Mouse Man

My mother is having another baby.
My father is busy writing his novel.
He wrote one before, when I was a boy:
One about tiny mice in tiny clocks,
Running businesses, living like princes.

That’s where he’s at,
Out in the country,
Looking for Inspiration,
Which he lost somehow.
Easily as a ring of keys.

Meanwhile,
I am my father’s tiny mouse,
Living inside his tiny clock,
Watching the stubby hour hand,
Willing it to glide in reverse,
To meet the minute hand once again,
And beat it at its own game.

This Is Too Much New

I know now that not everything is in you.
I have to halt, dig in my heels,
Knowing Time is no excuse—
There are still wires to cross
And organs to unlock.
The heart, perverted spleen,
And other curves of the life body.
Still I’m spiraling directly into you.
The action came first: all my words
Limped behind like a hooked fish.
I’ve coughed them up, they’re yours.
We don’t get along, me and the body.
I am its anesthesia; its will is my crutch.
All this Time, all of these raptured Wild Nights!
Too much, too much, and in time, not enough.

This Is Too Much New

Silhouettes slapping ghost railway cars,
Families on the bluff, cans in the ditch,
A shadow trail into the frail forest.
Fireflies of insidious delight pepper
The scope of the forest.
The uphill path, but also others.
Until the Lake arrives, temporary ocean,
Winding around like a carribean clock.
And then comes the soul of All-Time,
Silver-Dragon of Nature, which was a lie
Before now, he once stood with naked scales.
Now he has told me many tragic tales.
The Lake turns Silver-Purple, it only makes
Sense now that these were the colors of my school:
I am a firework over reflection of the moon.
Oh, but they have nothing to do. This is too much—
My knees, fallen trapeze, gone down to the mud.
My ass is muddy. It’s probably from when I was
Nearly crying on the ground. I get no satisfaction
In choking on my own leech of regret.It was a most

Terrifying
Beach, too many randy winds, too much sorrow—
I thought I wouldn’t be lost until tomorrow.
I melted out of the leaves: I wanted to believe
That nothing was stopping me from being stuck in between.
Where are they now, to have left the room, a blazing porch?
Like Billy Pilgrim, I went unstuck in time,
And every time I rambled into darkness, I met the moon,
A bald lioness over the canopies, loud down towards the pack of wolves.
Look, I only wanted to quit asking for you.
I hauled my phone over, my eyes cotton, I cannot move.
Pull me. Probe me around the perimeter of the bowl,
Where at the bottom I’ll sleep until my tongue is cold.
World so quiet you’d expect church mice to cry.
But they are stronger than that now:
They’ve been through Time,

They have incredible senses of smell,
And a tendency to run through shit
Before clearing the mammoth trees of my pilgrimage.

This Is Too Much New

Huge, tarry holes in the winding road.
Light out of giant windows, dancing
With who-knows-what feeling in the driveway.
All defenses down. Stars going down
In fear of too much of a perfect moment.
Clouds coalesce with our cool breath.
Moment, in lights-out stillness, soon lost,
Lost in clouds, in new paralyzing questions.
Handstands of voiceless frustration.
Sentences chipped away by plush,
Shy boy fantasies. Piss in the underbrush.
Two inches was never quite enough,
Not for the impaired, not for this queer
Who stutters to the honest moon.
Conversations under a chapel-ceiling
Clinking like dishes,
Swinging like an empty hour of boyhood.
We are heady, heavy and rambling fools.
The next morning we find out everything went wrong.
Lingered and then left, having cleaned
Out the grime of our hushed mistakes.
Walking out the door I imagined some more.
Still, I can’t waver those questions—
Are we having fun, what could I have done:
Why am I so surprised.

Anticipation Hours

This is a seizure of centuries old.
A Halloween sans masks or drinks,
Only ocular migraines when the phone rings.

Bar on the refrigerator, empty balloons
Tied to the door. It is an ordinary Saturday.
Dizzy ordinary, truly hungry.

I have never seen the face of a party.
It has been stuffed in the dark, painted
Neon-orange for jack-o-lantern effect.

