Yet If You Could Understand

Where kids once played, adults writhed—
Skin-snapping wind kept our fingers alive
To feel around a higher shelf,

Where no one has been in so long.
Two pairs of lips sing one lovely song,
Repetitive, warm, flooding with longing.

Out on the shores of evening are headlights.
If only they would shine on you, tonight.
I have grown fond of talking to myself,

It keeps my affections sharp as nails.
But my passion and vigor pales
The longer I sit on this lonely swing.

Housework On A Hot One

When does the countdown begin

To fully understand what it takes

To soak floors, to throw open doors

That announce our coming in?

I hate houses with open mouths

And cracked lips. I did not miss this:

The heat, a raging shower,

Forceful against our windows.

Whispering a dull dirge

While lawnmowers blow.

The grass is chipped and salty.

I'm bored as the sticks getting thrown.

So when do the notes quit plunking?

How soon does the day turn blue,

When does the sun bow its strands

To come after you?

Wake Quick Morning

There is a hurricane in my nose.
Cut-off arteries tried and plied
Like copper pipes failing.
There’s wet all over the floor.
My dreams were stupid,
They had me begging for chains
And sliding up old skin.
Just look at the state I’m in.
Stiff necks can’t see over the fence
Where they have syrup and sausage,
And a room to eat all night in.

A Wholly Unromantic Letter to Callie Peterson

Dear sweet Callie,

I, Kaleb Worst, being a proudly hopeless romantic, pride myself especially with my romantic letter-writing skills, which requires a delicate blend of raw desire, silence, and that all-too-unknowable feeling that the world beneath our feet can somehow be given to a single person, for at least one night.

The sheer willpower of the letter-writer should never be underestimated. It requires a great deal of caffeine and brainwashing to convincingly pen down words like “forever” and “always,” which, like a lonely tide pool, may be full of water under the white wash of the moon, and yet be dried up completely the following morning. A professional letter-writer such as myself knows to avoid the tiny eyes of the sky and to keep my nose dipped in ink.

I admit, however, that I am new to the trade, and it will probably always feel that way. My first muse was a mousy-faced girl who sometimes wore her hair in shimmering curls; I developed a code using erratic symbols and illustrations to first write the words “I love you,” before I began using my own private code to describe the sheer pain; the crying into my pillow that sometimes slipped in at night.

That was all sticks and stones then, though who would know it. I first began honing the fine, fine craft of letter-writing years later, when my best friend flew over the Atlantic Ocean, to begin a family tour across the great span of Europe for two months that left me quite disheartened. And during these two agonizing months, I promised that I would write a letter for every night I was alone. It was those empty nights that I first filled my letters with buoyant, jubilant words, which whispered a promise to me that I never would have guessed was unfaithful.

That was my initiation, my spirit walk, my going naked into the woods with nothing but a dull knife and a heavy heart, and since then, I still haven’t found my way out. After all, it’s incredibly difficult to have a spiritual vision when your spirit animal changes every other night.

So now I, the battered and starving letter-writer, have met you, who is, unsurprisingly, unlike any girl that I have ever met. Except much more so. And because through luck, fate and our stunning good looks we have been brought together, I did only what I have been trained to do, and at the desecrated foot of your driveway, I penned a beautiful letter in the moonlight that, beyond shadows and clouds of doubt, definitely freaked you out. I am always new to the trade. The letter-writer never gets very much right. He only guesses at things until something crystallizes: a rhapsodizing image, a word with a grain of truth.

Although there is one thing that the letter-writer is terribly good at, which is simply accepting whatever fate is imposed on him. So if I have been wandering in the deserted wood, searching for my next possible revelation, in whatever form or shape it will take, and suddenly you should step smiling out of the underbrush and into the quiet clearing, gentler than a white rabbit and more beautiful than a silver dawn, I will say “Yes” to that and feel happy and grateful to have met you. And if the world should remind me that our days together are numbered, I will say “Okay” and throw open the windows. After all, I am always learning something new, and this time it is that if I were ever able to give you the world for one night, you would refuse to take it. Because how could you give it up once it’s yours? Though there is something for you to learn, too: If writing be the prayer of love, then you must know now that I am deeply religious. And in spite of this, I pray that for long as we are in the same state you allow me to hold your hand, because letter-writing really is nothing anyway but a lame and misguided attempt to fit my hand inside of yours, by using words that could even tear apart the moon.

Yours,

Kaleb Worst

Whoever Holds Me Now In Heart

Whoever holds me now in heart, know that I am leaving
This damp, warm, snowing place. There might also be rain,
But if it comes, send it on its private way. No water enough
Could bloom my wilting affection, which I cradle in vain.
If I could choose, I would refuse even still to always be
True as the years spent building this web of stars.
But oh, my friends, when what is near you feels so far,
Lay me down your heart and go your own way.

