note in math class

assume the following:

y>x

find y

forget x

let y be you

(the sum of my affections)

be my friend?

i feel bad for kids who write love poems
when they have no friends, i can do better:

your face shines like the bright side

of the moon, who needs a dark side
anyway, and when you look

shiny at me i like the way you

hold your hair; hold my hand? say,

where are you from alien girl,
did you come out of that horrible
hole in the sky? most likely not,
most likely you drifted in on pearly
ocean waves, can you sing me an
ocean song? what i really like
(i lied before) are your pink petal
eyelashes when i can feel them
fluttering a perfect goodbye; no,
this is not a love poem, mommy
told me they’re bad for me, but
it’s warm outside, will you play with me?

until you can see me

when i show you

things i have written

i am inviting you into my house

that i have built, so fragile;

so eat something.

reach for the ceiling.

make love on the carpet.

after all

i get lonely here.

Two Angels

"'We’re angels. You know that, right?' she spoke seriously.

'Well, I have some serious shortcomings,' he confessed quietly.
She leaned in slightly, a gentle streak of concern on her spotless face. He shifted slightly, sitting cross-legged on the ottoman, and forced a smile down his throat. The house was ready for something.
Her voice was aloe. 'Everyone does.'"

I have a hard time reading these fairy tales.
My foot starts tapping a rapid rhythm in tune to my heart.
I wish they would just kiss already!
I feel tempted to shout at the page at 9:45 on a Monday morn:
This is why I should give up reading; I want to be every character; I want everyone to be perfect for each other and for eyes to illuminate the velvet night and for people to snuggle sweetly in a dog-like manner

and life would be so kind.
The fable can read me, I’m sure;
maybe if I pretend everything is okay, it won’t catch on to my beating heart
or suspect anything of me.

"They spoke like this, grid-locked all through the magnetizing night. They swapped smiles and shared stories of sacrifice; disclosing in each other the tingling sadness of lying in bed alone; meanwhile the steadily rising loneliness inevitably leads to choices; choices that are too fragile to make even for the choice-makers, which soon one of them would be. Neither of them wanted to leave; they were wild horses, their reins flapping high and free in the wind; done being someone else's; done being drawbridges that led old lovers to who they are today; just two angels, fluttering in the electric spring, restless..."

“Does it matter?” my teacher asks of me.
And thus I am forced to answer:
“Why yes, I think it might.”

the words i can't say

i admit, i had a hard time believing

that your ears haven't been privy to this knowledge before.

and i know you won't see this, but even then,

this simple fact, i can't ignore.

and i thought you might need to hear this

from a boy who isn't perverted, dishonest or gay –

that you are incredibly, irreplaceably Beautiful.

and that's all i wanted to say.

Stuck Just Yesterday

Shards of broken glass littered the lawn;

his shattered childhood laid everywhere.

Jagged bottles seared his head (even his sweat bled),

leaving matted sweet blood in his hair.

Like a tempest he reeled; in the harbor he kneeled

before his guests, stupid high and glad,

who gazed into his wondrous lilac pupils,

so sorry and hurtful and mad.

"Hell, I was stuck just yesterday,"

he roared with awareness and truth.

But like a child he spun, longing for someone

to hold while he moaned for bulimic youth.

Girls kissed while boys talked under the moon;

the saint collapsed in his bed, deterred,

'nd fucked in it, 'nd threw up in it,

"It's all about learning," he slurred.

Changing Selby

I don't mind riding the bus all that much, even if it is down Selby,

which I take all shortcuts and detours to avoid driving on,

because I can't shake the feeling that one day I'll die there

(and no one will hear me).

I keep myself busy enough, listening to The Ocean with a truthful smile, cleaning my fingernails,

changing the names of people and places in my poems, changing them back again; giving up writing for good.

Though I am not all that special, since I spend most of my time looking out the window,

looking for people and the bags that they carry. I'm obsessed with people's bags. I look for them everywhere.

I like pretending I know everything about a person from the bag they carry:

A neon-orange backpack; a sleek messenger bag too small to fit anything in;

a crumbling sack holding dozens of personal treasures; nothing but a wallet and a single key;

a grocery bag filled to the brim; a lovely bag that matches her eyes perfectly;

so you see I am obsessed by bags and the people who carry them.

So much so that one day I didn't notice that the bus hadn't moved for quite some time.

Judging by the hushed chatter, there seemed to be something in our way.

I craned my neck to witness a sinister-looking car with red-and-blue lights, blinking profusely.

There were two policeman outside the car, looking at something interesting on the sidewalk.

