You Are My Only

Hips are happy tonight
along with the flowing fingers that feel flesh in a frozen flashback
and I just missed a moment.
Shoulder rolling to shoulder, and count
two three four fuck it
five six sucks and still the music plays great
and loud in the waiting room of my nervousness.
Brief silence and I just missed a moment and I
just stepped on beautiful toes and you are my only
but someone else can always do the dancing...

Scratched floors shine with confidence like a Chilean smile,
and I must have left mine in St. Paul, New Brighton,
on the shadowy overpasses of 35W,
locked in a cologne bag of ineptitude, which I left the house with
so long ago; it seems like so much more than a moment ago.
Finger licking and rapid kicking wearing fish-scale
flowing outfits, unmatched in the wide open
competition of beautification. I haven't spent a single
penny and my pockets are dimeless, I threw them all
at the epileptic parking meter, in the timeless void of

vocal lesson and arm-burrowed weeping and snow-drift
recollections at the Cosmopolitan.
I am unspeakable, which I dare not speak about, neither
in my midday sanity nor full moon toothache, regretful
of the long nights spent wishing it were the past and
future at the same time,
because now it has impregnated my gut with
sullen suspicions and fragranced rejections, which I taste
with chocolate-cupcake intensity.
It is a happy birthday tonight. You are my only

and what this means petrifies all but my swollen
flickering eyes and thrusting unfathomable unconfidence
in the general direction of Winter.
Can't you see the tango twirls tessellating as if it
were my own kaleidoscope nightmare!
And the hand slips, to tucked stomachs, invisible bra straps
and frozen shoulders, shoulders.
And the clock strikes Not Yet so the ball continues to
sputter down the unforeseeable hill of pathetic, which I
am the King Of! King Of Chapped Lips! King of the Failed
New Year's Kiss and King Of Forever Lean and Miss!

Semi-hydrated particles of liberal sweat and teenage tears of
breathless joy crash against the wall of Time, seeping through
all its weary cracks slow and unbearable, slow and no I don't
know what's wrong so quit asking me and quit dancing with your
helpful strangers and quit leaning towards the ever-present possibility
of Moving On, towards a new river-soaked chapter of loving.
So much time passes when the music moves quickly through
glittering salsa halls and explosive shopping malls though every
single store was closed and I just needed to get the hell out of there
get the hell out of here and debate for a very endless birthday
the sincerity of so many glowing moments, until one two three
friends is what we are and I'm sorry for having missed four.

Can you believe in the exhaustion affliction that so desperately
rears its flustered face in the coldest night of the year?
Believe or don't it is becoming my perfectly acceptable reality,
crossing the inhuman void between My Self and My Other, who
so desperately wants to look across the mirrored room and
flash a frozen grin -- dresses fluttering and prisms reflecting
back the intolerable whiteness of strange and stranger smiles.
Pain and swirling prisms and pain of the past dozen lunar
cycles eclipsed by the holy madness of the full moon, marking
the first day of her period and a series of periods I have
maniacally induced into writing, here on the back of Miss
Hurd, which tonight is bare and flawless and ironic.

Erstwhile the after-party oracles consult each other, smoking
stories between each other in valiant attempts to ignore the
trembling pen with glasses and a chipped face. Spare me of
further restlessness and press softly on my temples to relieve
the swelling. Rid the absolute squid of my incompetence for
Eternity, which tonight means tonight, because what else could
matter but the dancing fairies I see in the mirror? Happy
Birthday. And happy birthday to my dad on the day of
my gentle bludgeoning, and happy birthday to the New Year
for being so productively boring and for inciting hollow
excitement into the steam-boat of January. I can't thank

you enough for your consideration of my un-being. That is
what would be best, after all? To be without the muttering
pen and uncertain glances of certainty. I'm sorry for having
ruined nothing. Perhaps if I mattered more (or less) I would resign
to being all (or none) that you think of, and who can think
anyway when lying on salsa/hospital couches, with flutes and
maracas and romantic guitars boring holes into my open
secrets, and I can't even begin to imagine what that looks
like, but all I see are holes and endless cha-cha into the nest of
them, and even that I cannot see, only the gentle wet-sand waves
of bare arms, and flowing foothills of frozen hair, and all the
moments retreating back into my mouth, where they scream with
hoarse voice, YOUAREMYONLYYOUAREMYONLYYOUAREMYONLY

Hate The Disease

My buddies asked me not to turn into their own personal Springstein.