Wide eyes! Orange mouths, shouting
Into the darkness of the sick cave.
Then out comes a brilliant cockatoo.

I pick up the carved battering stick.
Take aim at the paper mâché—
and out comes you, you, you.

Anemic Rain

I cannot sleep while you still stir.
The soft rain does not scare me,
Not with its silver fingertips.
But a broken hug breaks bodies down,

Hallways drown in morning sweat.
Shadows bless the sad face.
I refuse my body that fails me so.
My body vaults itself toward

The door of some treasured cove;
Floor wet to the marrow, it seems
There are no ways to circumvent the rain.
A single toe dipped in the pond,

A single bee braving the promise of the flood.
I cannot move everywhere I'd like to,
Unrooted I am to you— Oh dancing plant,
Thirsty: A stupid yawn sets in.

The rain comes in thin sheets of burgundy,
Disappointment drips out of my feverish ear.
Then comes fish-eyes, golden strands of hair,
A rainbow thick as a stack of cards.

Red Rover

Red rover, red rover, send our mothers on over.

Spread their wings like the stiff wings of eagles,

Send them running warm with grief like a river

From the rotten mouth of a volcano, babbling,

Water smoother than a baby's bubblegum tongue.

Let motherhood not escape them, or gut them

In the winter night once we've all been sent away.

Red rover, red rover, send them over some other day.

Red rover, red rover, send the next batch on over.

Roll their sleeves and let them sing past your

Playful hour, which will soon turn dark, shade

That turns forest air into sea winds. Soon they

Will have to learn what it means to be nautical.

How best to roll the waves, bite down on the bread,

Gather up everything we left and go back to the start.

Red rover, red rover, send them no constellation chart.

Red rover, red rover, send this ending on over.

The final wisp of dragon breath, a warm upward draft

Into the reflective sky, flecked with beads of magic.

The ancient sycamore tree itself is even splintering.

The machines of creativity are creaking and spitting

Out screws and grinded gears, so forward us quickly,

End the withering dream, snipped short at both ends.

Red rover, red rover, everything is burning again.

Boston Doors

I am closing the Boston Doors:
Though they glitz in the pale harbor,
I cannot be moved to remain.
Old City Hall is shutting up.
Tea party patrons shake their cups.
Cracked, red bricks litter the terrain:
A cemetery. An arbor.
Moonlight too sweet soon turns sour.
I am closing the Boston Doors:
I'll return on the Mayflower.

Brush With Smoke

It’s easier to see the other side of the forest
when all the leaves are dead, lit up
like an intellectual scroll.
I used to come here to break hearts
now I come to ponder the mystery of the poem
and send my tongue into revulsions.
More than that, I cup my hands for water
and pull insatiable tears out of my eyes.
Those vaporous, regrettable things,
which I admit once did see from the brighter side
of the forest, but the leaves have started to spiral
like white-ash embers that sting and crack,
and with enough green, comes dark.

Getting Along

Love this easy never comes so quick.
Numb hands, locked on Stuart Street,
A kiss goodnight—and kisses more—

Like a lucid dream brought to night.
Longing in the old bones
Went looking for the meat of things—

Why do the phoenix’s wings
Stretch longer each and every time?
Why burn hotter, why cry

Louder with warbled tongue? And fly
Not yet unzipped. I admit
I do not know what wants what.

I kiss your neck— lonesome spotted mutt.
You have seen the prettier side of me
And I of you, that’s fair.

But my branches are touched afire.
Are we to become charred, tattered,
Prettier than a waterfall of air?

Prehistoric Concerns

I am failing to convey to you the gravity of this situation.

It's heavy as shit. It's mammothian, perfectly preserved

in a block of ice. But maybe more like a baby mammoth.

The kind that they're going to use to repopulate the Earth

with mammoths. Imagine that. Mammoths in your backyard,

they would be hunted every winter. High school students

would skip class, forget Chipotle, we're gonna get ourselves

some mammoth meat. And soon the grassy knoll will be

covered with mammoth carcasses, stained snow: grisly.

