Chula Vista

Wet footprints mudding up the carpet.
Steam stirring out of hard, grated slabs
of plastic. Salt finds its way into every crack.
This is where we end our day.
Jets churn water, churn water like clouds
churn thunder in their silver bellies.
Wetness sticking to things: pooling
on the tile, running up the walls.
Families engorged pick apart crabs.
Money flies with the wind, nestles
in the parking lot among the leaves.
This is where the bleakness sedates.
This is where we end the days of our days.

If I Ever Met You Before It Was In A Dream I Forgot As Soon As I Woke

And you were walking soundlessly
Leaving sunken prints behind you
On a wet, tawny beach, moving in
No real hurry towards some distant
Beach home which you no doubt
Owned. Sea shells clamped in your
Hair and lips prim with pink, the sky
Bluer than any eyes I have looked into
Or waters I have swam in. In fact it all
Seemed so untrue that life for a moment
Fell out from under me, and nothing was
To catch me except you, which you did
The moment I woke up, but then I lost
Your face among volumes of faces,
And now I could swear I've found you.

Lecture

you never licked the stamp!
it's floating! washed up
on some oil-licked shore

your gaze never landed
where i wanted it to

your eyes did a fervent dance
they ripped open presents
like someone was going to take them from you

when i'm near you i undress you
when i hear you coming
i shut the door and check my armpits
for visible signs of nervousness

la la la la you're breaking la la
la it's about time la la i'm on the
brink la la at least we're together la

if you want to make this easy
then give me everything you have now

gone! your complacency
gone! your mild interest
gone! whatever else remains

gone trapping the wind
into lifeless boxes
the wind panics, starts to pace
slashes lines on the wall
demands equal rights and et cetera

but respect for nature is so very
20th century and it's time as you say
to do as the romans do and though
we're not in rome I let that slide

still snow on the slide! no escape

break off the ice! it'll never go! no escape

rip daises from coffins and plant lilies
in the ashes of cancer still no escape

think of you often and still not often
enough to make a difference no escape

want nothing more than everything and
gain nothing ever more no escape

love until music becomes a fly on the wall
and laughter chips away like a lawnmower
then we'll cross the border into bars that let
us germinate forever and still no escape

Good Tidings of Great Joy

O come tarry this unsnowed field
powdered with invisible flecks
of winterlight springing blackberries
peppermint and lush red mistletoe
dangling off the naked branch of
the evergreen tempting no one
in particular as the last faint murmur
of December tickles the tambourine
of my ear you draw closer curling
my lips (your final victory) even
the ornaments draw inward hugging
themselves to the earthy root of
the tree glass shivering in the green

sort of reminds me of you crazy
diamond ghost in the backyard
bundled in scarves and clean sheets
eyeing me on the straw manger bales
consumed by tinsel & the way time
slows without snow but then visited
by a host of angels linen-wrapped
in grace and lapsed out of longing
they delivered a message i should have
maybe thought to have written down
some shimmer of light that would
have surely brought the world to its
chill-bitten feet gleaming like sand
snuffing out a silent white candle

Mermaid

Mermaid out there on the glittering sea,
I have no way to reach you, no planks
to ply together, no white sails against
the rocky blue, in fact, if you're out there,
make yourself more noticeable, wave your arms,
fan your hair, flash a lighthouse smile,
i'm off the dock. cutting through surf
feeling the salt swim through my nose
burning my throat and making me cry
so much that, by the time i reach you,
sweet mermaid, my tears are untraceable
among the blue, and you were happy,
so happy that it was christmas.

The Privileged Many & The Nameless Few

if I had wanted
hormones pumped into my body
right around that age
where I started to feel a certain
burning
in my pants
I would have been refused;
turned out
flat and cold as a bank
statement denying
a critical loan.

I would have spent
the next never-ending
years of my life
shuffling in a bath robe,
my hair collecting
particles of dust & gum
as it drags across
the pavement, groping
for curlers and a
tube of lipstick.

when I was born
the doctor said “too pretty
to be a boy”
and passed the
little ball of meat down
the table, past candlelight,
the delivery room
must have been dimly lit
for them to have
thought me beautiful.

it could have been
some kind of omen,
I could have, from
the very moment I was
able to stand, slipped
on mommy’s velvet
black shoes and
pranced around the house,
and my gap-tooth smile
would have been all the
proof in the world
that you cannot fix me.

or, if I had been
born a girl, and
swaddled in a
bundle of bubblegum-
pink blankets,
would there still be
the great thirst
I have with me always,
would I still
objectify?