There were also two bikes laying forgotten in the grass; rather unnatural, I thought.

My neck hurt.

A fire truck tore its way down the road, lumbering past our rooted bus.

Not a minute later, an ambulance roared to join the now-blinding bombardment of red-blue haze.

Everybody climbed out to join the officers cautiously, taking their time:

Two blue cops, a pair of plain paramedics, and two or three firemen,

wearing the color of flesh not yet burned.

I watched them as they all shared words lifelessly, staring down into the sidewalk;

staring a hole down into the center of St. Paul. I could tell that outside it was windy,

even though they all had short hair – I imagined how much different everything would look,

if they had flowing, thin hair that gave itself over to Nature, blowing in their faces

and hiding from them whatever terrible thing had happened to whoever was riding those bikes,

unnaturally askew on the lawn.

Suddenly then, a single boy rose up, silently thanked them all,

and walked over to the ambulance, climbing into the shelter of its rear.

Without any sound I mused:

What would have to happen to me,

so that I could get a free ride, safe in an ambulance?

But I shook my head,

and continued changing the names.

Standardized Dreams

Notebook ridges in my pillow skin again; I fell asleep again;

what a nightmare I had,

full of people disappearing, raw meat and

ruthless standardization.

My dreams are standardized, education,

was this what you were destined to do?

Give me your answer book kiss;

I loftily fill in my bubbles:

name, caleb or is it kaleb, or monkey boy;

race, other;

sex, sure;

nationality, all of the above;

please education give me the right form number for once.

I've seen all the answers, anyway, in the busy

pages of free rugged college textbooks,

but why would I tell you my secrets education?

You used me education.

You pressed your groin against my innocent knee.

You combed my hair with pencils I felt special I did.

Now my hair is growing long.

You leave me trembling at the knees, I need my breakfast.

My shinbones are splintering, education!

My saliva is scholarly, education!

Now I'm burping empty decadent flavorless burps

and taking my time with semesters:

which are nothing but time chambers

that we try and fit things in;

like trying to put our houses into waterproof garbage bags

to take on our trips to the oceans

(where maybe we'll see some whales).

You asked me how far away the whale is

(and you must have known that the distance formula

is on that formula sheet everyone has: equal opportunity!);

I gave you all that I knew,

like what the thundery april sky looks like

from a window rarely used

until the branches of the oak tree

start shaking.

I gave you this and more;

take it all, education, take it take it

if that's all you were after all this time.

what good does license– ?

what good does license–

when the highway chalk lines

have been furiously erased

in a fit of independence

and release from the menace

of adoration!

and when high-loft swirling parties

are lurking in distant fog

of memory scorned and abandoned,

what good does license?

what good does license

when buses are your second home

and the bitter entrapment of your home the first

keeps you at highway's length;

what good does license

without all the late night glowing

hand holding; teeth cradling

with luscious lip and teasing tongue;

kitchen grinding

on cookie sheets shining in the mad spring night!

what good does license, now,

with my nerves fastened onto a bus,

set to travel where fathers have been to?

what good does–

what good do

i still have to you?

People i Met in the Rain

There was the preacher's boy, whose very words seemed rich with compassion and understanding– for advice on how to best stay dry, he had none. What he did instead was ask if I wanted to join him and his other sons of Jesus. While others may have found his suggestion an insulting attempt at recruitment, he was apologetic, and I said there was no need: I felt whole, and welcomed.

I declined.

My friend from childhood, the silent clown, came looking for me. He performed for me, without makeup or costume. Not performing at all, actually. He acted on his heart; he kept me awake with his festive shadow puppets, his fingers black and huge on the wall. He made an elephant, and it was cute, but I cried. So he made a bunny, which admittedly made me smile. Then we talked about when we were just little kids.

Things were funnier then.

A raven came to my window only at nighttime, and she cocked her head at the sight: Coke cans askew, Skittle wrappers everywhere, old photos and old lives. I quietly spoke out of the darkness, struggling to be heard over the rain. I babbled about the cracks in my face. She rustled her feathers. Kindly, she offered to take me back to her nest, where I would be loved by my new family.

I declined.

Miss Safari was just around the corner, so hidden in the bushes I hardly spotted her. "Ah," I said, "someone to share my problems with!" and yes, she laughed that guiltless laugh, dripping with honey. I chose my words with her carefully. I reminded myself that Miss Safari once killed all the animals and she could do it again. If I got too close. She told me I looked tired. I knew.

There were mirrors everywhere I looked.

