Now

Then..., what of it?
It just passed, is over, is always
The future, is six months from
Used to be flying cars and fear of
One-world government
Is a fractured nuclear age, is the deli coffee
I drink, café-outpriced
Makes me feel like
An old man of twenty-seven
...elderly adolescent.
It matters if I do or do not
For anyone can try anything.
I'm done
For...

Aspirin For An Aching River

if there is feeling more pronounced I must
         know it
for now it evades and, frankly,
         I doubt
it’s my most fulfilling enterprise
to gain from the plenty of persons near
and yet the right person never near
still I sit alone to read, reclined
as blood drains out my lifted legs
         ‘til I can’t stand
and tea goes cold
though when the nerves return
reheat the kettle without stumbling and drink
to the sirens outside
my window always open
even in dead of winter,
needing to feel that chill breeze
         on my feet

Untitled (Static Fragments part VI)

I recognize you in the print,
framed and boxed and closeted
to hang unbecoming whispers,

it was always –who?- so it sits
back boxed and closeted. You’re not
really there, you’re behind, but

I know what went on along
the paths through the reeds and sea
oat and sumac. How many burned

out carcasses did we count
for posterity; thieves’ getaway
landfill sculpted from another

man’s sunken treasure. Robert
Moses never met a golden calf he could
not leave his name upon but this

brackish arm meandering a warm
November? It’s a long bus ride and
a longer hoof-it to find your way out

there so no, I’ve yet to make it back.

There Were Warnings

we gnash with a mouthful of broken teeth; eat
each other whole. bellies with no room
for remorse; not instinct, but ingrained, inbred

crushed like statuary amidst unhewn stone,
the gap between what marks the spectrum’s ends.
mottled bleedings inhabit muddied pictures,

otherwise straight lines, any definitive scratched
into lenses; these cameras covered red swirled
on hands, on faces, on everyone: pray

and find solace in the end of the world if
this empire crumbles surely it is the last
and greatest

Bureaucrat As Religious Scribe

it’s an expressionless face in a
three-walled hole of reflection

druids believed that
writing compromised secret

mass long lost to desire,
unresponsive as trained

and memory; for all their work,
only Roman accounts of them

that’s how I imagine him
definitely a him

survived, whatever that’s worth
when I write, my memory

he, who will pass on the orders
to begin the immolation

failed; will the only traces
in fifteen hundred years

any traces of us that we don’t
keep ourselves, gone

of any of this come
back to light as the hand

emperors never light the fire
it would be unconscionable

cuffed stiffly at the desk
producing reports and documentary

but the ashes on an unthinking
lackey’s smooth fingers

satisfied, however, so when the works
of the eternal volunteer elapse

grant a pass in the eyes
of the gods, the state, enduring

without conscious notice the fury
rages inside, demanding to be acknowledged

Untitled (10/9/08)

My friend Sophie knows
all the names for god
even if she says she doesn’t

I don’t believe her
just like I don’t believe
in god. But if

it’s real it probably
doesn’t want, or need, me
to believe

Because how relevant
to its aims
could I possibly be?

Then This Is A Dance, I'm Dancing

I thought I could dance
everyone said
because I had rhythm
I thought I could dance

But all eyes were on me
and I fled the scene
they said I could dance
since I knew how to sing

Alone in my room
I was ready to dance
with two curious knees
just holding me up

I could sing with my feet
if I knew how to dance
and because I had rhythm
be the life of the night

Now all eyes are on me
joints stiff as a line
unbending to will
and the threat of clapped hands

These curious knees
as unsure as first kiss
to chance with these feet
thinking we can all dance

(Book 2, pg. 128)

Something thicker filled the air today than water it was leaves, dry, and apple atmosphere. granny smith. No the next day is cold, wet, without lingering trimmed autumn grass. That’s all been smothered tomorrow into the soles of children’s shoes. They want their games on the wet field, they hate indoor gym class especially the ones with overzealous parents ready to sue over a lopsided game of dodgeball or anything with probabilities of pediatric peril. Like walking outside. Take away the processed sugar but god forbid the boys use sticks for swords. I should have gone outside more then, make up for it in thunderstorm bike rides today my gears are slowly rusting.