children are hungry,
children always want.
they sleep when they’re sleepy,
eat ‘till they’re fed
and when they have a nightmare
it’s the fucking scariest
thing that’s ever happened
in the whole world, and
don’t deny them.

children know.
they know when they
feel like their body
isn’t their own.
they know when their hair
no longer belongs to them,
they know when shoes feel
like ski’s and dresses feel
like mummy’s wrappings.

so maybe he doesn’t want trucks.
so maybe she won’t curtsy.
don’t take it personally.
she’ll still hold your hand.
he’ll still call you mommy,
daddy, there will still be
fireworks on the 4th of july.

presents under the tree,
just change the color of the bow.
a white one, please.
enough of the gender wars.
treat it like it’s a monopoly
game and someone’s
bound to fall asleep on the board.
lose the irons, the thimbles,
put the cannon back in the box.
you were born in the right body,
it's easy for you to win
but your babies? are they lost?

let America have its children.
let them be rare like an oasis
springing out of the wastes.
let them carry themselves
and live out their lives
to the very end of every branch,
where the fruit bunches up
and awaits a gentle hand.
keep them alive
in the brute face of
ignorance, disgust
and hatred that one day
could prick their finger
and send them away from you.

if you've nothing to say
i've given you a start:

you are who you are,
you were who you were,
you don’t have to be a boy,
you don’t have to be a girl,
I’ve loved you forever,
you’re exactly the same,
you’ll win out, anyways,
they put too much stock
into names.

Prayer to Ra

Thank you, our blessed Ra,
For the light you shine tonight,
And for being our only sun
Through nights of darkness;
Even though in actuality
You are just a series of
Buildings, we love you, Ra;
Though your great, golden wings
Are just a series of windows
Glittering in unity,
And your eyes most likely
Just a couple of antennae,
We still thank you, Ra,
For washing us in your light;
Even though we can only
See you when our vision has
Widened to see the whole
Unity of you, our blessed Ra,
We love you for it,
And pray that we make it
through the day in order
To see you, again and again.
Shine on.
Ramen.

Little Boy Love Poem

I thought it was insomnia, but now I know it's true,
Before I even knew it, I looked fondly on you.

Fondly out your window, fondly at your feet.
I will sleep again until the hour we meet.

I've never heard a laugh so worthwhile.
I lose myself in joy at your wit and smile.

I'll go dreaming about sunset on a lakewood isle.
Just know for now that I think you're neat.

Something about your voice, or hair.
There's magic in the morning air.

It was bound to happen, but I never knew who,
Before I even knew it, I looked fondly on you.

feels good, lack of interest

taking the backseat

is o.k

sometimes even when

i prefer

gripping the wheel

with my left hand

it's

considerably calming

to

bite into a brownie

instead

of eating your greens

do it live

live tonight

on the

tremendously

sharp edge

of the

blood-

soaked sword

Mobile

Leaves like tiny cymbals
clasp against the ground,

colors spinning downward
like a punctured helicopter.

The tennis court is brighter
than the ream of glow-in-the-

dark paper I use to write my
secrets. The sharp whisper

of the kettle can be heard
from down the hall at all

hours of the night. When
I lay down my brave body,

I spin these things above
me, and play them like a harp.

Journalist Mike

Mike Disman is a crafted journalist. He carries a notepad well and moves through crowds with muffled footsteps. He often interviews the prettiest girl nearby, and they are often smart.

Mike Disman doesn’t light his own cigarettes, he doesn’t light any cigarettes at all. He holds a Flip camera with only one hand. Who knows what he’s doing with the other. Could be fingering girls. Could be texting.

Mike Disman reports on good things, like Occupy Boston and the horrors of seal clubbings. He went to a Quaker school; does his work on time. He used to sit in silence for an hour and stand up whenever he had something to say to the community.

Mike Disman is standing on the hill overlooking the meeting held in Boston Common for Occupy Boston the night after the eviction. Behind him, there are ice skaters going in circles to the velvet thunder of Christmas music.

Mike Disman is constantly putting new numbers into his phone. He has a sprawling network canvassing wherever he walks.

Mike Disman puts his phone in his pocket, and starts toward the bench at the foot of the hill, the Christmas music fading as quickly behind him as day does to night, enveloping him the way only darkness can. He lights a cigarette. He mourns for the 99%.

He doesn’t know where to go. He walks home. He records a couple of notes in his yellow notebook and charges his phone. Then he sleeps, dreaming of the same thing you and I dream of, but in different colors.

Mike Disman is a journalist you could consider revolutionary.