Do not whisper promises in the heat of night,
Do not scratch up the floor as you make your lively exit:
Only go, and know that I might someday return.
Yet now I have mountains to steep, roads to sail,
Books to eat and unbelievable journeys to tell.
And I know that I am not alone: That we are
Exploding like a firework on black canvas.
So do not fear the edges where we have never been,
They were created for the young and alive to explore.
Let yourself run in the dark with scissors of flame.
Make children, masterpieces, nations of noise.

Whoever holds me now in heart, give me breath.
The growing season stretches and pulls: we are but
Plants in a country of farms. Oh, my friends,
I will not forget the stasis of your arms.
But now the light’s caved in, the water’s dried up,
I must, I must turn away from your hand.
This was a heartbreak I had never planned.
I have already torn myself, limb from body,
It’s a rip not even families could repair.
So lay me down your heart and go your own way.

But if someday you should need a hug that lasts too long,
If somehow you lose a mind in the great grove of Time,
I am at sky’s length: Send your owl my way.
And if you feel the inexplicable need to choke,
Choke away, my friends, my palm is at your back.
Send for me if your idea is too much for narrow words.
If the winds are sideways, if the sun is blaring,
If the cherry-red horns of the ambulances are wailing,
Then trust that I will be just through the doors.
If you seek a statue to accent the shade,
Or a pilot to pilot the turbulence of silver air,
Or if you should need to comb fingers through wild hair,
Then pray call—I am your man, I am still your boy.

You’ve seen me to the end, now comes the start.
If you should look for me, through brick-dusted streets,
With your buckets of sunlight, buckets of moon,
You’ll have broken my window again too soon.
Good brothers, darling sisters, you are my Original
Inspiration, my first fresh breath and wind.
I carry you with me until I carry myself down,
And though I cannot stay,
It has always been my dream to be everywhere at once:
So lay me down your heart, and go your own way.

Obligations

They came trumpeting up the stairs,
Victorious in their way.

Naked, in their sway,

Having spat into the lake.

Plunging.

While I slowly rock from hall to porch,

My gaze off, downward, that same floor

I've slept on before.

I cannot repeat these sores.

I cannot volunteer my restless hours.

I will drive all night if I have to

To get to a bed that will clothe me.

Even if it means giving up

All the applause in the world

Or all that we could ever be.

On the Evening Before My Last Day, I Wanted to Remember the Beautiful Things

A night like this does not fall lightly.
I was once told, that we are standing on the shoulders of giants,
My small eyes blinked then, frankly preoccupied with tears,
But the pool is shallow enough now to see the tops of trees.
We really are standing on the shoulders of giants.
And while faint orange street lights line my path home,
It isn’t the sort of night for me to be driving alone.
I feel a pain stretching inside me, a restless embryo,
Cry muffled, eyes widened, fingernails scraping my insides.
I would let it out if I could force myself to be less of a man,
If only I knew how beautiful—

I remember when this was all just a watercolor sleepwalk,
There were no edges or outlines, just color blurring together
To form general places to be. Room under white light,
Or bench under sun light to heat up soup in.
James! Remember the first time we saw the man walk?
Life was good then, it still is good now, thankfully,
And good for us that he still walks, and we still talk.
My other half to a part I never saw exist, until you
Invented the need for it to exist. We used to eat, then.
To think we were even quieter, then—

Then came love! Which in high school is no carousel
But rather a carnage twist of metal gasping around
In concentric circles, lights epileptic also.
But since the stars spun either way, why look harder?
The sky is a scary place since it’s always the same,
I’ve learned since then to keep my eyes on the earth.
Taylor! I whipped nights into a croak because of you,
And frothed dozens of twilight waves, and sung
My entire catalogue of songs with no instruments.
I rolled and lolled in your web, what a joke.
Three times you made me break, I was always broke,
Though it was a spectacular fire—

Spring always meant something more than it was
At least to me, at least in this evocative place
That I’ve come to know with pencil and smile.
Who cares if it comes late. Who cares if it comes at all?
Spring is love, not the sun. Spring are people,
Not emerald grass or banana leaves.
At least that’s what I’ve come to believe.
Rebecca! You were my yearlong spring, I’ll confess,
You were my complete opposite and I won’t forget it.
I needed you for all the reasons I didn’t, and so on.
Yet now, as I stand being swallowed by one final night,
I know somewhere you are out there, feeling it too.
Not everything comes smoldering down, that proof is in you.
You unleashed gales of beauty, and me—

