Hollow End

They tell me it's Halloween tonight,

the streets are nulled with shivering kids

while crumbs stupidly fall off our lips.

I should have dressed like a fairy,

but instead I ache like a fallen

pear, dropped for an impossibly subtle

purpose. We're handing out my bruises

to all the spiders and cowboys, tonight.

Shudder.

The window's still open

from when I

aired out all the summer dust, hoping

that you would stop by for a holiday:
It is a holiday, isn't it? Or is it the

summoning of a gracious omen,

using the tossed aluminum and

rejected pocket-poems as a sigil...

What a sight!

What a night!

A lascivious prayer answered

when the rain has at last stopped,

A paragon of sunlight

floating before me, commenting on

how clean the bed smells.

Yes I know, I spent all day in here.

And then rummage through all

of my picture-books with a smile.

That's my dad on the beach, having a beer.

Then somehow find me,

once so far trembling

and now so far near.

And the torches of the kids

keep the room so well lit!

Cauldrons, barricading doorways

to keep jealousies at bay!

No one is going to call you anything

so long as the night carries on,

full empty nests and puppetry.

I'm summoning my omens.

But soon I'll close up the floor

knowing full well you won't make

an illuminated visit.

I've spent a year chewing through

your shifting lore.

And I doubt I'll miss it.

Nearly November

I admit that I think strongly of you

when I go traipsing

through street-side leaves.

I kick them until they fill my shoes,

because of something like you.

And already the leaves kissed

with crystal, I am saying goodbye

to the beginning for the last time.

Now is when thigh muscles freeze

like locker meat and jeans really suck.

I can't afford much more standing

around waiting for people to put

their coats on,

coats warm

coats cozy

coats closer than I thought possible.

All I have is this scarf,

it's orange and smiles a lot like your shoes do.

A Poem That Could Go Either Which Way

You must cause a lot of accidents.

A lot of bird calls coming your way:

Tweet tweet. Wow I expected more.

No matter, the bells are ringing now

and there seems to be some confusion.

Children tripping across the street,

Bridesmaids streaming across the street.

All for some big event I should probably

be at, unless of course nobody is there.

You must tell me your name.

No, not the name on your application

but the one that I should use when

calling out to you in the spooky corn maze.

Surely someone must be out there.

Someone has got to be out there.

A Vicious Rain

I will be upset if I get an A on that paper.

I would be upset even if everyone ceases to appear,

or if all my syllables produced laughter,

or if every letter plucked out of my shrink-wrapped

skull made you blush.

I would be upset if you ever wanted to talk to me.

(yesterday was a bad day)

This morning was slightly darker than some.

Mucky ponds reflect softened bricks.

Hidden staircase reveals itself unwillingly,

Chain-

Link Gate

C | l | o | s | i | n | g.

(so today must be a good day)

Corners of highway signs bent in,

the pissed-off wind inverting umbrellas.

Intelligent men smoke drooping cigarettes

under the silver belly of sky

stuffed with nutrients and razor blades.

(but mom, i say, i'm not pregnant and i don't have cancer,)

All of my fragile gifts have gone to waste,

and I can't even begin to taste

this hot chocolate for another twenty minutes.

By then I will have moved on

probably to a better drink that won't

scathe me for freezing.

(i'm just a boy)

My fingers are blinking back tears.

I'm looking for someone to blame

for all these hideous days of rain.

You fucking suck.

Hiding From The Day

The blinds were shut when I

woke up, so it was dark,

then I opened them up and

it was dark again. Thirsty lips

and quenched leaves. Drowning

wheels sliding in the street. A bird

flying out there but you can't see it,

and she can't see the ground, she could

be minutes from the moon and

she wouldn't see it.

The window's a droplet spiderweb.

The chimney's shaking, in fear, or cold,

it never really said. Turned off every alarm.

Rolled over.

Rolled over.

Rolled over.

Bit into the pillow.

Rolled over.

Then the coffee got cold and the oatmeal stuck

together like there was nothing else for them in

the world, but there's a microwave in this room.

Yeah, there's a microwave in this room.

Went shirtless until I had to pee.

Went smileless until I had to read.

Run down the stairs to ask when mom got divorced.