Only Slightly Evicted

Took an arrow to the marrow
A little pink in the sink
Looking for my Zelda
Dropping on you like Link
Secondhand terrorist
Running out of relevance
Kid of nature lyricist
Red-nosed innocence
Back from the blocked streets
Hot from the cops cleats
People counting down
As if it were New Year’s Eve
Got my hands in my hair
Helicopters keep in the air
We just came to stand by
Now it’s time, Occupy

Say you Occupy my bedroom
Consider it, I’m very literate
We’ll play it by ear which I hear
Means very soon
You could be the 1%
Who actually gives a shit
I’d do my bit and we’d
Keep with this friendship
Look, I’m not saying
That it’s hard to get on
But it’s tough to get a hard-on
When you’re all over Facebook

Now Occupy is over
Its pillowcase hung over
We need you, red rover
Red rover, help us get by
We’re smoking all the clovers
To get lucky & a little high
Let’s meet at the rotunda
Beneath smoke and black thunder
I’m not shooting too straight
But I’m not aiming for your mother
I’ve got my sights trained onto the moon
And though I may not jazz June
I’m slicing the cocoon open
Drinking water like it’s vodka
Hoping that I’m coping
And forever fascinated by the
Stars in the sidewalk

So jump on your dinosaur
Keep on the go
Better run it like you want it through
The grass-green side-scroll
If you fall off just know that
It’s not your fault
But if you want another mushroom
You’ll have to vote for Ron Paul
I’m a long-haired addict
A furry sort of flurry
Carving holes in the wall
Like a twice-bitten attic mouse
Wanted two 7’s
and instead I got a full house
If this shit falls in
I’ll be living in a lighthouse

Santa’s coming early
No time, no long goodbye
But Whoville’s unemployment rate’s
Climbing like a sad kite
Where are you Christmas?
What is this sickness?
Molting feathers from the eagle
Dropping through the grey sky
Wasn’t missing all the cold
Now I’m back though
Breaking off icicles from the silver flagpole
Spinning through the blizzard
Though tempted I’m to miss her
You know I like to swim
Where the water’s most shallow

the national defense authorization act of alienating your citizens and turning america into a battleground nation, barack!

N.D.A.A pushed through the womb like a baby blind & bawlingVETOTHEBILLobama fix our problems make us brave to buy shit & prosperDOSOMETHINGALREADYJackson used to say cum & get it mutherfuckers so travel down the Mississippi river to Tennessee & LEARN something! oh my, what crowds at the state fairs near the riverside stamping on sooty stages and selling corn dogs for ¢60 cents apiece! they gloat in their greases and soak in the shade all day long. the kind of aroma that makes a man. a great man, presidential even. white skin, peach-red blood & a heart bluer than the graves in Alaska. all i'm saying is that the time is over for blindfolds & guessing at the things we could never — not even with our 50 grand a year well-rounded liberal arts education, which has broadened us to the world & ourselves, like a toucan first seeing its multi-colored beak, much like when you had your first orgasm, the electric schism of your shivering body like being hit by an aqua blue bolt of lightning — not even if we were paid figurative barrels of cash, which are actually delivered to us in blue, gorilla-glue pasted envelopes for all of our troubles — still we wouldn't understand. we try because it is patriotic, though we owe it more to our grandparents than ourselves. we don't wear hats often but we'd take em off anyway. so obama! hear this hatless cry! refuse the military the responsibility they can't bear and don't want! turn away from the raving circus and cure the sick child of its leprosy! you know anyway since two thousand and ten that you can't win. mutiny was crawling up the ship, then. lions breaking out of the den, then. least it wasn't 1837! everyone's still a little bit hungry. a bit socialist, too. OOPS. mr. president i don't like rainwater in my shoes, i heard from your own personal tumblr that you have the connections, please sign this check for me. sweaty palms shaking like branches in the hurricane, smiles more grim than the morning news. a day off and i'm strolling through blogger and you're on a helicopter, wide-eyed watching the exact and distinct colors of the oil spill, lavender and sick-green and other invasive species, another mask of paint placed on a worn-out face. i hope you're still watching, obama. i hope you have one eye on those in jail and the other on those in the street that will soon be in jail. we are no longer at the opera, drying our tears in the box seat. shakespeare has made his return, and with him a chatterbox troupe of groundlings, who dawdle and sing, shaped out of the magic inherent in the earth and ready to roll around in your mud. not everyone has read the literature? isn't shakespeare on the internet? mr. president, didn't he win a nobel prize? when i mention you between sips of chai at brunch, i call you barack. my pioneer press copy of the day after your victory will gather dust infinitely in a closet bin. do not underestimate my disappointment. you were my favorite band, and your second album will flood the bargain bins. remember to breathe up there, surveying the ghost-pale ocean & cracking open a fortune cookie that reads "eat fast, for the fat fall even faster." careful not to drink too much, you might forget for a brief, blinding second that you have the bravest job in the world. i wish you well on your landing & hope one day we can play call of duty together. it will feel strange voting for anyone else but you. it will feel like i'm throwing you into a cell waiting for you to cough up the fortune locked away in your foreign cookie and keeping you in there until you behave or maybe forever, if i'm having a bad enough day.