I said nah man, I'd like to be more like Dylan, you know, get into you

without you even knowin' it. Talk for all of America without

even havin' to give it a name. 'Course I failed

already. I'm no Dylan I haven't even moved to New York yet,

where protest song auroras linger in the basements

and the grizzly one-legged Sam crawls over the Brooklyn Bridge.

I haven't seen that America yet!

My America waits beneath the snow,

teases, shuts away, gives more night than day.

A sick child takes off all his clothes

because it's fucking burning in here,

look how America runs naked through the courtyard.

Glasses-Man

Sat at your table from 11:10 to 12:37,

'till you had something to say:

"Go back to school." Then wiped

off antique eyeglasses with a velvet cloth,

for nine hours a day.

The sun sets at daybreak

The sun dies in the morning-time

on your many precious windows.

I threw my masterpiece back into my bag

and found the nearest bathroom and stared

at myself until 12:48

Go back to school.

Well asshole

I'll see you

hung on the cross of the stage

before I see you in heaven.

Birthday Ode

I have seen farm-girls running scared

through flaming stacks of hay,

I have seen trees uproot themselves

at dusk on evening May.

I have seen sharks grow wings and soar

straight out of the bay,

but nothing I've seen is surprising as

what I've seen today.

Write me beautiful, flowing songs

in the fortress backyard,

Fill my lungs with waves of air

and make me feel hard.

Remind me why I'm supposed

to be a man today,

and show me your unyielding generosity

on my 18th birthday.

We Speak Florida

We don't speak English here.
We speak the sea sounds
And the internet tongue.

We speak to the sun

When it comes up

So near.

What Ceremony IS this?

Take roses, from

just behind the porch,

just behind the ear,

and in her hair, hear

that awful piano tune.

I wish the piano-man were here.

Left with his woman instead,

too kind for unkindly folk.

Take his roses

from smirking shirt pocket

and blow balloons into

the void of his face.

We'll be the ones to entertain you now.

With buckets of water,

and eyes that can't blink

because we were up past 3am

and we sleep in 4 hour increments.

But you wouldn't know that

man,

You slept through both

the Easter hunt

and the phoenix sound.

Living in the Living Room

Weekend full of words, alone, crawling down the dust-choked stairs backwards, searching for the perfect guest to sleep beside my bed, with lonely lamp showering down advice.

When get this bed so empty? Why my ass hurt? The carpet flays, it's really just another invention we would have been better without. Who needs floors! Who needs walls, ceilings, ottomans!

Keep the doors, you'll need something to write your name on, for when ya finally get here, curlers in your hair and spotlights on your face, now you've realized the house has been empty ever since they went to the Dells to get away.

But there you went bowling! cosmic bowling, cult bowling with the rest of those who ignore my fake drunk texts and kick me into the snowy space. I hope I'm having enough fun for you

burning my ass on the carpet and staring at the lamp wishing for a blackout of mind & us.

Sing N Out

Long winter walks down

Into the magma pit of Dystropolis.

Stuffed high with taco meat and perjuries,

Embroiled in a business den of linens

And harrowed upbringings.

They bring their wives to work on their back.

They pace the Capitol perimeter

With the War on their back.

Hungry ego-wardens planting heavy their signs

Into the grass still yawning from sleep,

Afraid of Spring's victory march

And other whoremantic bullshit.

What a way to see the highwaves roll about.

In the food court den,

We and our shirt-collar friends

Rip apart

And Sing N Out.

Frozen To Stone

Ivory leaves

Are back, drifting like

Liquid seeds.

They are nothing sinister.

Just like your sister.

Smiling with no intent,

Seemingly hellbent on tearing

Your body away from your hands.

Chewing your neck like taffy.

She can keep her virginity

If she's even got it.

Buttercups

Dusted with snow.

They pucker before dismantling

The stinger

Of the Blind Bee.

Her

Not Me.

The gargoyle plants a sprig of mint,

To keep the conversation clean.

I envy his stone-gaze clarity.