Notebooks

I know I’m nowhere but
that nowhere would be even less

knowable if there weren’t
stacks of you keeping track

the passing thoughts in pen
instead of doodles I have a record

what was in my head almost
never what a professor professed

and every year since a calendar
to mark the holes in my memory

whatever I failed to write or forgot
or flippantly left out of your mouth

Breakfast

we wake gripping hides
shaking the sleep from our eyes
digging nails reach for
pleasures inside
kicking and screaming the silent
waves that emanate
two prone surfaces stretch for days
every inch struggles to make its way
under the fingertips
under the crushing weight of heightened state
under the sheets that wrap us tight and aware
and when we finish we stare,
fall back
and dream

Eschatology

A fortnight
is but the lull between paychecks,
the family vacation’s patiently
collected days, maybe
to some the loss of
forty three names for lichens or
another’s recipes
for tree root alchemy.

Over that span somewhere
instinctual knowledge of the river’s
fluid mechanics, a herd’s migration
unwritten, goes missing
afar, isolated
or conquered
as the lost knot language.

One more phrase has dropped
golden and wrinkled, withered;
the gods who brought rain
no longer called upon,
their names cease to be relevant
now, those limbs bare
come spring.

Worn stone inscriptions,
pass the lips of the last
remaining elder
whose world was shaped by this
dying grammar, these breathing
vaults filled with knowing turned
to bide time as artifacts

by the young, who learn
like Dacians, Mahicans, Huns
the tongue of another;
the tongue that promises
work, new life, new phrases
to define a world, a universe
a missing afterlife

while whole galaxies collapse
in the failed hunt, the bad harvest
in that final breath
of the ultimate speaker
the echo,
the silence,
the vacuum on the 15th day


(updated 10/28/08)

Sleeping In A Crime Scene

Insomnia rides these sheets
minds never cease
without white noise,
incantations,
lullabies of distraction
so that I may have some peace.

She's always lurking right behind me.
Any time is better;
rest my eyes and
let it go
but night will never
leave me satisfied
to know

If I had maybe gone and killed this.
Someday, someplace
we both get over it.
I'll say
your name again
the way I always meant it.

Six Hours

Go ahead, lay yourself down
upon the ochre sheets
spread for you, the sated king
undead, unshrouded, waking-
dreams on procession
towards the head, its tractable
project screens.

A sparrow alights
in the near maple, watching
hidden
from the oncoming torrents
only to disappear.

He, she? knew
where you were now
friend, serpent, naga; guardian
knowing, unbound
by stumbling infant
limbs; whispering secrets
in virgin ears newly exposed
to wind.

Hush, hush
and rustled branches, the sparrow
has come and gone and surely
will return
at its enviable
whim; hush settled
in this blue room
seedlings glown
with calm, green
as your new ears, new
eyes, new fingertips
however calloused feel
as you did before
taking repose
on those ochre sheets.

Yet know to walk
in the sulfurous liquid
depths life shielded
for eons no good no evil
just the currents and the
Vulcan urges burst through
feeding, enrapt—
unwrapped
by the chaos where
for a moment
is still.


(updated 10/18/08)

Sea Shanty; Barely, Simply

picked her up gently
tuned and de-tuned and retuned
plucked a harmonic

peal of a string bell
rings, it rings in her voice that
one note that she hits

is the ambient hum
of the planet she hangs just
above, out of reach

of my finger tips
of the violet stretched tongue of
the tallest giraffe

so this round i’ll sing
and i’ll sing in my deep voice
how many octaves

lie between mine and
hers between eyelids unwedged
by the last dream this

morning when that hum
lays down stone for subconscious
libretto writ meme

into meme enfolds
chords into phrase calling back
in a round to that

note she first sang; her
hum, her wave on that string in
that spot it just is

it just hangs
it just hangs
it hangs then it fades


(updated 8/24/08)

Excerpts From A Conversation With A Houseplant*

Coleus, your green-rimmed, purple leaves are not an optical illusion

You're not even convinced and your argument
is not convincing. I know painters
who took color class in college

That's not a shade of blue, it's really
rather violet. Even I know violet.

Yes, the blueberry girl
from Willy Wonka.

No, that Amazon tribe doesn't recognize
a distinction between blue and
green.

Well, I'm not a shaman, so
I'm not quite sure how...