I grow exhausted remembering my scores of friends,
All so tall and full of breath, light bright and playful.
Daniel! Bring your guitar to heaven, we’ll need it!
Sophie! Paint us our delicate dreams tonight! With your love!
McKin! Find the beautiful souls like us, care for them too!
Already I cannot imagine the gaping holes in my
Picture frames, if I were to have never braced these souls!
Kaitlyn! Endlessly voracious lover, peacock woman!
Eric! Colorblind boy with visions, sing me another tear!
Alan! The dark streets of Boston are sad without your smoke!
Mariah! Grow, and when all else is wilting, grow even brighter!
Maddie! Stumble through a field, care for the animals! Your family!
Molly Margaret! Woman of my women, queen of all my royalty!
Ashton! Your beauty burdens no one, your joy, more gorgeous!
Nate! I owe you more than you know, you and I, one boy!
Dominic! When you need gas, find me, we will drive across oceans!
Haydn! Save lives, let them live to hear your laughter another day!
Kiana! Spread across the floor, ultraviolet voice warming us all!
Iman! Know that you are young, then forget it, then spiral upwards!
Maria! Saintliest of girls I ever met, purest of waters, biggest of hearts!
My hands withdraw as the mind draws up family,
The saddest of names and truest sort of friends.
So you see I have been lucky—

But where the cozy carpets and linens of the home end,
The ravished borderland of unexplored forests and farmland
Begins. And I have seen mornings in Tennessee, silver mist
Falling over strawberry-colored barns, and I have heard
The snores of the ocean sometime at night.
Louis! We’re over here! Down by the trench of sand,
Pretending we’re like birds by the calm surf.
Josh! We always missed you, while you would sleep,
To wake so early to make us feel welcome.
Logan! Don’t think I’ve forgotten you! My friend,
Who keeps us sharp, who plays in the waves of books.
Mike! I see you then I don’t, a shadow in the fog,
Where were you when the sun grew angry?
Joe! Also a year behind, my enormous partner
In crime and rhyme, blame winter you were not there.
What boy could not sleep and celebrate being free
And become a man in such powerful company—

All these names have taken residence in me,
Camped out sections of bone, tissue, sockets,
Though one rests tonight in a feather locket.
Callie! I hope tomorrow that I do not wreck
Like a tired whale on your white shores!
You deserve a rest on the shoulder
Of a whole human, their memories whole,
Their bones attached, heart like a fortress.
Surrounded by a sugary moat,
Only for a girl like you to cross—

For a night so eternal, it’s ending rather quick,
And soon comes tomorrow to make me sick.
The grass won’t be green as my face,
The sun won’t beam until the day’s nearly gone.
I will carry this list tomorrow on to Boston,
Waiting for it to come alive and play.
All our tired years and all these lively names
Won’t give birth tomorrow
To anything I haven’t realized before:
But like a spout they will burst,
And you won’t remember Kaleb Worst
As anything but the boy who loved you,

Who loved you wide and whole.
—

The Oregon Veil

It is hammering on Oregon,
In the bone-dry breadcrumb county of Jackson,
Fishbowl valley engulfed in mountains.
Gravel wet like dogs, barking in barbed-wire kennels.
All damn day, all night those dogs.
I can’t hear them above the heartbreaking smell
Of God’s hammer and liquid nails.
In Oregon, it takes an hour to travel a mile.
Mudslides occur pretty frequently.
Just going home we are in great peril.
For father, it’s just one more farewell.
One more leap across the Devil’s Churn.
One more blue-and-red swarm
Of cop cars crawling our neighborhood.
I wouldn’t dare rasp the screen door,
For outside the streets smell like Oregon:
Like a river in a mountain, smoky and warm.
Through the veil I think he’s the cause.
I won’t know for four years more.

Don't You Worry About The Pride

Take hold of me.
I am loose—
Swinging my mane across
The snow-salted streets.
But still I bow my head
To the lioness in the end!

I would not mind
Being just a little unkind
Until I am on you.
Upon your den.
Near your end.

Would you believe a naked lie
Lying graceful on your table?
And would you pounce?
Who would you denounce
When it’s between us, just us two?

I want to take hold of you.
The grass is dry,
I wish to eat you.
Lioness, lioness,
Lay in your den.
My mane drips in the sun.

Let Her Be

Everyone ought to love a storm.
White, hot breath from the sun,
Going down, railing down on us.
Blinding flashes lunge to reveal
A yellow stripe down the grey road.
Mist tonguing the pavement.
Get us out of town, through gates of leaves,
Down into the sleeping-bag basement.
I know you hate nothing more than a storm.
Remember though, while I sit in the crank
Of the radio listening to darkness:
Tears are tears, whether from skies or bays,
And passion is passion, whether withering or hot,
So let Nature have her day
To let go of her cloudy memories;
Let her be all that she is not.

