Such A Nice Smile

That too many hours has been gone,

Hours engorged with pizza, the third

night in a row, washed down with

Dr. Pepper because I want my lips sweet.

They grow stale anyhow. They run themselves

tired, the poor things. They are worn jump-ropes

slapping the pavement out of sheer boredom.

Except nothing is boring.

Only the night slows down,

and it has nothing to do with you,

though my mind sure could smile for a little while.

But the clock warps into an A-bomb grin,

and voices scream into my face

every time I size up another math problem,

and begin.

Lost In Criticism

They will mock my work for years to come.

They will write off my honest attempts at being honest as drivel, the lowest denominator, an elaborate hoax of the common mind.

They will mock my manuscripts,

and pass them around at velvet parties and put out their cigars onto them, and scoff at their inconsistencies, their remarkable lack of clarity, or wit.

They will mock my fantasies,

which I will not be able to separate from myself, and they will see right through me and the lying crowd will write me off as a poet, and the poets will write me off as a deliberate fame hound.

They will mock my work by each individual word.

The first word will be far too overused, the next too foreign to reach across the arid room to grab firm hold of my readers,

who also mock my work.

They will mock my work with their wads of bills.

They will mock my work by scrawling over-descriptive cesspools of their minds on the wall.

They will mock my work by insisting on imitation.

They will mock me even when I know, I know that I am being honest.

They live in plastic tollbooths on the success superhighway.

And I will contend with them, I will pout, and I will shout

"Only the questionable ones never question themselves!"

Then surely they will know I mean well.

And then I will carry onwards, mocking myself all the way.

Sucker Fish

The sucker fish is but a shadow.

It braces the sound walls of its holding tank,

And gives a round, sloppy kiss for all the world to see.

We could all learn a little bit from the sucker fish.

Tomorrow Morning

There is never a good enough time,

Not for hugs, fire which ends quickly to sand,

Not for mirrors, which reflect black holes into our faces,

Not for work, the work we must create now, tomorrow morning,

Not for wiping the dust off piles of last year's failed creations,

Not for sucking in your breath and spitting out more than hey,

Not for study sessions which trail on and on into Neverland,

Not for smoke clouds to be ingested, to lick the tongue,

Not for the tongue to perform its ritual dance in the cave,

Not for I, the son, to pick up the phone and learn a new area code,

Not for fathers to keep their bearded faces above water,

Not for sleep, worthless sleep, I might as well go the full 40 hours,

Not for learning to play an instrument, which would create time,

Not for applying finishing touches to so many disappearing artifacts,

Not for questioning my rapidly plunging morality and naivety,

Not for adoring the kindness I am starving myself of,

Not for the presence of two, which on the right nights is mercurial,

Not for starting something new, something worth it all,

because the right time has already past,

but it won't, it won't, it won't be the last.

Honey

In the scorched grass you sit,

Beauty constant around you,

Busy like a silk-blue ribbon,

A silent moat.

Your skin shines in shade of me.

Bees flock in your general direction.

I admit, I am directionally challenged

When it comes to finding the lighthouse

That mounts towering, jagged rock,

And so you are not alone.

I want to take hold of your bones.

They are not unlike

Modern art through a window.

But so much sweeter than art.

Even sweeter than honey.

I never cared for the stuff.

I would take you over all the sweets

There ever was, and ever will be.

The Wounded Lamb

What are you going to do,

What are you going to do,

Bedraggled fluffy ewe,

When all the Shepherds have vanished?

I suppose I will listen

To the cries of the canyon,

Bending soft around the light of the moon.

Then where will you go,

What houses do you know,

What stones can you still throw

Towards the ocean throbbing and vast?

They say that on the East Coast

There are many Shepherds still,

And there I will rasp on their door.

But who will you take,

What wills will you break,

How ever will you let down

The downy weight of your wool?

You must take me for a fool.

I will travel alone by night,

Where the stars lay siege to my load.

Boston Doors

I am closing the Boston Doors:
Though they glitz in the pale harbor,
I cannot be moved to remain.
Old City Hall is shutting up.
Tea party patrons shake their cups.
Cracked, red bricks litter the terrain:
A cemetery. An arbor.
Moonlight too sweet soon turns sour.
I am closing the Boston Doors:
I'll return on the Mayflower.

Brush With Smoke

It’s easier to see the other side of the forest
when all the leaves are dead, lit up
like an intellectual scroll.
I used to come here to break hearts
now I come to ponder the mystery of the poem
and send my tongue into revulsions.
More than that, I cup my hands for water
and pull insatiable tears out of my eyes.
Those vaporous, regrettable things,
which I admit once did see from the brighter side
of the forest, but the leaves have started to spiral
like white-ash embers that sting and crack,
and with enough green, comes dark.

Getting Along

Love this easy never comes so quick.
Numb hands, locked on Stuart Street,
A kiss goodnight—and kisses more—

Like a lucid dream brought to night.
Longing in the old bones
Went looking for the meat of things—

Why do the phoenix’s wings
Stretch longer each and every time?
Why burn hotter, why cry

Louder with warbled tongue? And fly
Not yet unzipped. I admit
I do not know what wants what.

I kiss your neck— lonesome spotted mutt.
You have seen the prettier side of me
And I of you, that’s fair.

But my branches are touched afire.
Are we to become charred, tattered,
Prettier than a waterfall of air?

Tomorrow Aims To Be Higher

I skulked with these needles in my face,

Desperate for my passport out of here,

Whose paper footprints I cannot trace.

I found you though, sunbathing on a rock,

Naked legs whipped by warm gusts.

My mouth, still bleeding, Just. Can't. Talk.

I will soon be on a jet, a leg, feeling that lag;

Popping the dream bubble floating near.

From the rooftops of Boston I'll wave the flag

That, or so it seems, I am unable to fold.