Yes, the roots talk to them and let
them know the proper combination, but...

I can hear you just fine.

It's late
I'm going back to sleep.

(*Inspired by a weekend with the family)

A Few Changes

I've been taking the time to edit some of these poems in preparation for journal/review submission, so they may change (hopefully for the better) from time to time until I submit them. In the meantime I'd love to get (serious) feedback from anyone who stops by here and takes the time to read anything. If you like something, let me know. If you hate something and have a good critique, send it my way. Consider this "peer review" and you're all my peers.

Thanks for stopping by.

Everything Unmade Into One

"And will never be any more perfection than there is
now."
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

It was suggested
That all those tiny imprints,
In wafers metallic and thin,
By concentrated light
Would lead us through

The ether holding hands
The world round, in remote
Corners to dawn a new age
Of improved mankind, unhindered
By the laws of flesh and disease

And DNA. A prophet
In some waking dream
A simple equation foresees
The real second coming of man,
Of new form beyond the crippling

Fear. Encased in stacks, row
Upon row, fans buzz
The sound of work, the machines
Work so we can move
Beyond bodies into programs. But when

Was the last time I was entranced
By that glimpse of a forever
Without collapse, just to find
All the things we made
Were seen already to have breath, to live

Outside that single point
So fervently wished forth
Of those unwilling to accept
Of imperfection or the mystery
Found in flaw. The flesh so weak

And apt to tear and stretch
Sending nerves into frenzy, perhaps
But also ecstasy. I need no tomb
Of museum exhibit life if that, indeed,
Is what is sought inside a conscious box.

A Beneficial Marriage

A reasonably romantic mind would wonder how
it is that, while we on the ground bathe
in the soaring words of our generals,
the world caves around, unsaved
by unreason, unloved in rations, digesting
only those bits watered
with feelings and logic. Since when
do unoiled machines work? And how

does that neglector of thought feed
himself? A universe in the hands of
technocrats grinds itself to grey mud while
the pastoral artist's eden starves
in love. A little change could do
you both some good; though I'd hate to
see the split of such a rigid embrace,
that dance of death
where you both look the other way.

(updated 8/24/08)

Mandelbrot, Woods

Pick up that descended leaf mottled
in golden pixels, the traces
left by forked veins. Would the caterpillar see
before his meal
the ragged edges of living green?
Those sugars later turned to dye entice
legs and legs to crawl,
for the perfect bite awaits him while
perfect cast delights me.

What fauna feasts on coiled fern
the way my eyes do? Nestled
in wet shade and spread to sun rays poked
between branch over branch above
the mosaic mirrored in the colored
leaves and holes eaten through, pierced
by sky.

Absent design, shapely accidents
layer themselves in scale; pebbles
aligned with sand to mark
an immeasurable end to land, an infinite
line with definite form
plying the space between water and air, blurring
distinction of branch and vein.

(updated 8/24/08)

Commuter Vampires

The heads found here
Bob with need of sleep
For they can't at night
Knowing what they've done
What they do and what they will
So this is their time,
When they can

Each one who sleeps well
Has plenty of time to rationalize
Their actions in bridge and tunnel
Safe at home with heavy eyes
And neglected children who
Will grow up to sleep away
Their rides the same

With Uncertainty

Last Day in Paris

at 9 a.m. the knock came thundering through the neon
flash; it had been there all night. all four hours of it.

we thought the deadline was loose and had new friends
to spend the dark with drink. how quickly to learn

otherwise and snap up. gather bags, pay and go. this was
no time for hangover. it was far too soon, far too early

for such intoxicating language in a sidestreet supermarché
buying bread and cheese and water. i think it's monday, how

many hours til the flight? god, where do we go now, up
the wind of this hill, these marble flights. does the city

glisten in the morning sun, or be it the alcohol
lulls me like the sirens back to sleep, here nestled with

my backpack on the steps of Sacre Coeur. you watched
the vendor of misspelled haiku postcards while I slept

this headache back to a dull thud. no more of the jarring
aftershocks from the morning knock on the door between my eyes.