The New Guy

Cold coffee, long ignored.

What a bored, sluggish server

Tripping over his own words.

He's learned the ways

From the book,

From the oral tradition,

From snide co-servers that

Trip him by the swinging door.

He takes your order from the floor.

Give him something simple,

A belgian waffle or something.

Let ants carry it in on a tray,

So that you might not blame him

If he is late.

Do not blame him if you must wait.

He is teaching you a lesson:

To drink your coffee,

To taste what it's like to have no friends.

Spare

My attention span is running off

With my desire, they're getting hitched.

There goes my great body of work.

There goes my false sense of pride—

Like wet noodles sliding off the pan

To be ground up by the small intestine

Of the great publisher's club.

They build their gates out of words.

They build birdcages out of birds.

I think I saw a pussy cat, I think I am a pussy cat.

Except birdsong won't get me down.

Rafts made out of pages won't get me down.

Pretty extroverts won't get me down.

Stupid introverts won't get me down.

Being on the down won't get me down.

Nothing in this place can get me down

Except your fine, loose, spare sort of care.

To Answer The Question Imposed By You, Sleeping Now

To answer the question
Imposed by you, sleeping now:

There is a great, great valley in my mind,
Funneling a wired stream of memories,
Promises and destinations.
And slow through the coming days they
Will unfold, bursting open and then:
Long drives through concrete valleys
And alleys rotten with ash that kills.
Will you show me to your driveway
When the time is right to abolish
Your sad hill of papers and destroy
The habits we’ve whipped to keep.
And the valley fills to the dusty cap,
With all this florid air and waterfalls
Of wine, ‘till I resurface tomorrow,
Where maybe, possibly, a lunar hope,
I will be rooted to the sands of the surface
By the cave of your hand which I only scrape
Because we are consistently without candle.

I pray our fingers fold to a floodgate,
To let all this in; to keep all else out.

Boys Gone Too Long

Boys gone too long without their swan

End up jumping over tall, steel gates.

Which really should be no cause for alarm,

The flood of the muddy river is too shy

To lap the running mouths of our shoes.

No darkness but the hue of the golden sand,

Dirty and trashy like a fairy. Suddenly

I can see the landing: the off-limits balcony

Where we watch the ripples for a soft swan.

Barges drag beneath bridges, trumpeting.

Sand chokes beneath rising water rising,

Water like white fire, that you can neither taste

Nor see, only feel it wrung out once everything's

Landed. One story resuscitates my pride,

Withering like the wing of a looping bat.

Next time I'll be sure to bring a lighthouse.

Keep one in my pocket, a totem of reason.

After all, this is the most dangerous season,

Where boys with hours and a carton of flowers

Run through water at the mention of your name.

You My Anchor In A Violent Bay

You my anchor in a violent bay, sink so sweetly

Into the sea-beds, which are by now browning,

On the sun-swept hill of my evening birthday.

My neck like chalk snapping at the twist

Of a morning wind, so quickly kissed.

Wracked as water, cast off by my fire-dry hand

Weaving satin fingers again, and again.

You my fancy parasol, embroidered with milk lace,

Lay down your lovely traps. Your cheekbones, the mast

Steering the winds that softly rubbed me today,

The day I am no bother. But still

You paint our liquid gates with sweet eyes.

Such a slow gift, a stem in the sea, laying

Down in a dim bed near the close of the year.

You the thickest root, dancing and bone-light as the stars,

Toe-pointed, stomach-stretched women made of light,

Skating through the sad film of the raging bay.

Your grape-green leaves on the twigs of days

Spark sharp, new colors in the moth cave.

For this palette, this young rock, your bubble kiss,

I give you waves, which rock again, and again.

I Was A Cell Once, And Young

Too pretty to be a boy, the doctor said,

Then 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.

Now I am a skyscraper of cells,

Everything in its right and natural place,

My fingers long, my hair full of oils,

No matter what I do I will be a statistic.

I have no problems with being a statistic.

I know I am just a ventricle in a leaf of a tree

In a wood that used to be surrounded by more woods

Before they built more railroad tracks and churches.

Every day I grow newer, I feel no different

Today than I did when I was foaming in the pit of my stomach,

When tears ran freely in the face of failure.

Now I own failure, it's my faithful girlfriend, have you met her?

Stop me, I'm a tycoon, every day I own something new.

Today it's my life, but tomorrow it could be another's.

I am a terrible gardener, I let things sit in the sun

And forget to drink water three times a day.