Try to remember how old I was in 1999. Give up,

Continue begging for praise via e-mail format.

Wonder if I'm missed. Then type "who gives".

Backspace Backspace, then a few times more.

Burn a hole into the bed, "I see you're putting

that new memory foam to good use."

Contemplate the properties of memory foam.

Will it remember me in the trash heap?

Who else, if not memory foam.

Hollow snacks. Cheap walks around the kitchen

to blow off some steam, harden some blood, find

the right state of mind required to compose

a social symphony. Thumb through a T.S Eliot

poem I tried to read, once.

What if the Internet hit an iceberg.

Broken branches backlash.

It's been raining for a day now and

it's painfully weak. It comes in buckets,

little small ones used by my sister to scoop

up nothing on the living room floor.

It ought to come in waves,

actual ones that sound like they're going

to crush the roof in. But never do.

Just some more rain food.

Just another busted gut.

Papers thrown about, marked

with the kiss of calamity.

And I just sent you a text

that was meant for myself

while you were sitting in

a theater watching what I

wanted us to watch ourselves.

Pour, Pour, Pour, Baby.

I spent the day hiding from the things you never say,

and I only wish it could stay this way.

Don't We All Hate Poetry

Your outbursts are stained glass,
and I know you mean no offense.
But you tore up all my works,
sprinkled them on the grass,
and haven’t bothered with
any of them since.

If you can't stand poetry,
how long will it be
until you can't stand me?

I wander home,
I wonder alone,
what it would take to break your rule.
After all, this is me, who you've known,
and not some pith spat from school.

How would you feel about poems
if they were written solely for you?
If they were dripped in honey,
something borrowed and tested and true?

I wish I could give it up.
I wish I could write a song
or dance along
with all you consider to be cute.
Hell, I wish I was mute.
Then I'd sit outside
on the bitter ground
and flail my arms around
to show how much you mean to me.
Maybe then you'd drop a coin into my cup.

In spite of the sting of your words,
I don't really blame you.
Because if I were to suddenly be you,
I'd hate my poems, too.

Spectacular

Is there an opposite of a vortex

because I think you are one

and every time you walk

my lips move and every time

you smile you make nimbus

waves which purr after every

exit and whisper into my ear

after every entrance which

should show you by now that

I mean playfulness

but until I make obvious the

line I crossed on April the

twenty-fourth I guess for

now we'll just stand around

in a daze until one of us

motions for a hug,

and it was absolutely the best thing, ever.

Something Bright To Burn

The garden was full of something else

that wasn't toilet paper or granite:

something like crisped potatoes.

Or McIntosh apples.

Their eyes went all spooky

turning into massive windows,

and when I walked through them

I could only hear weak groaning;

Probably just a pumpkin.

Probably just a lost puppy.

I sat on that Probably for a

few hours, until the sun fell

(a pathetic orange crisp),

then fumbled around in the

dark looking for something.

I swear it was your hair

that I felt.

Just A Drop Of Your Exhilaration

You have an idea?

Good, then use it.

You have regrets,

you'll need them too.

I bet you make

the prettiest lies.

They smell like a

greenhouse.

Worm-like fingers

scrape the dirt in

search of words,

effervescent in their

emerald cocoons.

You have pretty teeth?

Well you'll need them

to gnaw the gems off

their stems, and don't

mind me, sitting here,

hoping for just a crumb.

Wear Purple

Six years ago, I imagined myself lying dead on the bathroom floor.

That image passed from me long ago.

I don't know much anything at all,

but this I do know:

"When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case

And you're dreaming of a better place,"

