
Grasping hold of its bright
whiteness their bodies scream
out the wasteful evening

Their future lies in an
attempt to reach prosperity:
competition, marriage
children and church meetings.
What sense of justice depraves

this community?

Where I’ll be waiting. Their
fathers built these streets
and bulged their pockets to
be reckless. I’ll teach their
children about value and esteem

Then they will surely hate me.

"Art is a destination" I hear the muses sing

for Tiffany
thanks for letting me pretend
to be a woman


i wish i didn't put myself out there so much
and was proud enough to capitalize
all the proper nouns that do describe
every ounce of my inner being.
But i’m afraid of getting hurt
I choose instead mortar, flame,
to burn the lives of others
who want my intimacy
but they must know
mine is not unique.

i fear i may have
jumped the gun again.
Perceiving things wrong.

“These short lines
Can’t be misread”
i type
i never really liked
to read.


Someone asked me once
to name my top five books
and i couldn’t, i’m proud
enough to respond with
an educated explanation…

I never liked the unlearned.

Though people make me
hypocritical i know
i’m not that smart
i blame the glasses
they leave the lasting
impression I’m proud
enough to know
people read me


This environment is not art:
a small desk with light enough
to illuminate the idle cobwebs
in the corner where I write
the American Spirits smoke themselves.

They wear and scratch at the sleeves
of my American Apparel v-neck tee
They’re hunched over my laptop
typing listlessly through
puffed smoke screens
of insight
that get lost
amongst the ash tray.

“Art,” I sigh as if it’s ME
typing with unmanicured
fingernails stained
like tooth decay on
and off the home row.
Their cherries speak
the click and klack
of type

On keys
where I am not the artist.
I am the clich├ęd American
listening to Icelandic poets
sing lullabies in a tongue
I’ll never taste nor touch
to the tip of one
genuine spirit.


This is me smoking
The image of a reality
I could capture if
I had more talent
but the boyfriends
never let me sleep.

Instead, I perform ecstasy
On a four cornered stage
Laden with sweat stains
And always dirty sheets.

If only I could get paid
I think with lays
like these.

What matters is
I’m not talking
about politics
or the economy
or the person i
believed once
to be.


The economy
Siblings I never see
Gifts for my father
He’ll never receive

The lunch I attended
With my ex-fiance
I forgot to mention
How great life was without him


The theoretical act
of a pack of cigarettes
smoking me into oblivion
is a device purely likened
to the performance of an
ego overcoming self-

Hands touching
fire to fingers
holding paper
while touching
a machine that
offers singularity

And now the rush
ripples through me
the gradual release
of me getting off