The Prince And His Memory Are No More!

Who will step up to steal the prince's throne?
Who will dare lie where the prince has lain?
Legions of worms inched forward once they were shown
a picture of the princess I once kissed in the rain.
"Find a lonesome boy with much greener eyes;
and who can see much more in me than he.
One who must never sleep and always act surprised,
and he must, must, must hold me gently."
He might write better than me– if he was mute;
He'll be a better kisser, and for her he'll never tire.
If she's gonna waste her time, he better be cute.
I'd say she's undeserving, but I don't like being a liar:
Yet when the princess finally wakes for her fresh semester start,
she'll pick any one of them, they'd all play the part.

Affluenza

Mom never let us forget it.

It hung over us like a pale storm.

Affluenza! to resist the temptation to buy lots of small things.

Affluenza! she made it an art.

Affluenza! we never did catch on.

"Why Don't You Save Up?", I remember her scolding,

as we purged our pockets of spare change and bills.

Even now,

I buy at least one Coke every day,

and gallons of gasoline,

balloons of chocolate,

heaping handfuls of Skittles, and the like,

and of course, my monthly subscription to isolation.

Yet for one night,

I would still buy the world for you.

sparks of closeness

you can't see my true smile.
because it exists only when we hug

in a fit of frenzied friendship;

though maybe you saw me grin when you called to me:

"i think we're becoming closer!"

(i think we're becoming closer)

Song of the Sun Sirens

Tread lightly on the edge of the sun,

we did not mean to cause any alarm.

Our conscience is spotless as our skin,

no, we did not mean to do any harm.

Our lips spray mist into the harbor

while bronze ocean rocks glisten.

The sun is dying on a foreign island,

but come forward, sweet boy, and listen:

We never did mean to eat the sun,

or wash it down with the salty sea.

Now look into our milky eyes.

And buy us iced coffee.

tickets (2)

tickets: the paper key to the golden door.

tickets: from the bouncing walls to the wounded floor.

tickets: dancing around the future-fixed mind.

tickets: the anguish of (whatever) can now be left behind!

tickets: without a doubt the world's sharpest paper-cut.

tickets: once you get 'em, keep your eyes shut.

& then the world will hit you in the gut.

Insights, Factoids, Inspirational Stories, Etc.

Sports

Two blue-uniformed softball players helped carry an injured red-uniformed softball player from base to base, giving red the home-run that won them the game.

(I am a poor sport: I cringe at your bases.)

Metro

At a dry bus stop, a young woman was lying on the pavement. She looked dead; her skin was turning burnt orange. She had a spindly ebony spider tattooed onto her thigh.

(It looked dead.)

Nature

After being stepped on, flattened blades of grass silently bristle, and slowly straighten themselves to how they once were.

(Still bristling.)

Music

It's official: Between the World Cup, designated road trips, and with this year being hotter than the year before - as they always are - we will be Where The Streets Have No Name this summer.

(And hopefully every summer subsequent.)

Health

Things that are still bad for you:

Cigarettes, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Innocent Glances During Class*, etc.

(*Cause undetermined.)

World

In Sierra County, New Mexico, 411 bats flew out of a cave.

410 flew left.

(1 flew right.)

socks

I have a confession more pathetic than the one before,

one that grapples to my insidious core:

I am sock conscious.

There's no way of knowing if they're too high,

since I'm always resisting the urge to be that guy

who's in a constant state of looking down.

I can't stand when these woven prisons are soft,

since my feet are quite shy, and they do oft

make muffled cries in the heat.

And though color isn't my style (I feel it's too much),

my dull white socks could be the crutch

that keeps me from being joyous.

So if we continue to sit around talkless,

girl, tomorrow I'm greeting you sockless.

What Next Year Looks Like From A Rooftop

Our joy lives in now, and sorrow in memory,
While we sing the silly song of soon-adults.
Our pilgrim’s tears of Chai tea
Unknowingly sank us into the sea,
Drowning away the fog of our faults.

We sat on rooftops, gaping at urban glow:
The scope of our journey proved frightening.
The question of the morn was Yes or No,
You all burst Yes! but I still don’t know—
My mind’s scattered by camera-flash lightning.

With porch blankets you covered me clean
Under the mauve morning sky so clear.
And though our barbed wire path seems obscene,
Our brows are sweating sweet kerosene,
And our eyes burn bright for next year.

So now, sweet friends, clasp my worn hand;
Together we’ll glide the tomorrow we sing of,
For there’s rich soil in this moonstruck land;
Let apathy and stillness be damned,
And may the world look up above.

A Poem To Salute The Birthday Boy

For Daniel.

Listen:

(If I say your name, ninjas might jump out of the screen and tear my fingers off.)

You were very loud; I was very quiet; I did not like you.

I gave you a chance and you nestled into our home.

Together we walked the streets of St. Paul

in search of something worth filming.

Together we talked through the melancholy night

about 'stupid guy problems' that shake

us to our very soul, making us stare at our

vision-painted ceilings, 'till we wonder why we're here.

You are luckier than me.

That is the truth, devoid of argument or reinforcement.

How lucky am I to watch you

frolick in the garden of a loving spring.

There is one more statement, or love letter, as I say,

since you and I have turned soft and so the world is safer:

You are not sheltered. I know this rings true,

since neither of us are anywhere near that tongue-toxin word.

It is the world that is sheltered!

Sheltered from our dream-visions,

sheltered from our road-trip fantasies,

sheltered from the passion,

the growth we blossom,

the trust we build towering over the steel-gray structures and the world beyond,

the unconditional love we both know of through entirely different kaleidescopes.

They are ultimately the unlucky ones.

So take my hand, gentle brother,

and we'll ninja-jump past them all.

Poem In Which Someone Finishes The Job

Q: For how many more years will you continue to be—

A: Forever.

Q: How do you intend to keep at it for so long?

A: There's a lake not too far from here that I often swim to the bottom of, and there I scream until my throat is permanently damaged.

Q: Is your throat permanently damaged?

A: Yes. From the screaming.

Q: Or the crying?

A: Just an unintended side effect.

Q: How do you make it rain?

A: I put on lipstick.

Q: And snow?

A: I forgot, maybe you kissed me.

Q: What do you think of that girl over there?

A: I'm happy for her.

Q: Is she beautiful?

A: There's something to be said about the way everybody's skin seems to glow most beautifully in the summertime.

Q: What's that, now?

A: I expected nothing less of you.

Q: Do you think you're doing any good by trying too hard, or are you in trying too hard actually making things worse?

A: Does the grass do any good in growing too fast, or is it in growing too fast actually growing longer?

Q: When did your mother stop wiping your nose?

A: That is an intensely personal question.

Q: Can I ask one more question?

A: No. Not when you control everything I say and I can't speak my own opinion proper.

Q: Will you finish this?

A: Will you finish this?