Think of the purple lilies,

think of the rich, golden-honey sunsets,

think of the overnight metamorphosis,

think of the expensive gourmet coffee,

think of the people you smile at in line,

think of the tender touch soon to come,

think of the ornate skeleton of snow,

think of the love made for your name,

think of those vivid dreams just before waking,

think of those who look up love in the dictionary,

think of how lost they must be,

think of the treasures you call yours,

think of moonlit walks on white shores,

think of golden talks in the midnight,

think of the twin you've never met before,

think of all the grandchildren yet to hold,

think of cold, soft hands,

think of laughter falling like leaves,

think of where your genie could be hidden,

think of the stars, and the way they wink at you,

think of summertime, when time is yours,

think of the places you yourself will choose to go,

think of the exotic animals and plants you'll eat,

think of the docks you'll walk at dusk,

think of all the secret places you'll discover,

think of who you purposely won't tell,

think of the family you'll hide in there,

think of their faces grinning at your wisdom,

think of their heads nodding at your hardships,

think of how they'll drink your salty tears,

think of the morning after the darkest night,

think of the way your cereal tastes damn sweet,

think of how brushing your teeth feels worthwhile,

think of how you look in the mirror,

think of how no one will ever be able to hurt you,

think of how that was then and, ultimately,

this is now, and now can never be forever,

and think of how, somewhere down the line,

It Gets Better.

Way To Hit The High Notes

I spent ten hours dreaming

of you sitting on my lap.

Then when you were

singing I sat in the corner

and thought about that.

When it came my turn

to stand up with my

music-box voice unwound,

I stood my ground.

But when the good day's

made, and all the

scenes have been played,

I wreck my voice

as if it weren't a choice,

and tranquilize my eyes

with my throat in a cast.

Seagull sounds, at last.

Sodium Chloride Unlimited

Your ability to be in rooms where you

are not is always appreciated.

Where friendliest strangers

and strangest friends meet,

and where, I swear, it seems

my own melancholy forces me to

wallow through stories complete.

Your ability to wear glasses is elusively sexy.

Euphoric eyes blink salty.

Black-rimmed frames frame my affections

but today are double-fold.

I do hope you'll wear them even after being told.

I'm afraid I have given too much

Before, so I doubt to give it again.

It's not you it's my pretzel legs.

They're so very stale, so very salty.

Please forgive me?

Your ability to make me feel

beautiful & smart by looking

beautiful & smart is not only

beautiful & smart but your

beautiful & smart shadows

wander through my heart.

If I had but one last

figment of my imagination,

I would hope that you would walk with me.

My courage would breathe lily fire,

My breath the sweetest ice.

And then I would kiss your hand

so salty.

boop

They tell me

that there are more stars

in the sky

than there are grains of sand

on every beach.

Call me a romantic

but

from the maroon seats

of the

planetarium

there looks to be

only one

twirling around,

the

littlest

nose of

the

little

ursa minor.

Come Back To Stillwater

We shortened the books of

the Bible to Gens, to Levs,

to Deuts, to Revs, which was something

we could always come back to.

The remote hills blocked out

any wind and so voices sunk

with the shrill sun, down to

where we could always come back to.

If the fire leaned forward and

licked our legs we had something

we could always come back to.

If my words dragged on we

could open up a random page

and find emerald words that

we could always come back to.

The body jumps, my body jumps,

from the damp, the tingling lamp,

the basement tramp. There is no one

for her to be coming back to.

When the house was still

after sunrise I went looking

for something to come back to.

Was It Possible

Cardboard sign abandoned in the highway weeds.
The boutique shops are For Sale
(My secrets are)
Woman with rustic cane
Man with bone-like arm
Cradled in its sling.
Striped shoelaces tangle on the crosswalk.
I bite down
On oxygen molecules
Hoping we’ll have lunch today
Because by far the most interesting
Thing today has been watching
My laptop wake up, sleep, wake up—
Just to prove it really was possible.

Motionless Minnesotan Morning

Through the

red and olive leaves

caressing

the high fence,

snapshots

of laughing children

climb,

chase,

and slide

all over a

little park

I never knew existed,

crossing the

empty street on a

Motionless Minnesotan Morning.

Hug Like A Friend

There's your arm,

draped in cashmere,

it goes under this one,

reaching towards your ear,

and here's my arm,

swooping through your

empty space,

beneath the one that's

way too close to my face.

Your cheekbones

felt like expensive china.

Boiling Ice

The sky looks cruel

but it may be because I've never seen it before;

beneath it lights twinkle orange.

Everything seems a muffled gorgeous,

because with eyes like fresh cement

and a body like boiling ice

it's hard to notice fully the

final minutes of dawn.

I'm going to be sick, it's going to be orange.

The sky is ivory-blue.

