May Sunset

With our dazzled spirits intertwined,

we watched the final sunset of May.

The tips of lilies were chalked with gold,

yet all the warmth had washed away.

I know not what it means

for those who loved it best.

And I know not what it means

for those who won't see the next.

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?

How to Not Be Kissed

Boys:

Stalk the one you think you love, follow her on Twitter, follow her in your dreams; take your shirt off in unnecessary circumstances and pretend to flex; be jealous of her postman, her waiter, her parking officer, anyone who might be closer to her at any given time than you are; kill small mammals in the backyard and use their intestines as drippy christmas lights; write inaccurate & shitty poetry that rhymes but act like it's bigger than Jesus, bigger than the Beatles; do what you enjoy and only what you enjoy – and you're sure to never be kissed.

Girls:

Your job is much simpler: Put some clothes on.

The Guide to Getting Away From Where We Are Now

For Brad Liening, without whom this would not exist.

1
First, realize that this is not where you want to be. It's too hot out, the world has you by the throat, your endless possibilities are suddenly sprouting endings – as you like. No, this is not where you want to be at all.

2
Then, take the bus. It's always been so reliable and I hear it's air-conditioned in the summer. It'll take you where you wish to go.

3
Now that you're on the bus, realize how hopeless this all is. The Man behind Metro Transit is in cahoots with The Man behind Education: there's no place you can run! Punch a scaly fat woman for smelling too loudly, and, thanking the driver for falling asleep behind the wheel, step off the bus.

4
"There's no place like home!"
"There's no place like home!"
"There's no place like home!"

5
Once you realize you don’t have any signal, face the Eastern cityscape and run back to where you came from; run hopelessly through the rain that your clouded mind has conjured, passing every landmark and memory you envision, and attempt to jump over even the smallest of puddles.

6
Remember taking pictures here under the sun-tipped cathedral?

7
Ask wary strangers for change. They will have none to give you.

8
Dig out your phone, vibrating.
“You sent that text three times.
I thought we agreed we weren’t going to do this anymore.”

9
Stick your free hand into the mouth of the fountain, and while your body might be stuck in the Forever-Now, your weightless hand is floating somewhere far off, down a wishful stream, drinking in the careless sunlight of the West.

The Difficulty in Seeing

The sun reflects everything white

in the crystal-ball morning.

I wander forests with spotted sight,

where ambivalent birds are soaring.

In the crystal-ball morning,

I peer into the drying pool,

where ambivalent birds are soaring.

The impartial sun seems so cruel.

I peer into the drying pool,

searching for someone I've kissed.

The impartial sun seems so cruel–

though there's one thing I missed.

Searching for someone I've kissed,

I wander forests with spotted sight,

though there's one thing I missed:

The sun reflects everything white.

today i will burn

I can't write for very long,

else my flame will go out!

What's this self-control I've been hearing about?

There's something hot about this new air.

It must be her legs and the skirt she wears!

Oop, excuse me, must do something obscene–

what a dangerous gift to be seventeen!

All my vital organs have caught golden fire.

Not even acid rain can quench my desire.

tomorrow i will burn

My friends all seem older than me,

since I was born late in the cycle.

I suppose then they called us late bloomers.

Now they call us sensitive types.

Yes, I unfolded an untimely lotus,

blooming in whatever was left of the year.

I stand now at the top of the stair,

the last to descend from the attic.

I am merely one step away

from stepping free from these roots.

Maybe after then, I can write

a poem that contains no "i"–

but tomorrow, i will burn.

an' tomorrow, we will burn.

Rivaling even the arid sun

in the ancient memory sky,

for the year has just tomorrow begun:

an' it will blaze all the gardens of indifference.

I Will Not Temper Your Tender Hand Yet

I will not temper your tender hand yet,
Though it fills me with singsong wonder:
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

What was once innocent I’ll never forget,
Since we’ve slipped past our first blunder–
I will not temper your tender hand yet.

I once thought it good to pay my heart’s debt,
But now covet your long-ignored number:
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

Occasionally I paint a dream where we had never met.
And though silence is cut short by white thunder,
I will not temper your tender hand yet.

I dream yet still of your face glowing wet,
But restlessly stir without dark slumber.
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

If these fingers still whisper with soft regret,
Then I’ll wait ‘till my senses are long under.
I will not temper your tender hand yet.
Not until the dwindling sun has set.

just a little rain

I am going to euthanize the rain!

Every last drop,

and each drop's droplets,

all of its bipolar essence:

the flavor of nature's bittersweet chocolate;

the plip-plop pattering of purity;

the smoky sense of romance

that soaks the future

and puts to sleep

our young faces.

tomorrow's the end

The news has been telling us something is wrong.