The doctor says I'll get pancreatic cancer and shrivel up.

I tell him I'll outlive his life, his son's life and his practice

Because when the doctor dies his hands go with him.

My work is not finished, I am still lying my hands down,

Bony headstones above muddy graves. I never saw it rain

But I remember it like I remember being born.

They tell me that they knew right away I was no boy.

They tell me to be a man and I admit I am confused.

They say you'll be fine, you'll make us proud, son, grandson,

Someday you'll be even bigger than your words.

Then why do I feel smaller than dirt.

In Between

Winter smiles at last.

Summer holds its scorching breath.

We all know the rest.

I Could Not Lie At All

At the midnight hour of my fall
My father saw me and wept
He gave me life and an age-old glass
And a promise he knew I’d forget.

The room turned wide and green
My burdens laughed and left
I crashed into a spineless sea
My fears were cold and bereft.

A single door pushed forth to unleash
A vibrant wave of song
The music burned above the din
The night grew young and long.

I kissed the hill of a shadow’s cheek
I knew no guilt or calm
The golden lights flashed a moment’s truth
I felt the floor with my palms.

I took a mirror to my rotting teeth
A hungry child on a swing
And when the walls offered no return
The swing lurched forth into spring.

The moon swayed me like a tide
I took a breath at your shore
And felt the bones of a blazing hand
One I could never ignore.

The force of love rocked me clean
Two children shook and shoved
You must accept my apology
If I failed to make you feel loved.

The eyes of lamps blinked and waned
The carpet knew no crimes
I drank communion from a bowl
Just to hold you one more time.

I took my voice and cast it off
Into the grave of sounds
The tomb screamed back just like the wind
But there was no one around.

I fell into a shallow well
My dreams were bright as ice
I woke to find you sweet as sleep
And even truer than life.

No One Should Have To Go

You say you wanted me over.
For some dinner, you say.
Yet your wrist is braced
As you take a bite of tortellini.
I swore, I had salad in my teeth,
A great brute in the crow’s nest
Of my collective vanity.
You saw through me, like a crystal lamp,
Lampooning my doubts.
I saw far, far into you,
Like a constant sea-sick kaleidoscope.

“Do I have something in my teeth?” you ask.
“No,” I insist, and ask the same.
“Yes,” you say, along with other things.
“Do you really have to go?”
“Yes,” I sigh, “Yes, it is so.”

The kaleidoscope ends after all.
I should have known, no matter—
I take you to your hotel home.
“When will I see you again?”
Clogging traffic sounds.
I went back to my hotel
To cramp my hand.

Mouse Man

My mother is having another baby.
My father is busy writing his novel.
He wrote one before, when I was a boy:
One about tiny mice in tiny clocks,
Running businesses, living like princes.

That’s where he’s at,
Out in the country,
Looking for Inspiration,
Which he lost somehow.
Easily as a ring of keys.

Meanwhile,
I am my father’s tiny mouse,
Living inside his tiny clock,
Watching the stubby hour hand,
Willing it to glide in reverse,
To meet the minute hand once again,
And beat it at its own game.

Keeping Score

Too blank for being in the moment.

Let's keep a score: The world, none,

You, an hour's worth of smiles and good feeling.

I want: Someone's boot to brush up against,

The Advil I must've left in my robe. Bed.

I think I have become a thinly-veiled monster—

Also annoying, completely unable to give a shit

About the lies, at the end of their wires.

The drop-off looms. Something blooms:

If only it were your heart, your sweetest gloom.

This Is Too Much New

I know now that not everything is in you.
I have to halt, dig in my heels,
Knowing Time is no excuse—
There are still wires to cross
And organs to unlock.
The heart, perverted spleen,
And other curves of the life body.
Still I’m spiraling directly into you.
The action came first: all my words
Limped behind like a hooked fish.
I’ve coughed them up, they’re yours.
We don’t get along, me and the body.
I am its anesthesia; its will is my crutch.
All this Time, all of these raptured Wild Nights!
Too much, too much, and in time, not enough.