Do you know what this means!

It means today must be a success,

despite the fact that I am going

to lose my wallet and most likely

my sense of holy direction,

because dawn

is in the bucket:

Full screaming,

Full stomach acid,

Full the question I am forced to swallow.

The day is hanging on a thread in the sky.

Will it go ivory,

or will it go blue?

the gut

I believe that the time is now

or soon

or now

or later

or then

or here

or great

or wow,

then soon,

or now,

then wow,

then great,

or too late

or just right

or tonight

or tonight

or tomorrow

or one a.m

or four a.m

or three fifty

p.m or whenever

we meet again,

or never,

or most likely never,

or sigh,

or deja vu,

or whatever,

and what dares

or who cares,

or after

or before

the silence

or laughter,

or golden,

or trite,

or sexy

or false

or tonight.

Or tonight.

O Forward

If I really did look like God with the sun behind me,

like you said I did, has the Great Flood come yet?

Or is it playing her part, is it biding unruly time,

until the white knight steps forward, his compassion

renewed? When we stop caring is when we feel like

we should care the most. So fuck it, so flood it,

so let everyone breathe salt and party hard with

deep sea midnight, until they sink to the lowest

point that I lovingly call Her Castle.

Taste the rainbow.

And in the morning, the trees will replant themselves.

And in the morning, the blades of grass will make amends.

And there will be these most beautiful creatures in the world,

some call them girls and others call them friends.

In The Alley

No one knows how big this thing is.

From the outside

it looks a little matted,

like a white-brown puppy

soaked from the flying puddles,

shivering beneath the bus stop sign,

and it knows too well that it's the

damn cutest thing you've ever held.

There's not much more to say.

Except that on the inside

there are flowery skulls, slips of paper

with eyes on them, and water,

lots and lots of water.

thinking with our fingers is not an excuse anymore

i shot my masterpiece

full of holes

&

left it in the gutter

there are many

waterfalls

to tread

&

mines to

illuminate

after all

don't let your teeth

fall out of your mouth

now

here comes the fall

give it your all

Compression

If only we could shake the world
and neither of us would miss it,
then the translucent gold might
shine like eyes, blue bright.
But here we are, only able to hide
from it for a while, releasing our doves
to the cold, compressed night.

I’ve been trying for many invisible months
to not show you my hands too soon.
I’ve been waiting for many invisible months
for the thunder of the monsoon.
It’s falling on me now that all of my excuses
are sounding so out of tune.

I’ve been trying to hide the starlight from the moon.

Our hands are empty,
calloused, with odd tan lines,
proof that there was once sunlight before.
But even when evening comes to the door,
asking for our latest works of art,
our hands remain empty.
The fangs of the future are bared.
I doubt anyone is as prepared
as they expect themselves to be.

There are those who lose sleep:
To kill desire, to replay
all the secrets of their day,
to hear the water slam
against a wayside cliff.
And others simply wish to keep
whatever stake they might have
deep within the ground.
But looking at them now,
there is no telling who’s been around.
The smart sound stiff.
The tired seem wrong.
The only thing I’m sure of
is that fractal star
spinning in your eye,
but I never see it for very long.

So bring me all your troubles;
lay them down next to mine.
Then rest through the night
and let our secrets go untold:
only then will I ever be able
to turn all this mercury into
gold.

(You Are) Brilliant

You turn my smiles into gongs.

Ashes spark whenever you sing:

You are brilliant beyond songs.

I had never felt your tears.

I knew it back in spring:

You are brilliant beyond mirrors.

Your compassion should be a crime,

for it dwarfs whatever I bring:

You are brilliant beyond rhyme.

I don't want to make a fuss,

I just feel like saying this one thing:
You are brilliant beyond all of us.

We Live On Wall Street

The stocks are looking good today.

That was a joke, every day is a

sliding glacier, while headlines

patiently sit on coffee tables.

Americans Sour on Trade.

Banks Keep Failing,

No End

In Sight.
War Dims Hopes For Peace.

The leaves are sounding

their horns, the muffled

wind whistles a dirge,

and a surge of crumpled

bills goes down the drain.

The millionaires have

all been warned.

And we'll forever be

at Threat Level Orange.