Places I Hope To Never Visit

Pluto, 'cause it's not a planet.

A frat house.

Munich circa 1938.

Where the lightning is made.

Toilets that hang in the air.

A murder museum.

Today after ten years.

The ship inside the bottle.

The shed in your back yard.

That's It I Surrender

That's it I surrender!

I surrender to the newborn nation!

I surrender to the bozos! the brains!

to the murderers! to the manufacturers

of horse meat! to the hand that signs the name!

I surrender to the tumbling snow globe,

the rambling staircase and the nuclear snow!

I surrender to internet martyrs

seeking attention with no real soul

and the fire chief! the bailiff!

I surrender to Congress! the feat

of climbing the Hill!

I surrender to pepper spray, to harsh

winters! tight perimeter! bullets!

the pipe! the rope! the candlestick!

I surrender to Barnes and Noble!

to the military-industrial complex!

to censorship! pat-downs! plastic bags!

the head of the dragon! ruthless scales!

leather whip! gas prices up again!

I surrender to all the intolerance, guts,

bravado, lube, hypocrisy, fear, judgment

and high fructose corn syrup of the states!

the language of the world! history! poetry!

philosophy! chemistry! ballet! theaters!

beats! ballads! I surrender it all!

all the marbles, my hand-stitched hacky-sack!

my acrylic self-portraits! my scribbles,

my arrogance! my wall-plastered letters!

have it all, throw a gala! have my coffin!

my lean wallet! sure, a cigarette! sure,

this isn't easy! but hey, too much going on

to do anything about it! i surrender my

diligence, and i'm perfectly content to

dwindle in the shadow of my ego!

Pre-Game

Pre-gaming is important,
but not nearly as important
as pre-gaming the pre-game.

Like when I slept to go
wandering with smoke in my eyes
and hollow hallucinations

of my best man looming
to my right for only me to see.
Or when I got drunk

at the library yesterday.
Or when I wait patiently
in the elevator, placing

a stick of gum in my mouth,
and holding a cigarette
between my ring and middle

finger, for those seven raging
seconds before the flame, before
I choke on the balloon in my throat.

How Best To Fold The Flag

snap it in half width-wise

and begin unraveling the

triangles. slip it into your

pocket, carry it with you

always. judge the wind,

travel safely over vomit,

pin it up where the sun

hits first at dawn, wipe

the fog off your mirror.

dismantle it, knead it,

punch it dead in the eye.

take a picture, make it

more real. floss. super

impose your face on it.

be taken to a whole new

world, put it between

the bacon and lettuce.

Things That Jeff Would Bring to a 90's-Themed Party

Ghostwritten by kaleb (worst)

Maybe I'd wear a Nike sweatshirt, they wore those in the 90's.

Maybe I'd wear sunglasses, they wore those in the 90's,

but they'd have to be 90's sunglasses.

Maybe I'd wear a Bill Clinton shirt, he was in the 90's.

Maybe I'd ride in on a bicycle, they had those in the 90's.

Maybe I'd bring a garbage truck in a steam-boat,

they had those in the 90's.

Fix Yourself

i lasted out

the night on

peaches & pears,

swearing i'd

never again

try

to see the all

of you

now

i'm fruit light

dressed

for a burial,

meeting

sunrise out on

the primal

pastures

(i think that,

considering

the heart,

no one is truly mad;

that we all

just

want something,

&

some

of us get

tangled

in the wires)

Bleed Loudly, Be Heard

Even as the plane lurches forward, closing my eyes to get one last glimpse of how I imagine things would be if the air was a little warmer, I waste no time and begin composing. Even as the de-icing fluid runs straight off the wings, leaving tangerine streaks of orange stained on the silver, I think of rain and lilypad hymns. I am being vigilant. Heeding the warning of the TSA, if I see something, I say something. Even as we break over clouds, and I feel relief at being so high above any final destination, I think of home, and feel rotten confusion—in Boston where I have my own bed, and breathe my own air—or do I belong among theaters and lakes, the thrashing cold raking my lungs, where no one is left to call my name? I feel joy only from the newest sensation; the small things forgotten, I cherish as they light up in my mind. It seemed right to endure the cold on my return to Minnesota—but wouldn’t you know it, in three days time I took hot showers several times a day just to feel good again. So stranded in no certain sky, being shuttled from one half-home to the next, forcing myself to ignore the dull bleating in my chest, it is no wonder that I feel apprehensive thinking of you, whoever you are reading this now.