This Is Too Much New

Silhouettes slapping ghost railway cars,
Families on the bluff, cans in the ditch,
A shadow trail into the frail forest.
Fireflies of insidious delight pepper
The scope of the forest.
The uphill path, but also others.
Until the Lake arrives, temporary ocean,
Winding around like a carribean clock.
And then comes the soul of All-Time,
Silver-Dragon of Nature, which was a lie
Before now, he once stood with naked scales.
Now he has told me many tragic tales.
The Lake turns Silver-Purple, it only makes
Sense now that these were the colors of my school:
I am a firework over reflection of the moon.
Oh, but they have nothing to do. This is too much—
My knees, fallen trapeze, gone down to the mud.
My ass is muddy. It’s probably from when I was
Nearly crying on the ground. I get no satisfaction
In choking on my own leech of regret.It was a most

Terrifying
Beach, too many randy winds, too much sorrow—
I thought I wouldn’t be lost until tomorrow.
I melted out of the leaves: I wanted to believe
That nothing was stopping me from being stuck in between.
Where are they now, to have left the room, a blazing porch?
Like Billy Pilgrim, I went unstuck in time,
And every time I rambled into darkness, I met the moon,
A bald lioness over the canopies, loud down towards the pack of wolves.
Look, I only wanted to quit asking for you.
I hauled my phone over, my eyes cotton, I cannot move.
Pull me. Probe me around the perimeter of the bowl,
Where at the bottom I’ll sleep until my tongue is cold.
World so quiet you’d expect church mice to cry.
But they are stronger than that now:
They’ve been through Time,

They have incredible senses of smell,
And a tendency to run through shit
Before clearing the mammoth trees of my pilgrimage.

This Is Too Much New

Huge, tarry holes in the winding road.
Light out of giant windows, dancing
With who-knows-what feeling in the driveway.
All defenses down. Stars going down
In fear of too much of a perfect moment.
Clouds coalesce with our cool breath.
Moment, in lights-out stillness, soon lost,
Lost in clouds, in new paralyzing questions.
Handstands of voiceless frustration.
Sentences chipped away by plush,
Shy boy fantasies. Piss in the underbrush.
Two inches was never quite enough,
Not for the impaired, not for this queer
Who stutters to the honest moon.
Conversations under a chapel-ceiling
Clinking like dishes,
Swinging like an empty hour of boyhood.
We are heady, heavy and rambling fools.
The next morning we find out everything went wrong.
Lingered and then left, having cleaned
Out the grime of our hushed mistakes.
Walking out the door I imagined some more.
Still, I can’t waver those questions—
Are we having fun, what could I have done:
Why am I so surprised.

Anticipation Hours

This is a seizure of centuries old.
A Halloween sans masks or drinks,
Only ocular migraines when the phone rings.

Bar on the refrigerator, empty balloons
Tied to the door. It is an ordinary Saturday.
Dizzy ordinary, truly hungry.

I have never seen the face of a party.
It has been stuffed in the dark, painted
Neon-orange for jack-o-lantern effect.

Wide eyes! Orange mouths, shouting
Into the darkness of the sick cave.
Then out comes a brilliant cockatoo.

I pick up the carved battering stick.
Take aim at the paper mâché—
and out comes you, you, you.

Have You Ever Been

Denim-jacket wanderers

Bearing dry fruits and lint

Look for a sandwich.

They have vices

I have them too.

The booming bass

Of the dying city

Scores the mood—

A great woof.

Words are said

Between them and me.

They wander

To the bus stop,

Wait unseen.

I watch them though,

While a folded bill

Burns a hole

In my denim pocket.

Anemic Rain

I cannot sleep while you still stir.
The soft rain does not scare me,
Not with its silver fingertips.
But a broken hug breaks bodies down,

Hallways drown in morning sweat.
Shadows bless the sad face.
I refuse my body that fails me so.
My body vaults itself toward

The door of some treasured cove;
Floor wet to the marrow, it seems
There are no ways to circumvent the rain.
A single toe dipped in the pond,

A single bee braving the promise of the flood.
I cannot move everywhere I'd like to,
Unrooted I am to you— Oh dancing plant,
Thirsty: A stupid yawn sets in.

The rain comes in thin sheets of burgundy,
Disappointment drips out of my feverish ear.
Then comes fish-eyes, golden strands of hair,
A rainbow thick as a stack of cards.

Red Rover

Red rover, red rover, send our mothers on over.

Spread their wings like the stiff wings of eagles,

Send them running warm with grief like a river

From the rotten mouth of a volcano, babbling,

Water smoother than a baby's bubblegum tongue.

Let motherhood not escape them, or gut them

In the winter night once we've all been sent away.

Red rover, red rover, send them over some other day.

Red rover, red rover, send the next batch on over.

Roll their sleeves and let them sing past your

Playful hour, which will soon turn dark, shade

That turns forest air into sea winds. Soon they

Will have to learn what it means to be nautical.

How best to roll the waves, bite down on the bread,

Gather up everything we left and go back to the start.

Red rover, red rover, send them no constellation chart.

Red rover, red rover, send this ending on over.

The final wisp of dragon breath, a warm upward draft

Into the reflective sky, flecked with beads of magic.

The ancient sycamore tree itself is even splintering.