It's heavy like that, it smells like that. If we're not careful

mammoths could walk the Earth again, and I still haven't

gotten used to all the dodos running around, pecking and

squawking, pooping in my bookbag, stealing happiness away.

Observations Of The Long Night

1:32am
She had only been kissed once—and now, as an official adult, that simply wouldn’t do. No more waiting around for the perfect move, the ultimate checkmate. The chessboard had been shattered by an invitation to come over to his house. Slipping out the backdoor, she ran to her car in the rain followed by her three older sisters—not by blood, of course—who were of course there to make sure she went through with it. This was, after all, so unlike her. She went through with it. While putting her shirt back on and trying desperately to contain her smile which was plain as the moon, she thought about her first kiss. And her second kiss. And about how, really, they were one in the same.

2:45 am
The porch was cool and dry, despite the thunderstorm purring in the giant umbrella of night. He opened the sliding glass door just a foot and slid through, careful not to keep the door open too long. The porch was a den of unfavorable affairs: a half-downed bottle of beer on the table, trails of smoke disappearing everywhere, and dirtier than the clouds of smoke were the words floating from the mouths themselves. Just stepping into the room, they politely requested that he take a cold, long drag. The ends of their sticks flared in the storm. They were his little pale-skinned devils, fiercely beautiful and unhealthy. To his right sat his little bookish angel, who opened his mouth to speak and could taste only smoke instead.

8:29 am
He had many dreams for only having slept two hours. He was set loose in grocery stores, charged to rescue dolphins from a tarry pool, and saw brilliant yellow fireworks streaming in the night sky. But these were all quick dreams, like rooms in a museum. He dreamt mostly of blankets. Thick, woolly, smothering. They covered him in layer after layer, suppressing his ability to breathe, until the blankets formed a looming fortress over him, and passers-by could only guess at who was inside. Then he would wake— blanket-less and shivering. He wanted just to cuddle with her on the couch but never did, on account of his un-ignorable morning erection.

What Ceremony IS this?

Take roses, from

just behind the porch,

just behind the ear,

and in her hair, hear

that awful piano tune.

I wish the piano-man were here.

Left with his woman instead,

too kind for unkindly folk.

Take his roses

from smirking shirt pocket

and blow balloons into

the void of his face.

We'll be the ones to entertain you now.

With buckets of water,

and eyes that can't blink

because we were up past 3am

and we sleep in 4 hour increments.

But you wouldn't know that

man,

You slept through both

the Easter hunt

and the phoenix sound.

Blind Pursuit

It will start out as a question,

Innocent. Lurking with metaphor.

You may answer with white shudders

Or a shrug of your shoulders, lips

Forming to an unconvinced 'sure'.

Beluga whale of an evening,

Stretching it's smoothed fins.

Blowhole, shadows on the curtains.

Sometime. Moontime. How long

Have you kids been awake?

Weaving your own mistakes,

Through cobralike fingers,

Eating holes. Like biscuits

And a brickload of coffee.

Dried out, dried out apricots

Picked delectably off of me.

All right, scram, you've had your fill.

What I once stalked like an

Iguana turned out to be nothing

More than a reflection of the rainbow.

Cartographer

Time gave you time

To lick the ink,

Sweat

Out your dreams.

Dreams, not good—

Topless kittens,

Etc. Shower rain

Melted them off.

Turned into

A pool of salt,

Calling Lot's Wife

Into the picture,

Then pushed away.

Nick's Cafe.

Waitresses bring out bacon.

Waitresses bring me steak,

Like the skirted lioness.

I eat

Heartily.

I pen them down.

I pin them down.

They whisper.

'I can feel your cock,'

They whisper.

Nose to oily ear. Skin

Vanilla bean.

'Meet me in the bathroom.'

On the napkin I draw a map.

Declaration of Severance

You should have said the mountains were out of reach—
No matter—I’ve seen them, through a lazy cloud stream.
I’ve left them—taken by dreams—oh the swiftness they teach,
Away from you, your vow of silence—faced towards the sea.
On a clear day you can hear it—love—clogging my veins,
Coursing like a deep blue snake, then turns to sugar and gleams
In the light. Not much out here but lamps and hunger pains.
Then you, constricting your lips ‘neath the sycamore tree.