Blind Pursuit

It will start out as a question,

Innocent. Lurking with metaphor.

You may answer with white shudders

Or a shrug of your shoulders, lips

Forming to an unconvinced 'sure'.

Beluga whale of an evening,

Stretching it's smoothed fins.

Blowhole, shadows on the curtains.

Sometime. Moontime. How long

Have you kids been awake?

Weaving your own mistakes,

Through cobralike fingers,

Eating holes. Like biscuits

And a brickload of coffee.

Dried out, dried out apricots

Picked delectably off of me.

All right, scram, you've had your fill.

What I once stalked like an

Iguana turned out to be nothing

More than a reflection of the rainbow.

Cartographer

Time gave you time

To lick the ink,

Sweat

Out your dreams.

Dreams, not good—

Topless kittens,

Etc. Shower rain

Melted them off.

Turned into

A pool of salt,

Calling Lot's Wife

Into the picture,

Then pushed away.

Nick's Cafe.

Waitresses bring out bacon.

Waitresses bring me steak,

Like the skirted lioness.

I eat

Heartily.

I pen them down.

I pin them down.

They whisper.

'I can feel your cock,'

They whisper.

Nose to oily ear. Skin

Vanilla bean.

'Meet me in the bathroom.'

On the napkin I draw a map.

Declaration of Severance

You should have said the mountains were out of reach—
No matter—I’ve seen them, through a lazy cloud stream.
I’ve left them—taken by dreams—oh the swiftness they teach,
Away from you, your vow of silence—faced towards the sea.
On a clear day you can hear it—love—clogging my veins,
Coursing like a deep blue snake, then turns to sugar and gleams
In the light. Not much out here but lamps and hunger pains.
Then you, constricting your lips ‘neath the sycamore tree.

My bones grow heavy—thoughts of red-brick anchors—marriage—
Little geniuses, monologues with Mother’s mouth; tucked in bed.
How miserable the horses would have been to pull our carriage,
Faced towards the sea—dumb and dull for all eternity.
God, it came to this! It came to this sweet friction of hell—
Damp electricity, my bravery led to the void, my daily dread.
It’s clear, we’re here—we’re fading—it won’t end well.
Unless I disappear—or say that we will never be.

I cannot keep you, shrink you, put you in a music box,
Though your voice still haunts the carnival of night.
I cannot chew through your licorice gates, your gumdrop locks—
So long as I am sick with you and you are sick of me.
So I’ve kept you in the open—a trophy?—a token of the sun,
Shining and turning away—laughter of unbearable delight.
Concerned phone call. 'I would never hurt anyone.'
And it’s true, you’re as harmless as a tender tsunami.

I have built endless bridges and laid them before you:
Ignored, toppled into rubble—next season, restored—
Kisses of river sparked beneath, soon out of them grew
The heavy, resolute roots of a great sycamore tree.
Now I’ve thrashed and wailed and wrung this all I can.
You’re a big pretender—I’m getting bored.
I’ll say it so I’ve said it so I’ll never say it again:

No us for the future, we will never be.

College Town

Eyes steamed open.
Force the culture down

your throat: you'll get used to it.
They're a bunch of health freaks,

steam-sweat, clean, well met,
they stretch their legs at intersections.

The chicken is bland, the rice, too,
bark sounds like an oatmeal-raisin cookie.

And you know it's good for you.
So is breathing, in due time we'll

get enough blood to ears and toes.
We have to breathe so much more up here.

My heart is racing it's not my fault
there's a future on the other side of the street.

The Action Comes First

Let’s get this out of the way: I want to have sex
with you. We’d get mad freaky beneath the stage
in the final act. I would treat your clothes as if
they were asphyxiating your poor skin, which

they are. I would suck on your bottom lip as if
it were a bubbly, bottomless bottle of Coke. I
would lift you up and press you so hard against
the wall that my muscles would ache until we're

finally off to college. I’d part the wave of your

toes with my fingers and warm your inner thigh. I
would even grab your ass and I’m not much of an
ass man. But above all, I’d want for us to get stuck

at the very top of a Ferris wheel, swaying fifty feet
above the ground, where no one can see us together,
and I’d kiss you and kiss you until the carnies
rip us apart. But if not that’s cool, I’ll find another

girl from somewhere, and I’ll write a few dozen poems
for her, and give her the grand tour of my room, and
after I’ve fucked her I’ll even ask her to the school dance,
whatever it will take for you to call me by my name.