The machines of creativity are creaking and spitting

Out screws and grinded gears, so forward us quickly,

End the withering dream, snipped short at both ends.

Red rover, red rover, everything is burning again.

Each Day Turns More Spring

Think about timid hands

And all the things they don't create.

Clocks turn their backs toward empty space.

I am waiting

In the pit of the lion's den.

Golden manes of imperfect memory,

Shedding all over me—

Dammit, I was going to wear this tie.

Will I ever meet your walls?

Do they shake hands or is it just awkward?

Either way I'll bet they're green and smiling.

Wallpapered with grass and seed.

Spring

has been slow coming,

But no slower season than Us!

The day grows a touch more special.

It is no inflated ego.

It is no intricate plot.

It's just that I see you in the breaking of the clouds.

A lot.

The Birthday Word (Variations On The Word Yes)

I
I am forcing myself onto the spot,
A valiant attempt to warm up the day, which ought to be hot—
But it’s not. Fear not.
I bring you many orbs of light. They emit rainbow heat,
A healthy sort of radiation, if you can believe,
But only, and only at night.
And these orbs that I juggle freely, and with great care,
Come in many marvelous sizes, some simply quarter sized,
Others as portly as pears. But still, how they radiate!
As you may notice, they are not simply eggs,
Which hatch and give birth to blind miracles,
They are sweet hand grenades!
But what will come out of them? Fire,
Smoke, green waves of Desire?
Would the suspense be worth it,
To keep them in a nest, never to be open?
That would be foolish, they are chirping now.
I can hear them like the breath of the ocean.
I will let you in on the secret of the orbs,
Since now they are yours:
They each contain a Yes, or many,
Each ready to be hurled
Towards a different question,
Or tossed aside at anyone’s will.
I trust you will keep them still,
Until someday they are ready to be spun
Towards flowers, shy young men,
The rising May sun.

II
They are different, each Yes from the other.
As different as the love of each mother
Who go to great lengths to deliver
Girls and boys of gorgeous caliber.
And just there are twenty-six words reserved for snow,
It seems every day there is a Yes I didn’t know.
One entangled with delicate strings,
Another opened with sweeping, chrome wings,
And more and more and others, like so:

Wasn’t someone born eighteen years ago
Who you have become so glad to know?
Yes, but keep that on the down-low…
Will the Earth ever rest her weary head?
Is her hair cut short, her tears made out of molten lead?
Yes, and we will leave flowers in her stead.
Is the land golden and rich for all to see?
Is this honestly, truly, the land of opportunity?
Yes, I have seen it, and we are lucky.
Can dancers, actors, musicians ever truly unite?
Will they quit painting one color, and get it right?
Yes, but probably not tonight.
Will the sharp words of ignorance ever desist?
Are you trying to tell me that hell does not exist?
Yes, just believe me, and know this.
Would you be able to understand
If I reached out and touched the rivers of your hand?
Yes, since life has gotten quite bland.
Doesn’t everyone deserve a second and third chance?
Shouldn’t you always call your mother in advance?
Yes, but… no rhyme for dance?
Don’t you wish you could see the girl dance?
Would you be locked in a joyous, schoolgirl trance?
Yes, and how I too would prance!
Can you ever hear the music of the spheres
If one simply closes their eyes and disappears?
Yes, across the country! Out on the piers!
Will the willows ever once again become trees?
Will May ever melt the long winter freeze?
Yes, winter will be brought to its knees!
Has Spring come at last, like I knew it would,
Have the leaves whispered their love to the wood?
Yes, now if only we understood!
Can we ever be truly out on our own?
Do our colored memories keep us from being alone?
Yes, but to which, I haven’t known!
When rain sifts like pebbles through the lawn,
Could it be time to give in to the indulgent yawn?
Yes, sleep until all sleep is gone!
Will shaken love return its smooth course?
Can I ever ride a truly wild horse?
-.--. … (That’s Yes in Morse!)
Does lightning convalesce around one a.m?
And if it does, will it ever wander back again?
Yes, again and again!
Will you go to Finale with me?
Will you ignore the fact that I’m helplessly silly?
Yes, and look how silly are we!
Should teachers be given our praise?
And beyond praise, should artists be given a raise?
Yes, let’s leave sports fans in a daze!
Tell me, do you know the story of this word
That you write about, so giddy and absurd?
Yes! It is a story I’m sure you’ve never heard!

But first, I’ll make my point clear.
All of these Yes’ are in front of you here.
Keep them near, on your birthday,
And you’ll never stray
From being warm and boundless:
Today, Tomorrow, and Yesterday.