My bones grow heavy—thoughts of red-brick anchors—marriage—
Little geniuses, monologues with Mother’s mouth; tucked in bed.
How miserable the horses would have been to pull our carriage,
Faced towards the sea—dumb and dull for all eternity.
God, it came to this! It came to this sweet friction of hell—
Damp electricity, my bravery led to the void, my daily dread.
It’s clear, we’re here—we’re fading—it won’t end well.
Unless I disappear—or say that we will never be.

I cannot keep you, shrink you, put you in a music box,
Though your voice still haunts the carnival of night.
I cannot chew through your licorice gates, your gumdrop locks—
So long as I am sick with you and you are sick of me.
So I’ve kept you in the open—a trophy?—a token of the sun,
Shining and turning away—laughter of unbearable delight.
Concerned phone call. 'I would never hurt anyone.'
And it’s true, you’re as harmless as a tender tsunami.

I have built endless bridges and laid them before you:
Ignored, toppled into rubble—next season, restored—
Kisses of river sparked beneath, soon out of them grew
The heavy, resolute roots of a great sycamore tree.
Now I’ve thrashed and wailed and wrung this all I can.
You’re a big pretender—I’m getting bored.
I’ll say it so I’ve said it so I’ll never say it again:

No us for the future, we will never be.

The Action Comes First

Let’s get this out of the way: I want to have sex
with you. We’d get mad freaky beneath the stage
in the final act. I would treat your clothes as if
they were asphyxiating your poor skin, which

they are. I would suck on your bottom lip as if
it were a bubbly, bottomless bottle of Coke. I
would lift you up and press you so hard against
the wall that my muscles would ache until we're

finally off to college. I’d part the wave of your

toes with my fingers and warm your inner thigh. I
would even grab your ass and I’m not much of an
ass man. But above all, I’d want for us to get stuck

at the very top of a Ferris wheel, swaying fifty feet
above the ground, where no one can see us together,
and I’d kiss you and kiss you until the carnies
rip us apart. But if not that’s cool, I’ll find another

girl from somewhere, and I’ll write a few dozen poems
for her, and give her the grand tour of my room, and
after I’ve fucked her I’ll even ask her to the school dance,
whatever it will take for you to call me by my name.

I Cannot Go To Hell And Back

I cannot force creativity

out of this muttled skull.

On my desk sits a dozen small

poems addressed to you,

but they're old since you no longer exist.

I read today about Audie Murphy

who was a small frail boy

who won 33 medals for killing people

in the Second World War.

Anyway sometime later he

became addicted to placidyl,

then went cold turkey,

locked himself in a dingy motel

and a week later got over it.

What I'm saying

is that I'm not Audie Murphy.

I have never contracted malaria.

I don't know what it's like

to shake violently for days

and then suddenly stop.

The Properties of Beauty

The close-up are more beautiful

than I could have ever imagined,

at least before climbing into this bed.

Beauty cascades like water,

murky, swirled sort of blue.

It dries as quickly as not,

and before now I never knew.

I know now the dynamite of skin,

and the unanswerable warmth

that squirms within.

But unless I be denied it all,

I better be careful with my

hands, say no names, dream

no dreams, pick no sides.

No one angel sleeps in the skies.

15 Rules To Writing, Enjoying Spring and Forgetting All Else

1. The page is the only one who cares and maybe not even then.

2. Time for poetry only when we're done playing.

3. Love all and for every reason.

4. The new muse is Play— Thought is dead.

5. In movement there is life, in change there is power, which all will be used.

6. No time to wait for someone to come around, go and find them.

7. Trust all with our many Truths.

8. Sleep not when tired but exhausted.

9. No explanations necessary.

10. See in the future nothing familiar, it's all right.

11. Relax because it's just a day.

12. Let the Music of the Mind sing.

13. Don't Miss The River.

14. This time like every time will work.

15. Love who?