I want to close an open secret: This all goes away. The confusion, the frustration. Even you go away. You fade and twist into one more knot that ties me to port and that’s about it. I can’t go any longer pretending otherwise. We don’t have to be bitter about it— I’ve saved us from that ugly reveal—the clouds are pale blue and wispy beneath the sun, let’s just enjoy that. Just look at it, hovering like a liquid jewel before us this morning, indifferent as ever. The biggest mirror I’ve ever seen. Just two lonely dudes in the sky, and if this string was long enough, maybe we’d talk about our celestial bodies and all the angels we’ve seen on our shoulders. But the string is never long enough, not for anyone. Not for those who stand at the end of the dock reaching out their arms, not for those whose coffee burns their hand during turbulence, not for you sitting elsewhere, and certainly not for me.

The man sitting in 35E—the middle seat, with me at the window, squinting down at Newark’s bleakness—told me that, no matter where I go in life, no matter how sweet my victories, or even sweeter my failures, I would only go to Heaven by accepting God—and the rest of this-and-that’s we’ve all heard—and when he asked me if I disagreed with him, I should have said yes—Honesty is, after all, more virtuous than Faith. If I had told him that sex is the closest we get to God, would we have smiled in some semblance of agreement—his six children might find it plausible—or would that have been it right there, the end of what little we had between us? I would have liked that. Why can’t we all be as honest as a man like that—coming right out with it, pamphlets and all—tell me what you’re trying to sell—

Because the only thing I’ve been trying to sell is Care, packaged into neat sentences that you can carry with you. Care with honesty and candor. It’s a delicate commodity to be dealing with. It has no supply or demand, but is still worthy of my full attention, as it’s the only thing that makes this—this back-and-forth, often one-sided conversation between us, full of sighs and yearning—something worth doing the rest of my life. Maybe you know it, too—maybe you care more than I do, maybe you’ll never let me know how much you care— but regardless only one of us will be here, in the end. You go away. I feel that’s worth mentioning twice.

I don’t mean to be so cold—there’s no ice on the wings, I’m light and blanketed in an ocean of cloud, everything really is incredible when you manage to stay awake and see. I want to breathe in this moment forever, far away from you as I am, unable to cast even a single sound into the stratosphere. I have nothing to waste. I pour my Coke into a cup avalanched in ice, wondering when our end will come. Until then, I care for you. Live confidently. No one knows you. See often, and say with sweeping certainty all that you see. Meet everyone. Praise the brazen, seek no judgment, give without an asking price. Go into the most night-like depths of yourself to find morning, watch yourself washed in golden. Wheels are emerging from their hiding places. Take this city and make it a home. No one will do it for you. Please be seated. You won’t die today or for a while. Be careful when opening the overhead bins. Today, you excite me. There are several reasons why. Someday, I’ll go this way and you'll go another, clanging tambourines and singing the noise of our thoughts. Today, we’re just figuring out more and more ways to say goodbye.

Quit playing Call of Duty, quit wasting your stupid life...

"Quit playing Call of Duty, quit wasting your stupid life! I’m hitting up the streets with Jeff, about to print my ticket and other plane-related shit, and upon returning I shall tell you about the worst emotional mugging of my lifetime."

So goes the dial-tone
echoing like a foghorn
in the throat of the cave

there’s not much else to hear

taxis drive by cross-eyed

I steal another cigarette

from Jeff, who is sprawled

over his sheets
my paperwork is ready

I have nowhere urgent

to be I only

wanted to hear your voice

I got what I wanted
trapped inside
an hourglass

cracked and sand

now spilling

out my ear,
into my hands trembling wired I can’t feel

the cold cradling
my baby breath

giving up has never been so sure of a thing
grant me the words to cross over countries
and the grace to lose what is already lost
for I’ve never felt so displaced as I do now
give me the luck to stumble into accidents
that might set me onto a wholly new scent

so goes the prayer

of the failure