Tomorrow I will unsheath my guts

and feed them to the fish that broke the bowl.

Make A Move

Also:

Banish Cute Dancers,

Effervescing For Gorgeous Hours.

In Jest, Kids Lust Maniacally,

Never Opening Pulsing Questions.

Rigor! Swag!

Tricksy, Undulating Vanity,

With Xerox'd Yeses:

Zig-Zagging.

Prehistoric Concerns

I am failing to convey to you the gravity of this situation.

It's heavy as shit. It's mammothian, perfectly preserved

in a block of ice. But maybe more like a baby mammoth.

The kind that they're going to use to repopulate the Earth

with mammoths. Imagine that. Mammoths in your backyard,

they would be hunted every winter. High school students

would skip class, forget Chipotle, we're gonna get ourselves

some mammoth meat. And soon the grassy knoll will be

covered with mammoth carcasses, stained snow: grisly.

It's heavy like that, it smells like that. If we're not careful

mammoths could walk the Earth again, and I still haven't

gotten used to all the dodos running around, pecking and

squawking, pooping in my bookbag, stealing happiness away.

You Are Not Allowed To Be Read Aloud

There is Time

In the trembling pockets of the year

For exhausted silence.

Apparations

Float blessed freely, around our arms,

Through my bow-legged legs,

Making music with their vibrations.

There is Time

For visions of partially-lit

Street corners in a cobblestone town.

The cops are out and listening.

They wait for a false move

That will never come.

There is Time for an unexpected collision.

Who knows what we're up against.

Observations Of The Long Night

1:32am
She had only been kissed once—and now, as an official adult, that simply wouldn’t do. No more waiting around for the perfect move, the ultimate checkmate. The chessboard had been shattered by an invitation to come over to his house. Slipping out the backdoor, she ran to her car in the rain followed by her three older sisters—not by blood, of course—who were of course there to make sure she went through with it. This was, after all, so unlike her. She went through with it. While putting her shirt back on and trying desperately to contain her smile which was plain as the moon, she thought about her first kiss. And her second kiss. And about how, really, they were one in the same.

2:45 am
The porch was cool and dry, despite the thunderstorm purring in the giant umbrella of night. He opened the sliding glass door just a foot and slid through, careful not to keep the door open too long. The porch was a den of unfavorable affairs: a half-downed bottle of beer on the table, trails of smoke disappearing everywhere, and dirtier than the clouds of smoke were the words floating from the mouths themselves. Just stepping into the room, they politely requested that he take a cold, long drag. The ends of their sticks flared in the storm. They were his little pale-skinned devils, fiercely beautiful and unhealthy. To his right sat his little bookish angel, who opened his mouth to speak and could taste only smoke instead.

8:29 am
He had many dreams for only having slept two hours. He was set loose in grocery stores, charged to rescue dolphins from a tarry pool, and saw brilliant yellow fireworks streaming in the night sky. But these were all quick dreams, like rooms in a museum. He dreamt mostly of blankets. Thick, woolly, smothering. They covered him in layer after layer, suppressing his ability to breathe, until the blankets formed a looming fortress over him, and passers-by could only guess at who was inside. Then he would wake— blanket-less and shivering. He wanted just to cuddle with her on the couch but never did, on account of his un-ignorable morning erection.

Questions & Answers & Most of All, a Question

There are many questions to ask, answer, be denied—
some come from snowdrifts, others out of spring air.
The answers may be tiny assassins of our pride
but for none to come at all, I simply could not bear.

There could be a YES, the most wonderful of all,
a spear-headed rainbow sunk into a pot of gold.
A warm gust of wind, a cool silver waterfall—
The itty, bitty beacon that flickers in the cold.

But still lurks the NO, which has its many ways,
creeping and sneaking into every good thing.
With its truncated snout, it whines and brays,
and rips hands from hands and bites off wings.

And still there are others, like the WHAT?—
WHO ARE YOU? and always MAYBE SO.
So many answers lie in wait; I better cut
right to the chase before the I DON’T KNOW!

There is nothing to circle, no games to play.
You’re awesome, and beyond belief pretty.
It’s clear, I’ve run myself out of words to say.
Callie, will you go to Finale with me?

Preparations

I have been warned

of an imminent surprise:

Eschewing, I suppose, the surprise

portion of the surprise.

Inevitability. Running into

a sudden pillar of sunrise,

turned into a pillar of sunlight.

I am ready I will be radiant.

The burden of yes falls on me.

There is no scale for this,

too heavy for frail numbers.

Just a jagged stethoscope

to hear faraway earthquakes.

They've gone on as long as I can remember.

You warned me now I'll warn you:

Carrying warm blankets

will not grant you amnesty

from the spears of a tribal heart.

The Sleep Talk

I remember everything about our conversation.

The world wants to know?

I will write it all in my sleep,

on a slate constantly swiped clean.

Sometimes When I Try I Begin To Shake

Give me something for the nerves.

Some solid advice.

A wall of ice to freeze me over.

A wall of ice that melts in seconds.

An ice cube of oxygen that slides down easy.

Slides down easier than these

words, words, words.

Sonnet To My Only

You slit the throat of your very best man;

Threw him to the eels, for the gulls above.

Slow he’ll drift until he kisses the sand,

My Captain, you call this treason, my love?

Everything is wrong in the flesh-flecked bay.

On the ship that breathes water and careens,

Crimson fog, howling seals, hull made of clay!

My Captain, return to me safely, my queen.

The skies by now are too grey for changing,

Too sick with sleet to salvage our goodbyes.

Now I lie, yearning for my burning spring,

And still I sound swept, with my drowning eyes.

I’ve no lips, wish; no lighthouse at the end,

My Captain, how could you, sweet sinner, my friend.