Upon awakening, i tell my dreams to someone else

you never expressed so much regret

the other times you left me.

time has never warranted this,

the lavender song has lost its time and scent.

i will grow a large beard

and rough you up

to forget my childish ways.

i have learned to isolate my fantasies.

~

you think you can hammer out

your indiscretions on an anvil of pulp.

let me have time to lick my wounds

like the god that i am.

~

it’s comforting when she says,

“you can’t like me as much as i like you.”

in my insecurity, i know it’s true.

it’s cold and the gas won’t be turned on

for another week. she was right,'

this bed can’t be slept in alone.

ambiguous symphony

cannonballs but in the abstract;
violins linger as though
walking through a
city of bohemian beggars.
rivaling renditioners
of beethoven compete for your money
from opposite sides of the street.
the notes juxtapose to perform the most precise beauty
ever born of trifling rivalries
and you are haunted by an irreplecable song for the next three days.
a cannonball tears through
your car stereo in rush hour traffic,
it flies down the lane two more miles before
it comes to a stop.
somehow, everyone has been waiting for this to happen.
somewhere in the atlantic,
fourty tons and fifteen months of construction
become the blip on the radar screen
that is no longer blip-ing.
it reminds you of
being spanked to tears as a child upon misbehaving,
of being put in your place only yours lacked the finality.
seconds before an ocean wave
that is really a schizophrenic mountain
screams all kinds of nihilism at you
you realize that the stars
are very pronounced and numerous
in the middle of the ocean at night.
cannonballs fly but in the abstract,
there are violins and stars, though they drown too;
the ocean is large.
you too with ambiguity envy such a death.
pure, unrestrained and final.
the cars ahead of you are moving again.

No epic so epic

There was a snowfall deep
and quiet in November
when the heat was still such
that snow felt soft to the touch.
When the red-haired girl was,
when the blue-eyed was not,
innocent, but for grey
streaks against the snow-
clouds against the sky-
smoke against young lungs:
they used to cough so much.

Black rubber tar tires
worn through, sliding in snow.
Winter splattered with salt stains
and dirt-caked shoes worn thin;
dear then but not worn again.
Then, when drink was always gin,
burning pine needles,
great mouthfuls of fire,
charred christmas tree guts:
they fought back so much.

Basement party epiphanies:
"Graham, the Bowie Boy who kissed me,
the girls would look on and laugh,
he used to say he tasted honey."
Lips were never that sweet,
soft, yes, and warm, but
smoke black and cracked,
bleeding gums and lips,
dry from electric heat:
they used to know so much.

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?'