The rain simmered down after a long while, a cool mist taking its place, binding me here, tiny drops of water suspended in air... and out of the mist, a smooth, slender hand appeared in front of me, fingers outstretched, asking for someone to hold it. There was an elephant ring on her ring finger. I had been waiting. This is where we said we'd meet. I saw that her hand was worn and wet.

I accepted.

smells so sweet

I can't stand the smell

that unveils itself

quite randomly. early in the morning. middle of the day.

my nose knows no difference.

That smell of passion; of bare breasts and perfumed necks; candied lips; the fifteen minutes before leaving;

the smell of coming home

– you were perfect that day you were perfect that day –

but what really gets me

is that now it's gone, again.

I just can't smell anything,

except for the stench of sweating dancers, moist armpits, the effects of a viciously dull stomachache, and unwashed hair.

A faint smell of ravioli, which might be my feet.

But, ah, how I can breathe again.

My Notebook Died Just Now

touch without talk an'

crawl, don't dare walk,

hide but don't gawk,

with my heart in the throat

oh damn, i just missed the boat

someone's dead in the moat

or was that just a book...

why won't she look

at me?

–what mind visions are these!

that I cover my eyes with so obviously,

an' since I don't want to look up,

I'll cower on this white sheet,

in fear of jealousy.

~

do you hear that

kill me it pleads

(the poor white mute)

kill me

and set me free.

Ukulele Girl

Ukulele Girl I am a monster

Ukulele Girl I am not afraid to touch your hand

Your voice can't heal me but maybe it distracts

maybe it hurts

Ukulele Girl I wish you'd hear

the sound of memory, I hear in you

Ukulele Girl can you hear

my seashell voice in the white sand beach?

Probably not! What a difference

I have made,

I have made

a pixelated mental image of your cheekbones

Ukulele Girl make me feel like a boy

Ukulele Girl try and understand

Waxy strings and paper burns,

wet river rocks and wilted ferns,

Ukulele Girl Fate brought you to me,

Ukulele Girl I'm gonna have to say no.

I'll cry you a river that flows to the Pacific

If you say so,

I could do it.

If you want to see me cry, Pelican

I'll cry you a river that flows to the Pacific.

Maybe I could even

ride it there,

maybe tomorrow.

( I can't get this song out of my head

I can't get your song out of my head

Shut up, Dave Matthews,

shut the fuck up.

Enjoy your wife.

I'll think of mine.)

If you really want me to,

I guess I can.

But your wings, Pelican

will continue to let you fall.

Dive, Pelican, dive!

And swallow a fish

from the

forever sexless sea.

"Only for those that deserve it"

A careless moment in springtime,
a reckless behavior on the streetside,
the dream boy asks if she's being a bitch.
The slack tightens for a small minute
and she almost walked with him all the way,
to that bus stop reluctantly.
A chilling look of indignation,
an embarrasing accusation
he never actually thought, only read before,
That outrage building inside his hollow frame
could only be cooled by her
look of gold.
A second (or third) kiss,
that he misses too too much,
before he started back home,
twiddling his thumbs,
steadily stitching his promises back together.

That was I:
I had lost a bit of me,
but gained a bit of you,
and I carry it with me;
I hope you do.

You who I would, for

For Taylor.

I have seen something in you that sets free all apathy and anarchy once trapped in my cracked youthful shell.

I have seen something in you that birthed a plumage fire, violetly raging up and down the dreary April streets of Minnesota, threatening a sunny day;

that opened wide the channel that boring boat-locked beloved's flaunt and tease under the beaming moon, lonely insistent;

that abominates the very idea of selfishness, shifting all the self-imposed reds and blues into a more glinting kind of green, a more macaroni kind of yellow, shades never thought of for solely self;

that liberates cages of families gnawing at ancestor's bones, licking even the most seductive of juices just to taste their ignorance and learn their permanent poverty lesson;

that strikes me as darling, but to those on tennis-court chairs, the darling length of hair that I find elusively breathtaking only covers their horror judgmental eyeballs;

that covers all basements quiet, frozen to attics raging, burning because your pumping heart never will fail to be heard by those with pens in their veins;

that plunges youthful innocence into sexuality raw and cunning, with sun poring heat adding layers of skin to nerves that shrivel with pleasure as they're molested infrequently;

that protects those less able to see the heart of the mind or mind of the heart, taking solely a finger of all the blind and dismentaled to lead them into a life of forever mystery;

that depends upon morning, for it proves that all the dicks and cunts, who kept your night anger alive subsiding, failed to see the lines etched between the stars; i did.