Not A False Start

The anemic sun burdens the streets,

with ice cream scoops of slush,

and its thousands of cherry eyeballs.

The pavement's rough kiss,

striking with watery lips,

reaches out to every sole!

The sky is human-friendly

now. The roads are mischief-

friendly now, headlights wink,

speed off toward the zoo.

Gasping in the face and driving

for what seems like four hours,

We pick up easy lonelies.

We pick up animals at the zoo.

Our faces are melting and it's

awesome. We strut around

and marvel at park benches.

Sit!

Though the bench

still feels cold.

Relax!

It could soon be warm

as the day after this.

Observations and Predictions of My Little Sister, Who Will One Day Be Herself

3/13, 6 morn
She had lost an hour overnight.
This is something she won’t know for a while, and it seems like the kind of thing she wouldn’t necessarily need to know, but it is. It is because it will help her to understand her inexplicable feeling of having lost something.
It’s a challenge because she, like so many others, forgot to take inventory of everything she owns before she went to sleep: This was a silly mistake, a fluke, as she would soon find out.
She felt like something was missing.
She had lost an hour overnight.

5:49 (6:49)
She woke up when everything was still dark, because of the snoring.
She couldn’t stand the snoring, even though she had her own little way of snoring sometimes, breathing audibly through her nostrils, like soft rustling of leaves. But this was something else: elephants and xylophones come to mind.
She regrets not buying earplugs, she knew this would happen, she even THOUGHT about buying them and then never did. Lost track of time.
Forgot.

6:23 (7:23)
She took her sleep-mask off and instantly forgot where she was.
The fireplace burned throughout the night, so the room was stifling and sweat had pooled on her forehead, armpits and belly.
First she thought she might be in Belize: she imagined every inch of the carpet covered in tarantulas. Then she thought briefly of that one boy’s house, Tyler or what’shisname, and how awful that was. Then she saw the human mounds surrounding her, including the one that snored and all the other ones, and her shoulders fell.
This all happened in a matter of cute seconds, before she could even open her mouth to let in a yawn.

7:37 (8:37)
The whole house woke up feeling like something was missing.
Potato pancakes. Oatmeal, with almonds. They feasted like kings and queens of morning. So much coffee, when they ran out of cream they just added more sugar. She would have had coffee if only she had remembered that there was a de-caffeinated option, she feared caffeine.

8:12 (9:12)
Caffeine isn’t all she fears.
She fears being written about, and with good reason. She has to deal with herself enough, and who wants to deal with more versions of yourself? More hollow, less resonant versions, mere reflections? She is forever mindful of her character. She exhibits constant good judgment, and laughs like the stars. But still she is careful, and chooses her words carefully around those with pencils
if she even chooses them at all.

9:36 (10:36)
They sat in a circle and shared their dreams.
In turns they played Freud and tried to figure out what all of it means.

10:18 (11:18)
Slowly they began to pack up their things:
They rolled all the blankets up and stuffed them in the depths of the closet.
They put the couch cushions back where they belonged, stuffy and upright.
They drew the blinds, letting the sun shine on their infinite mess.
They wrung out paper towels and painted the counters with water.
They flipped the switch and let the trash compactor bellow and moan.
They took turns washing dishes; exemplary distribution of labor.
They forced down cold coffee as if they were swallowing the sea.
They solved the great mystery of Whose Sock is Whose?
They walked barefoot outside with the recycling in their hands.
They checked to make sure they had all their phone chargers.
They kissed each other’s noses and said they’d never forget one another.
They called each other kittens, besties, family.
Then they slipped out the door, one by one, throwing their arms up in the air and squealing each other’s names.
Then climbed into their cars and pulled away.
Still no one had figured out that they had lost an hour overnight.

