(rough cut)

Equinox

I can't write anymore.
I keep having ideas, moods; one might even call them inspirations.
The way that winter has such an impending feel to it,
the inevitability of cold ears and chapped lips.

Between.

Before the grayness penetrates everything...
The leaves haven't turned yet, but it's coming,
green to red, orange, brown, dead;
Paul to John, mandolin to piano.
Bells, timpanis.
Some underground current,
surging, rushing, pounding.
It is coming.

2007, in about 20 minutes

I will not worry when
they hatch in my sleep.

I know only my own
distasteful experience.

east old frisian

said one to another,
the music of others inhibits the poetry of our spleen.

replied the second,

it is time to move someplace with mountains. we are furry,

and blinded by the oncoming traffic

i have been coming down for as long as i can remember

we are furry, and the streets come to pieces in our claws

i have been coming down each time they didn't call

we are furry, or we are fuzzy, but that is for philosophers

i was going to be a philosopher but then i accidentally graduated

you can use my password if it will help

can i use your vicodin

you can use my password if you want to

let's drive really fast and then turn the wheel

turn how

probably like this

Two Sonnets

       A Late Morning Sonnet

The ghosts in here have haunted me for days.
I hear those screams of anguish or delight.
I don't know tales beyond the murky haze
Of what could happen on one summer night.
To think of dreams, of nightmares, violent sex—
To speculate would be a loathsome thing—
A vision — painted hair and hickeyed necks;
A couple — man and woman — just a fling?
Just clumsy hands that feel their way around—
Tequila lingering on a pair of breaths?
Or is it real—true ecstasy is found—
Entrusting one another with their deaths?
   The ghosts in here are haunting me today
   But still I wake and wait to join the fray.


Sunrise Sonnet
for Veronica

I fell down your stairs on that fateful night;
Sounds of music still playing to my ears,
the sticky-sweet smells laughing at my flight—
There was nothing to protect me from tears.
As I quickly darted from your tower,
Concrete rose to greet me with sickly grace.
I stumbled down the streets at that hour
Unable to shake the sight of your face.
It is a vision of which I’ll not tire,
But inconsistancy still tortures me.
Whether to live with balance of fire
Or of such troubles be completely free.
  But what if the encounters dreamed were true?
  And what might happen if I were with you?

Pretention

This is a prententious poem of sorts, which may be why I was able to get it published in my college lit mag. However, if you get it, I think it's actually pretty clever. I'll post a brief explanation in the comments section so it can be read unannotated.

***

Cigarette Before Bed

Put on your coat and hat because it’s late. Check your mail once more and turn off your computer. Walk down the hall, turn left, and you should be outside. Reach into your pocket and get your cigarettes. Sit down. Sift through your pockets for your lighter – not your jackknife.

And light.

And there was light.

Inhale.
That breath of life
already taken;

Exhale.
And the smoke floats about you before dissipating.

Tap, inhale, exhale; wash, rinse, repeat.
Such is the way with all evening rituals.

Time moves slowly at this hour.

Someone laughs indoors—
Wonder if you’ve met her at a party.

Think about:
Crossword clues you didn’t get
(they say nicotene helps the memory)
Friends lost
How you guess that means you’re off for lunch
(there’s too much wind for smoke rings tonight)

Sex

(try to blow smoke rings anyway)

Don’t think about::
Friends lost

Get a song from Rent stuck in your head, and force it out with something from an early Simon and Garfunkel album. “Leaves That Are Green” works well. Look at the fading light of your cigarette.

Then think:
It was good
And it was good
And it was very good.

1999

busy

let your hair hang in your eyes - it is time
to apply your eyeliner, it is time to untie
that sash. do me a solid: do you remember
when you were a fish, floating among the pale
women in pale dresses, floating too well? how
do you breathe in that blanket? i stood on
a lot of fire escapes then, and never jumped once,
i saw the sun go down behind the statue of liberty
and thought "what is upsetting mary beth tonight?
i wonder if i smile like this then will she smile as well?"
it is difficult to say - which is why it is frightening,
and worthwhile. it is why it would be better to be
hunted by a ninja than a zombie. it is better not
to float too much, to almost drown. if you get
on the bus, stand in the village for four hours,
and then get back on the bus and go home, i know
you will see a lot of girls, but i don't know where
they will be going to, and neither will you. you can
ask them, but they will raise their eyebrows, stretch
their necks, and talk about ash. their catholic upbringings,
and ash, and they will not be going anywhere,
because it takes too much time, and their make-up
is ephemeral, in the sense of a basket of candy corn,
or the illusion of continuity.