I have seen something in you that blooms entirely free of roots that suck out the earth accidentally, keeping rainwater bloating for a season where the rain just one day disappears;

that tears apart the moonbeams crashing into clearer waters that all people of plain descent struggle towards, heads bobbing, whirling, floating towards the blinking scars of sky;

that ignites an impression into my sheets, your candy cane mouth tracing my weak spots, your birthmark smile leaving stains on the pillows, all to keep some hope alive for children;

that kicks down and mouth-covers all pseudo-intellectual teen arters into spitting on their own tables and writing forum posts about how deep they had made the puddle;

that curses me into thinking you could handle the spike-laden vomit that uprises from the orifices of my chilled fingertips;

that sweats silently, in between the balmy errands and structured essays that bind the creativity that emboldens you, that beheld you;

that extrapolates children into writing love poems with the clippings of their toenails or fibres of their cereal;

that bathes in affection unknown, but with sincerity comes identity, which leaves all affection to pixie dust disguised.

I have noticed something in you that shines brighter to those with slithery twisted mouths, asking only for a friend before they die corrupt decay corpse die, but would secretly fuck you hard, long, extinguishing that emerald shine into an unmistakable azure; i know their secret.

I have felt something in you that lavishes the hungry soul into a luminated midnight, full of lilies and pianos and kisses vanilla chocolate and all!

Something that lingers between every layer of fog, endangering those who drive blank-faced on 694, in fast-moving meditation;

that starts to me a new generation to lose the beats, lose the bombs, lose the self-control, lose the awkward clothing and hats and adorable scarves, lose the urge to stay awake, lose the words to capture anyone anymore, so that we all may sleep without breath, walk without hints of hidden desire, talk without making any rhyme.

I have seen something in you:

that warmed the blood of Jesus;

that shamed whores of Egypt and of new decade High School;

that releases repressed desire through crimson winks and baby blue sighs; desire that afflicts and rapidly shifts to nightmares repressed, redressed to a golden yellow of sincerity, my Konstantine, without any element of consciousness;

that turns me to all different angels, who grant cautiously the wishes we deliberately chose in our dreams: blood-sleep eternal, hearts of waterfall rocks, keys to minds that once knew you.

ugly people in pretty cars

No, I will not forget.

The choking heat... well, it used to be bearable.

It used to invoke images of a more naked you;

it used to wave a banner of romantic freedom.

It brought me closer to you

BUT DIDN'T EVERYTHING

do just that?

fuck I wish I was something new.

That I had perspective that was obviously

fresh

tightly wrapped, seal unbroken.

I wish I could open peoples minds,

use these sagging, feverish words to make them see a world

that bears close resemblance to mine,

to make them change their mind

when I only want to change yours.

What still drives me, then.

To release a Title, a Vision, a Message

to someone, anyone, you

to change, inspire, you

for the better, worse, you

"what you need to focus on is yourself", the pathetic table legs scream!

and I think you think it too, on some mornings, so

Don't. Stop.

(excuse me while I consider erasing those periods)

I breathe my own damn air

I chew my own food

pump my own blood

play only with myself

build my own temple

plan my own future

but these lavender pages of summer

are yours, yours, yours.

I have no other weapon with which to self-inflict

all the regret chasing me.

nothing but music and words.

music, that which everyone hears.

words, that which everyone writes.

so maybe you were right in saying that I'm

Just like Everybody else-

(except that you didn't and it was only my mind that

betrayed me that night, vomiting)

And that the praise I get like crumbs

falling from the hands of the hungry

is either obligatory, because I've Titled myself

as a Writer of Note,

or misguided, because all I really do is Title

parses of my relentless mind into these

entrapments called....

sentences....

they say you're not supposed to write about writing.

and I'm sure that those who say

that

are great writers

who feel great about what they write because it's

Neat. Important.

Concise. Prophetic.

Stimulating.

Unique.

This drive...

for something new...

leads me back to you.

you who I would,

for.

Oooh, hear the sexy ghosts taunt me into sleep?

suggestively rolling up my pant legs...

well, until I realized that they were doing it

only because the heat continues to swell.

But, hey, before I resign to sleeping

like a

de-feathered

peacock

I'll give what the paper is owed.

That... something. That isn't. This.

Someday today, between the:

morning iced coffee and evening lemonade

desperate need for someone in my passenger seat

wanting to tell how you how I much I wish you were mine

I thought of how good of a writer,

how less sick of a person I would be

if I could write a poem

about hideous, terrible people

hiding in their gorgeous, luxurious cars.

see, now, how much of a failure

you've made of me