11:11 (12:11)
She drove on 94 until she finally got home.
Then slipped inside the backdoor while Mom didn’t notice a thing, she was downstairs painstakingly folding laundry. Her dad was in the garage putting a shiny new chain on all the bikes they never use. Her little sister was still asleep, balled up in powder blue sheets, mouth ajar and dribbling.
She opened the door to her room and threw her bag on the floor. The dust and debris of potato chips rippled outwards. She changed back into her sweatpants and sweatshirt and collapsed into her bed, replaying the evening. She looked around at the room, which was once my room, my haven and hangout and now it belonged to her, she whom I wish I knew.
But all I’m left with are my own words.
I know, though, that she felt young, and glad, and looking around her room,
I wonder if she wonders if I once felt the same way.

Then she closed her eyes, and went looking for the hour she was missing.

The Lion, The Shoe and the Jingle Bell Keys

A scruffy, tawny lion nestles in the open-air home of the golden slipper, waffleized with its floral pattern of holes, not big enough to smuggle the cowardly lion a heart or some piece of zebra, but small enough to let the Foot breathe, which the lion lives forever in fear of. He eyes the ceiling in despair. Such bengal-tiger behavior is unworthy of the Keys, which lay abandoned in the carpet valley far below, desecrated and probably haunted by the ghosts of its once-salty crew. The captain lives in the navy whistle. A purple gumball approaches. A mammoth bowling ball, rolling so slowly that nobody, neither the captain nor the lion, not even the Foot, can see it moving.

Send Me To Sleep

Those who grab you by the wrist

and pull you in

can kick you out with even greater force:

Force they learned over the phone, trying to

convince Jimmy to keep his life. He's a complete

douchebag now, but good job. My phone

has not rang all day. I am in good company

of All who I ever need to call but I doubt

that they have phones.

I doubt they know the way home.

Home, a flowerless place,

den of the panther of summer's solitude.

Home, a geyser where I sit for hours

hoping that nothing comes bursting out.

But here I am already far beneath the ground the heater's on I could sweat in my dreams and probably will without some kind of underwater kiss. Just send me one. Just send me one. And then I might finally be done.

Despair Creeps Up The Wooden Stair

I am chaining myself to the basement wall. You brought me here, awkwardness and all.

There are no books to come to my aid, I am a crippled, fervent old maid, washing spotless the ancient window through which you'll see me go.

As you tear through swamps, I am on crocodile snouts.

As you dash over roofs, I am squeezing through leaky spouts.

I see you up from the down

having a ball halfway across town,

while I sit at my gate awaiting a liquid mandate.

I read too many books. I devour all the concerned looks

that close ones give me, are you still close?

This poem is not for a man, not the one I want to be,

but for a bored child, rambling abandoned, full of possibility.

Where silence ends I cannot tell. I am a tired bird, a romantic shell.

Please visit me in the morning when I am well,

in the morning when I am well.

The Snow Will Soon Be A-Flying

The snow will soon be a-flying

up canvas hills of north,

and in darkness we'll wait lying

to see what we are worth.

And if we are lucky to be swept

into a sumptuous den of oak,

then we'll hope only to be kept

on the inside of the joke.

Where the line can be gently thrown,

become taught, shorten in length.

And in a silver silence let it be known

where exactly my faith meets my strength.

For the snow will soon be a-flying,

blanket over smiles, blanket over trees,

but there will be no use in trying

to sever myself from the winter breeze.

No Pictures of my Face, Please

It could undo all our carefully tied knots.

It could put a dent in the whole

damn operation, just this, this very

thing that we're holding here,

but quick, crinkle it, put it in your pocket.

I don't like being seen by you without knowing.

I don't like not having a say

in when I can and cannot drive for miles,

when I do and do not open my eyes,

when I show and show not my teeth,

frail-white,

'fraid they'll be gone before much else.

There's this moment

before you take my picture

when the lens ascends,

and everything gets fuzzy

just before that moment of clarity

and then:

clear, smooth picture

of someone else entirely.

I Cannot Go To Hell And Back

I cannot force creativity

out of this muttled skull.

On my desk sits a dozen small

poems addressed to you,

but they're old since you no longer exist.

I read today about Audie Murphy

who was a small frail boy

who won 33 medals for killing people

in the Second World War.

Anyway sometime later he

became addicted to placidyl,

then went cold turkey,

locked himself in a dingy motel

and a week later got over it.