Putting our lips on each other is so common a thing,

and budding eardrums are split by bad music

for hours in the damp basement, abandoning all

admiration for heroes, all we want are blankets;

overwrought with cheap kisses and salty tongues,

rolling in the shameless earth, pickled warm bodies;

and since hugging is hello, hello thus becomes goodbye:

No one is ever around, only their ego's shadow,

while all the judgments we strap to our back

weigh just as much as before, wearing us down, and

holding in it everything we need to survive

in this old and rigid world.

It's not our fault; we're required to carry backpacks
to make our weary parents happy,
who sit distraught in spare coat closets:

and cries for tomorrow's youth,
who cries for tomorrow's youth,
who cries for tomorrow's youth.

I watched them build Target Field,

which began as a tundra of urban dirt,
far coarser than the tawny sand of
Lake Superior, I'm certain—
encircled by asthmatic, yellowed buildings
blotched by bird shit and cigarette ash,
now reflecting hymns about peanuts—
I met every construction worker
when their lime-green jackets began
to pierce the groggy grey morning—
I was oblivious until the marble of it
stood directly atop me; now I sit
inside its popular, patriotic prison—

waiting for a bus to whisk me away
to where we build flowers in the wet sand.

It's All The Same

With a couple quarters I found in the gutter

I bought my Coke, wet and same as always;

and elsewhere the kids shout "recess! recess!"

and I wonder what we're so afraid of.

Best Thrills

Excitement elevates the Evergreen spring,

while we waltz through crystal malls flooded with cologne,

picking out brand names that have that certain ring,

indulging in thrills that only rich kids bemoan.

Tonight we won't think about digital worries,

since together we'll crash until sunlight flurries.

Morning reveals soppy blankets in the ground,

the fading worn speakers but still rejoice.

I soak myself in the backyard bed, heart unwound,

listening for days to the echo of her voice.

The illusion of warmth gets colder and farther:

you know it's all over when you lose your phone charger.

Mother, I wish

Mother, I wish I could blame you

for all of life that I've gone through,

but I'm grateful that it was from you I was born.

Mother, I'm torn.

I wish that I knew you better,

and that in twenty years I'll get a letter

explaining all it was that I missed.

Mom, you're at the top of my list.

You keep my clothes dry and hold my mail,

and because of you I can never truly fail.

Not with the wisdom of your song.

Mom, one day I'll be gone.

But the sky will still illuminate blue,

since in the girl I love I'll always see you.

Mommy, for once I pray

that you have the most wonderful Mother's Day.

The image Between

Remember that time you thought?

Memory leads to event, which undoubtedly

leads to a person, specifically one,

your mind a marvelous interchange,

directing seamless traffic over multi-layered

bridges from Here to There.

You were thinking, then, you're sure:

until the sun melts through the curtain,

and the carpet hairs bristle with anticipation,

each standing so individual;

everything popping out

with the purity of a smooth juicy pear,

and finally we can make sense of smiles.

With a flick of the neck, the mind unvanishes

cementing color and touch into hopeless memory,

and then you start to think

about how long you've been sitting there,

watching the carpet hairs grow.

This is the Hard Part

This is the part where I lost my pencil but wanted to say that you do not have to change and that in all likelihood we will be friends.

This is the part written in bold: You appall me to no damnable end.

This is the part where I know not what to think of you, what I could say to you, that isn't as outright pervish and slobbery as your manly essence, which evidently welds shut all the eyes of your heart.

This is the part where I ask you to read my poems and you do and in between every drippy line is a glowing and infernal "How could you?"

This is the part when summer explodes,

This is the part where I comment on how cold it is in here

but fail to mention that it's all your fault.

toads deserve second chances

While picking harmless blades of grass

I spotted him, stumpy

on top the smooth copper Snoopy,

the Capital of the Capital!

Poor thing seemed lost.

On the plain of Snoopy's hill,

his back legs flailing,

pushing to make progress

against the cool shade statue.

I watched him there

while he tucked himself

into Charlie's pudgy fingers:

timeafter

timeafter

time.

until I picked him up by his belly,

and put him in the longest grass,

where no one can watch him find his way.

Caffeine (Is Bad For You)

My dazzling coffee:

churns my stomach,

kicks my brain,

and races my heart–

I've had it, it's good.

Or my swirling tea:

sweet to the lips,

warms my chest,

and floats my frame–

Well, I'm sure it could.

But I don't know which will keep me awake,

or if they even should.

i think i just saw a night rainbow in the northern sky

Ice water piercing my dark blue veins.

I'm smearing this research paper with my brains,

scrambling words; making nice with omnivores.

My fingers ricket, my nose sniffs and sores.

But all my tissues, I used to masturbate.

The bulbs are burning out; it's getting late.

I've given up my reins, and tied up the horses.