Song of the Unrequited E-mail

for Ariana

I try to be short, I try to be fun,
but nothing seems to impress you much, hon.
It's breaking my heart, it's cramping my brain
and I don't even know how I can explain.
"My life is so busy, my life's far away,"
is all that I think you would say anyway,
All that I want is to keep you in range;
in order to do that, we need an exchange.
I've tried being long, I try to be true,
I try to be witty, or angry, or blue.
I'm not making fun, not trying to taunt
But what the hell is it? What do you want?

2004

Gravedigger

Of all the days, this one still remains.
Over the cracked and deserted plains,
With a trowel in one hand and a hatchet the other,
A man searches for suitable earth that will cover.
Yet in this hot dust bowl, firm earth can’t be found—
The wind replaces what he takes from the ground.
He cannot delay or stop to worry—
He feels the time and he must hurry.

The man never asked what would be his career—
Dreaming of oceans and thirsting for beer,
(Or running from memories of a mistimed leer).

As the sun rises higher, his cheeks become red.
“Damn you!” he mutters, “Can’t you stay dead?”
And yet even his own voice hitches as he speaks—
He is ashamed of the uncertainty he leaks.
He returns to his task, as determined as ever,
To complete this venture, and concede to it never.
He grinds his teeth as his trowel hits more rocks,
And he feels as if God looking down at him mocks
His fiery face and his shoulders that heave,
His mind that attempts to compel him to leave.
He knows he cannot—it is his damnation
To sit here forever upon this foundation;
To turn up the earth as he tries to forget;
To look at the past and to feel no regret.

Death falls over the plain like a cloud.
The screeching of buzzards increasingly loud,
Even if he escapes, he’ll still be alone.
He has nothing left to do but atone.
And perhaps in this he can find some small hope—
Sometimes the solution requires no rope.
And indeed it’s possible to release his mind
If he can learn to leave what’s gone—and tranquility find.

1996, revised 2007

one time two times

he is the man whose foot grows to ridiculous proportion
when he is defeated by every other man. he is the man
who bathes in ash. he is training his neurons in a new way.
his mother drove over the saddest girl he knew in an
American-made sedan, and now he must file for unemployment.

long ago he was defeated by each of the Magyars. his heart
was pierced by every sword on the fields of Munster. one
could see him float across the Danube on his oversized foot.
but things are much faster today, and so he is training
his neurons in a new way. back and forth, his eyes follow

the cigarette, lit and threatening to drop its ash, as it moves,
back and forth. he is remembering the positive and negative
feelings he gets when his foot grows to a ridiculous proportion,
the positive and negative emotions he associates with being
defeated by every man. his breath slows noticeably in the dark office.

Sick Day: A Haiku

what was that you said?
my ears are clogged with mucus.
yes, the snot is mine.

i was emo before emo existed

blue

pulled out of my seat, i’m forced to dance—
just play the game and fuck romance.
forget her eyes, tell her lies;
watch how her hair glows and flies
in the blacklight skies.
she spins my spirit on a wheel—
i hardly remember how to feel,
but fooling myself always helps.

all love is psychosomatic—
my heart skips to break the static.
drinking till the light is biting,
i’m automatically reciting,
simultaneous cigarettes igniting.
getting closer now, a pause;
forget the flaws!
inhale, crush, exhale, and enter.

“sure, light a candle, whatever”
(just let me forget her forever)
but i remember how it begins—
dark music playing, the room spins;
behind my eyes, i feel the acrid pins.
rushing out, skipping a stair,
tripping into the night air

i wanted to dance and dream in blue.
i wanted to find something new
but i still return to your familiar door
and wonder what for?
i just need someone to kiss—
for what passes for bliss is bliss.

1998-1999

Old Poem

Once a verdant bud,
now a plum bloom

rests snug in your hair
mocking your lips