(updated 10/29/08)

Thinks to Self

In this chair, this streamside vantage
the steady migration arrives in increments

to tease almost daily. You look to me
well read, as if while you studied

page after page pairs of eyes studied you
like I do. I'd fancy a chance with
that hand, but darlin', I'm as broke as you are

beautiful. What's the point in trying
then? ha, maybe you could love me

for my money, the adventure we could steal
while thermometers peak, or some trivia

I've had stored away for the occasion;
a squirrel for a useless fact, but a tough
nut to, oh you've lost patience already.

This spell is broken with unclenched
jaw so you'll never know how much
the practice is lacking. Stowed away up here.

(updated 8/25/08)

Flyover Country

Where the clouds have cleared the big sky
I can see grids orange-lit.
In black they burn at night
a few have winked my way.

Signals lost six miles on high but marks of hope.
Sprawling towns reach desp'rate to the next
like they reach to me towards the moon
towards some end.
Any chance to not be so alone on these plains.

Light gets smaller and further and won't
reach so far,
float like nebulae we imagine
the picture they make.

Each vision as good as the next one
must possess,
a vision out here where
I've never seen the ground I stare
forward through cabin, walls blink
blue green formica of headrest tvs.

Single lanterns pass for urban,
my night will last for everlong.

Oh, who gathered these towns,
this god's great joke
on the conquerors.
Spread 'til land's end and county line
into the hills, disperse
for wave after wave of the good
life to settle a future
that modern youth escapes.

Sit Too Close

Caught out in, it's refreshing
these interior monologues
to help remember, a sunshower.
Not too wet, just enough
to compensate for the ablutions
I missed. Again, today,
maybe tonight for a turn. But for now
I lift high my arms; head left,
head right, breathe deep. Ah, I'm alive
I can feel working deep.

Too much product, too sterile. I'm not
a lawn for fertilizer
or other 'cides of the kind. A pitch
like that is only good for kicks
and slide tackles. I prefer to be
left untrampled
by cleats into my ego.

At the chance I've gone too far
I read the bodies nearby,
they say before the mouths
what's in the air
between my soiled armor
and your delicate skin.

Though I hate umbrellas more
there was a time I loathed
my clothing in the rain
drenched to the core. Perhaps
a day will come when you
have left it late for musk
and ruddy cheeks to give
secrets away. My skin
is often sticky,
if you're unready I can wait.

Saturday: Early: Humid

I fell to sleep covered in bites
I wake up fine
get out on wheels and catch
an old friend, 'hey ol friend
what's good' let's get a drink
this week, we say
we will, it's been too long

the heat keeps the bridge empty
today or maybe just the empty
offices keep it that way somewhere
beaches fill with 9-5s and it's 10:30
I arrive drenched and happy
and unchained
to sell a book or two

Hematophagist Phalanx

It's Tuesday morning and it's just about 12:30am. On a normal night around this time I'd still be reading a book or wasting time on the internet. I'd probably be up for another hour at least. But man, tonight I'm actually exhausted. Tonight I just need rest for this summertime head-cold I picked up. My throat's a bit sore despite the constant flow of water I've been providing, still, I shouldn't have any problem getting to sleep. It's so hot and sticky, though. No need for even this sheet. Just keep the fan on me and I'll be fine. Lights out. Click.

Ladies! Listen up! We've been practicing tactical maneuvers for some time in preparation for such a situation as tonight presents us. Our scouts have located a prone, weary male body with little in the way of armor. Given the temperature and humidity, we can be fairly sure that skin is going to be left exposed to the air.
Now, let's not fool ourselves into thinking there will be no casualties tonight. We face perpetual danger from our "hosts", but our numbers should guarantee the drawing of blood and the infliction of torturous itchiness. A dazed and sleepy human will find it difficult to track you down and smite you, so keep that in mind at all times.
Okay, get in position for take-off...

Something's not right here. The dread of punctuated sleep hangs on a night when insomnia had, for my benefit, casually sauntered off elsewhere. I don't mind that sort of adultery. In fact, I'll take it whenever i can get it, and that isn't often. On the verge of comfortably dozing, my foot began to itch.

Remember, teams of two! While one of you makes the diversion run, the other swoops in for the bite. He's groggy enough already that he won't realize there are two of you. Wait until the lights go out and then I'll be sending the signals for the first team to go.