Fuck, I forgot to cite my sources.

i don't have to care about this poem

short, stooped child

in the wet sand

under a dozen hot suns

shouts SO SPICY

and knocks down people's sand castles

while the ocean waves roar with laughter

Prom?

I have immortalized my memory of you that night,
Only poems, few pictures: there was too much light.

I couldn’t stop staring at the flowers in your hair,
And spent the rest of the night drunk off the air.

When you left, the songbirds took your place
While my pages filled up with your face,
Until the crystal azure morning finally came.

From the warmth of your bed you woke with a yawn
To find my dreams lain delicately on your lawn.

Your smile gleamed white, your thumb raised high,
Silhouetted against the white, gleaming sky.

I promised that for once I’d have fun,
And that we’d try our best to look as one,
But first I’ll cut my ragged mane.

I’ve got a permanent fixed rainbow over my head,
Giving a vibrant warning to all misery ahead.

Yes, I’m a poet since I’m perpetually in love:
Not yet, I think, but it’s something I dream of.

I don’t mind if you never see me that way,
And if we’re still friends long after that day—
To me, it’s happiness all the same.

May Day

For The Alley Track, my incredible friends.

I would like to start off by remembering a spirit who is no longer with us, a mournful spirit who once flickered with lovely lilac flames and emerald diamonds for eye sockets, but is now forcefully under the ground.
So now I'm widowed!— I've had enough of that.
The Winter Wake has blossomed into a garden of fanciful flowers, friends flowing yellow! So what have I done, I dare ask cosmically,

to merit this May Day?

The room, expanding exuberantly, beckons me to a much richer dream, that goes beyond butterfly lips and eyelash blankets, though I wish every night that they would come to pass—
but dreams of non-seasonal satisfaction, and there are harmonicas swaying, and diamond hills of rolling ecstasy, all addiction and disgust barred, and men sweat clouds, and women plant flowers in their hair, and time stops for every hug, and the sun forever peeks through the trees in that perfect dusk manner, and while I'm at it: No more choices! Time stops for deciding things;

every choice is a motionless sunset.

So with these love-dreams in my delicate hands,

I stand on a land-locked ship,

while pollen streaks of gold sing from the sun, illuminating my face, looking upon a dozen cheerleaders turned soccer players, golden sweat adding dew to beaten grass — when does energy's love end? Until the sun collapses! and the yellow leaves pour their joy into my lovely, gorgeous friends, who still race around the pollinated sky, arms outstretched, with little concern for darker skies in the world, which I adore and behold:
laughter adds showers of sweet spring-water to otherwise dry, dead deserts, and raises the lowest valleys of the world— see it! See the Grand Canyon tumble into the sky, crashing into stars and rubbing against planets:
This is what we do. We give height to lowly things; to the trenches of wars and cracks in the silent ocean floor, and the most magnificent feat of all:

Myself.

No single child holds up the stars; there are too many honest smiles, too much hair curled so naturally to be the work of one; so in my future I kiss every forehead and recall the memories of being young, acting young, playing belligerently in the face of wrinkled oppressors:

Education. Damnation. Isolation.
And with soft, grass-stained feetsies dance through the dandelion fields of May:

Evocation.

In the blinding sunlight, a turquoise spirit rebirths, asking that ageless question:
“Will you be my friend?”
I am speechless smiling. Happy horror; trembling with roses swirling on my cheeks. I know not what to say. I want to look up to the envious clouds and shout

NO WAY, MAY!

—But like an esteemed knight, I kneel in the daisies of Minneapolis-Southernly, most gingerly, whilst the shiny badge of friendship is brilliantly awarded after the ceremony of unplanned walks and talks
and long stalks of goldenrods line the path of your visit:

oh what is it!

Beautiful Sage of Spring, gaily dancing in the midst of wonder children,
not holding up the stars but breathing life into them.

Oh where has the youth all but disappeared to?
Playing night games! Chasing shadows within the shadows, finding each other among leaves and chilly air that signals the close of the Day of May— rapidly fading to the familiar November Gloom— frosty end-year so lethargic and untrue— where can I go but the catacombs of my un-human blanket?
The room echoes false. The golden rays are gone.
All the spirits— under.
Elms, petal-spheres, honey-grass, wilted,
exhaling while everybody looks through photo slideshows of when they were ugly and applies temporary tattoos to their snowy December skin.
And her olive skin. And her olive eyes.
Hand me that golden leaf:
I will sparkle it onto her face… the speckles illuminate electric spring… her lips so dreamlike… pollen
falling
from the small
hands
of
Heaven.

Anaphylactic shock.

My body is fading to stone.
My mind is writhing for air.

But my heart, it takes precedence;
controlled only by the Virgin of May,
whose vivid vigil appears before me just now,
smiling all of Spring upon me,
lifting me up from my knees,
“Will you be my friend?”
Who else would ask but she,
the turquoise princess of May Day morning.