What I'm saying

is that I'm not Audie Murphy.

I have never contracted malaria.

I don't know what it's like

to shake violently for days

and then suddenly stop.

The Properties of Beauty

The close-up are more beautiful

than I could have ever imagined,

at least before climbing into this bed.

Beauty cascades like water,

murky, swirled sort of blue.

It dries as quickly as not,

and before now I never knew.

I know now the dynamite of skin,

and the unanswerable warmth

that squirms within.

But unless I be denied it all,

I better be careful with my

hands, say no names, dream

no dreams, pick no sides.

No one angel sleeps in the skies.

Barefoot Sentinels

I get the feeling that somewhere out there
I am being watched.
Which sends a warm shiver through my fingers,
because snow be dammed, Spring is on its way
so watch your eyes! The barefoot sentinels
watching over the Equinox have floated down
from the tops of the trees in the skies.
They are pointing into the pools of snow.
So lovely in their silky uniforms, eyeing
themselves in the murky reflection. Except
that it’s not themselves but more like a
cubist/surrealist/absurdist
version of what they love most about themselves:
They see their talent swell to swallow the moon
and their eyes refract street light and rainbow.
Sort of like the Mirror of Erised
except they’ve already got what they want most,
and none of us quite know it yet.
I’d invite them in
but I have nothing to offer them
except my own enthusiasm.

Dream In Which We Had Fun

You and I went running through a grocery store,
I hate that you were there in the first place.

You told me that you had done this before.
So we ran around, free as summer, pilfering candy

off their busy shelves, throwing it at each other,
into our mouths, into each others mouths, into the air.

Left behind a chrome trail of sweets, every hall we went down.
We kept at it for hours! Licorice whips, chocolate explosions!

When we were done I thought we would leave right away,
But you needed a carton of milk, which I offered to buy.

"Just this," I said to the gruff-looking registerman.
"Like hell just this." I knew this would not go over well.

I handed him a 5, and feeling guilty, I placed all of my change
in the tip jar and sheepishly walked away.

"That was mighty nice of you, a super nice guy."
I was nearly out the door but you for some reason

hadn't moved from where you were just before.
And with only you in his presence, he clicked his tongue,

"Hey baby, how's about ya come over here?"
And that was enough, I gave him the longest middle finger

he's ever fucking seen which shut him up while even
mountains shuttered. So then we left.

He must have been as jealous as I was, or maybe he is me,
because police were called and coming for us before we

could even get to the Santa Fe, parked in cold darkness.
I told you to "Hide, get out of here,"

I'll give them a chase that they will never find their way
back from. But you wouldn't listen to me.

"Should I get in? Should I get in?" You kept asking,
until the black-uniformed boys had us surrounded.

Then you calmly walked around and got in the car.
Then everything went away, and it was just you and I,

driving up the chrome, winding highway on the mountain,
while dolphins danced in the skies, sweeter than candy.

15 Rules To Writing, Enjoying Spring and Forgetting All Else

1. The page is the only one who cares and maybe not even then.

2. Time for poetry only when we're done playing.

3. Love all and for every reason.

4. The new muse is Play— Thought is dead.

5. In movement there is life, in change there is power, which all will be used.

6. No time to wait for someone to come around, go and find them.

7. Trust all with our many Truths.

8. Sleep not when tired but exhausted.

9. No explanations necessary.

10. See in the future nothing familiar, it's all right.

11. Relax because it's just a day.

12. Let the Music of the Mind sing.

13. Don't Miss The River.

14. This time like every time will work.

15. Love who?

Song to Melt the Snow

I want to see the grass beneath the snow. I want to see the trees all in straight rows.

I want to see you sitting on my bed without thousands of whispers mounting in my head.

I want to make you think I’ve gone somewhere else, somewhere different than any one of us has been before.

I want to go there now, but what of you can I take with me?

Some of your hair? Oh god, how creepy.

I’m a writer I suppose your words will be enough.

I hope you don’t mind or miss them.

I’m sure they’ll find their way back to you.

Until then I’m taking them into heaven

and it’s a tight squeeze for those naïve enough,

but I plan on following the kiss,

singingly into the honest end of Winter,

where everything will come bouncing back to me.

Except you. I think I’m okay with where you are.