Mosquitoes, hovering as drones above the Afghan mountains that I comprised in my bed, buzzed faintly. Ugh, where are they coming from? I have a screen in my window. There weren't any around before I turned my light out. Are these from some new genus of brilliant culicidaeans that entomologists haven't recognized yet?

Alright Unit4, you float down toward the wrists while I hover near the desk, you copy?
Copy that, Unit3. Heading in.

You can't be serious. I really need to sleep. If I have to turn this light on I'm going to be so mad...

Danger Unit4! His arm is reaching for the lamp! Prepare evasion maneuvers.
Copy, Unit3, heading towards legs...

Click. Ah, I'm never gonna find them if my eyes don't adjust. Just stay focused and watch out the corners of your eyes for any movement. Ooh, there you are. Get away from my feet! I've gotta walk on those, I can't have some bite on them. Do you even understand how annoying that will be?!

I think I'm too quick for him, Unit3. I bet he still can't see anything. Unit3? Unit3, you copy?

This light, this light is strangely attractive...

CLAP! Nice, I got you good, you fucker. Ah, now I'll be able to sleep. Any more around? Nope. Good. Click

UnitCommander, We've lost Unit3. She was distracted by that lamp. I'm returning to base, copy?
Unit4, remain in position as tactical lookout, I'm sending Unit5 your way.
Copy that, commander.

If this keeps up I'm never gonna get to sleep. Should I pull my sheet up? Nah, it's too sticky in here.

Unit5, make your way towards his head this time, he'll find it more difficult to track you.
roger that.

Bzzzzzz. What the? More? I just killed you! Click

Retreat, retreat!
I'm heading towards the window

Oh, you're dead. Smack! Bah, how'd I miss?

I just got out, heading back!
You can't leave me out here naked, Unit5!

Smack! Alright, that should be...what, more? Where the hell do you keep coming from? This is absurd now. That's, like, 5 already!

Need reinforcements, Unit5 is down!
They're on their way, Unit3, hold tight...

That better be the end of it, I can't take any more of this. It's already 1:30. I should have been asleep a long time ago. Click

Unit6, Unit7, listen close, I'm going to remain in hover position near the desk and warn again if his hand moves to the light. One of you should be able to get in close enough to bite this time.
But Unit3, don't forget to avoid the light if it goes on, we don't need more casualties.
I'll be wary, 6, just focus on what you need to do.
Hey 6, I'll assault the feet while you go for the upper extremities.
Copy that, 7.

Fine, just take my blood, I'll try to ignore you. Just take it and leave me alone. Ah, shit, she got my foot. That's really gonna itch for a while.

Got his foot, here. Didn't get a large payload, however.

How'd you? Huh? No. No, there can't be two in here again. Please, please mosquitoes don't make me turn that light back on, I just need to sleep. It's almost 2am for Pete's sake.

No movements towards the lamp yet, keep on target, Units.

That's it, you both have got to die now. I gave you your chance to suck and run but you got greedy. Click

Whoa! Where was the warning?!
He was too quick that time, just get out!
Help, I'm trapped here...

Slap! Yes, one more down. That's the one that got me. No blood for your eggs tonight, ma.

I'm heading for the window, I can make it. Unit3 are you alright? Unit3? 3? Hey!

Clap! Sweet, got another one. No more, right? there can't be anymore, I've already gotten six. That's unprecedented. Nobody's gonna believe I had that many mosquitoes in here. Shit, I can't let anybody know, no girl will ever want to come over here, ever. Well, at least it's not as bad as that old apartment with bedbugs, that was terri...Hey! Another one, motherfucker!

Somebody set up a diversion! I'm alone out here and I'm in his sights! We're all done for if he gets me. SOS, anyone, Commander?!

There you are, thought I'd lost ya. Okay, sit still, she'll land and then...nope, shit. Where'd you....Thud! Yes! Ow, punching the wall isn't the best method. Ow, that hurt. Fuck me. Well, I got you. Are there any more of you? What am I doing, I've lost it, mosquitoes can't hear me. I'm gonna be delirious at work tomorrow. Hey, if there are any more of you in here, this is your chance: I've killed seven (7) of your sisters, or cousins, or whatever. Bite me now while I sleep. I'm too tired to deal with this anymore. I'm going to sleep now. Hear me? I'm sleeping. Goodnight.