III.
The Gods of Yesiprocity all met on a stone,
Gathered close like brothers or sisters they had never met before,
To discuss the century’s great mysteries.
And though they argued and swayed like weeds in the sea,
There was one thing on which they all agreed.
“Today seems the day,” they sweat storms as they proclaimed:
“A baby born some years ago is born again today!
And so it would seem she’s now turned eighteen,
A flower, but oh how the hours pass by!
Have we no gift to lower on silk spindled from the sky?”
And they harbored the thought, and danced at the thought
Of the gift they would send to the world,
All in the name of one beautiful girl.
And that gift, as we know, was as simple as a word,
One worthy of decorating this flower-skinned girl.
So the word they did form out of cloud-like clay,
Using an elegant hammer of kindness,
Touched down to the earth on the morn of today:
The word that arrived was Yes.


IV.
No other word to imagine.
Nothing else comes to mind.
None of the cheap distractions
That otherwise take over in time.
The word is yours.
I am giving it to you,
Even if that leaves me with nothing
But a bucket full of paint, dark blue.
And because I trust you to be
Nothing short of incredible,
I know I have done something right.
Your life is yours.
Seed turns into bud, bud into leaf,
And with Yes comes believe, believe, believe.
Because I still care to dream.
And this summer, it’s nothing but ice cream.
The stars will be like pearls.
My Yes is yours.
Do with it as you please, birthday girl.

The War Is Not Over Still

Morning planes breathe a smoky chill.

The war is not over still.

Gardeners set fires, and surgeons kill.

The war is not over still.

The color's been drained from Capitol Hill.

The war is not over still.

Whales of sand have not had their fill.

The war is not over still.

Students, mothers, bloodied babies foot the bill.

The war is not over still.

We turn to royal weddings and a handful of pills.

The war is not over still.

There's no cleaning up our blanket of spills.

The war is not over still.

Mountains of men disappear as if they were krill.

The war is not over still.

Water with blood and greed is distilled.

The war is not over still.

Fireworks and flags leave echoes shrill.

The war is not over still.

I lie in the flames and wonder if we're ill.

The war is not over still.

Send a letter, I beg you, this is not a drill.

The war is not over still.

I won't believe a word he says until

The war is over,

But the war is not over still.

Progress

PROGRESS

Hello. I am Progress. I would first like to thank you for coming.

I would also like to ask you to call me Prog, but since that sounds rather like a guest character on Star Trek, I’ll spare the confusion. You can instead call me Train.

This city is so much more pitiful from ground level, I’ll tell you what. From up there, and I don’t mean the sky, I just mean up, you miss out on the details. Vast expanses of green look like manicured grass, box-like buildings look absolutely manufactured, and the people… well the people all move at the same speed, which is nice because if one speeds up, the rest speed up and if one stops to tie their shoe or set down their moccachino to answer the phone, nobody knows, you can’t tell from up here. Everyone’s always moving.

Which is what I’m all about. I’m here to keep you all moving.

All of you are here today for no prophetic reason. There is nothing in your blood that you’ll be able to trace that makes you any more prepared or programmed to understand what I am about to say. Know that anyone else could be standing where you are at this moment. Know that, and count yourselves lucky.

I greet you at the start of your lives. I apologize for having chosen such a precarious meeting site: You see I needed a proper metaphor to illustrate my point. Behind me, the city limits end, and the rest of the continent begins, where there are oceans, rivers, mountains, cliffs, basins, plateaus, deserts, and corn. There are highways, freeways, skyways and railways. There are also snakes. But very few of them are poisonous.

Some of you have been in one location all of your lives: You have seen the stars rise and fall in the same sky every night since you were born. This makes me oh so sad…

Right, the point! That is not the point, your life is your own! Go only where you feel pulled to. Just like today, when for some reason or another, you have all come to this bluff, this very spot, to answer to this calling…

As I’ve said before, your lives are just beginning. You all have plans, I assume. If you don’t make them, they will make you. But I arrive before you today, not to advise you, not to lecture on the failures of the past: I have come to beg. I have come to beg you to do something you might not do so willingly.

I am begging you to create.

You have spent the majority of your lives consuming, food that you yourself did not grow, entertainment that yourself have not expended any energy in receiving. You cannot go on being a sponge. In fact the whole world is a giant sponge, soaking up more and more that the few have to offer, and now it has grown heavy.

The time has come for you to wring it out.

This is your calling, and if you should fail, all the world will know. All the children will be unable to learn, all the parents will be unable to move. We will be locked in stasis, in darkness, until you are able to relieve us, and move forward.

I am not an angel. I am not a savior, I am inevitable:

I am Electricity, Enlightenment, Train.

Go now. Create.