Tornadoing

You are an echo
reverberating
off of snow-drift mountains,

You create avalanches
that cannot be reversed,
the snow wraps around
lonely cabins,
muffling their interiors.

You set things in motion that nobody can do anything about.

No words of mine can bring your reign
to an end.

In all the folk tales and myths I’ve read,
which lately has been many,
no one character has had this much power.

You breathe snowflakes.
Your hand is the stone that cannot be moved
through the warm cry of a tornado,
and I know how scared you get
when the skies tornado.

Or of flying,
which is an irony
that makes me smile in my sleep,

because for someone who fears flying so much
you sure know how to take off.

I cannot be lost
when you are so close behind me,
peering into my
struggling,
disorientating,
fish-flopping world.

I become a little worse every day
at what I want to do
for the rest of my life

and that fact is only slightly discouraging.

I have so much to ignore:
the shifty glances
of the night-owl neighbors,
my relentless lack
of attention,
the fact that you are not always beside me for all hours of my days.

We’re running
out of time and time
is fading away from me
weeks at a time.

Don’t you know how I feel
and all the verses I wish I could say to you
every time we take too long to say good-bye,
don’t you know about the tornado inside of me?

It howls louder every night.

Please

don't be afraid.

These Good Days

These good days, spent on the lake,

Where skin runs loose and rampant,

And sun-soaked sky does us grace

With cosmic company to keep us awake.

These hot hours, wringing us dry,

Go withering slow and softly by,

A golden triumph laid before us,

Free to lay eyes on and to take.

No one, not I, my pilgrim friends,

The lovely, lakeside smiling folk,

Every speaker, towel, pretzel, smoke,

Has yet to make a single mistake.

At The End Of The Stamped Trail

This is where we go to breathe,

Where grasses bend and troubles leave

Their knotted hearts at the shore.

I am a trespasser, with my shifty look,

Concerned with eyes from the high road.

Too much water biting at my toes.

Of course the dragonflies are many.

Lake-blue, camouflaged, the still few.

Forsaken I kneel, on my brother's turf,

Spitting into the mirror of the white surf.

Mean-looking boats cut through the peace,

Then disappear around the dock's bend.

The waves come swinging back again.

I'm Not Suffering

Who demands me to crawl,

Who tries on my shackles

And dresses up in faded denim

And watches my every move?

Expecting a couple of glossy eyes.

Expecting something dirty,

Dark, twisted, worthy to keep.

Who expects my younger self

To reappear with my notebook

And write down all the names

Of those I'd like to fuck and kill.

My fingers open many things.

My heart pumps a lot of blood.

There's not much left to it,

Though I know you're getting restless.

Out Of The Dark

I am bored of streets that sleep,

Of orange corners at their end.

Of walking through the lights

That do not see me, I am invisible.

Of my feet grazing the ash.

Of my fingers that grasp the wrath

Of white-hot tubes of relief.

Of summer's aging teeth.

I am sick no longer, only sad,

Waiting for autumn's wreath.

It blooms with every wasted day.

I am guilty of living on this street.

So Much To Be Sure Of

I should have said this never ends.
I was too busy combing your hands,
Shining your mirrors, making amends
With spirits once buried in the sand.

The downtown bistros are twinkling,
Harmonics drift past park benches.
All the showboats are slowly sinking
Into the sash of the river’s trenches.

So much to be sure of and yet unsure,
Presiding over this pocket of world,
Where summer night’s calm endures
For smiling boy and painted girl.

Emerald streams dance across the river,
Guitars sing sonnets in the valley below.
Night breathes full as I hold and kiss her,
While the eyes of the city swing low.

If only they knew how much I’ll miss her.
If only they knew I’d rather not go.

In Each House Hides

Every street has their nightmares.

A toxic secret turned to gravel

That would be cancer to share.

Yet when finally it unravels,

Blessed dark sets to sail.

Dreams have nothing new to tell.

The nearby hospital wails.

Why do we do this to ourselves.

Withdrawal

Hold fast to afternoon silence,

Despite its threats, it won't last.

It's just one vacant log

In an unfettered bog.

There is no answer to it.

There are no questions either.

So really all we have left

Are our soft, guilty hands,

Which tunnel the daylight

Into wide, retreating tunnels,

Until we're ready for it.

Not every day is like this one.

There is no need to be tired.

Nothing so tiring as summer,

Stretching its warm coils

Around deserted necks.

Still, a breeze every now and then

Comes in through the cracks.

When I ask for a kiss,

It bares its teeth,

And eats away at the silence.

Worst Was When We Met

The only way to explain

How much I miss you

Is by strangling phone lines,

Swerving across yellow lines,

Writing inedible poems,

Feeding flakes to a mourning fish,

Gears shattering in the stomach,

Bells clanging in the light head,

Walking trenches around the house,

Waiting for you to come sleeping,

Wishing every sweat-soaked minute

Of every candle of a day

That I had met you

Even sooner.

You Tore Up The Title Of This Letter (I Can't Remember Who This Is For)

This is the first time I've read your name.

I never knew that anonymity was so important to you.

I'm proud of all the things you carry.

The knives you sharpen, the spears you clip,

The cold, fat guns that rest on all your ships.

There's a whole navy waving from your waters.

Should I be proud of the beaches you undress,

Or the peasants spread out under the sun,

That you expect to harbor and possess?

Oh, so that's your brilliant definition of fun.

I expected so much more from you, sinner.

You expected company on Thanksgiving dinner.

My grief seems scentless. In fact it's gone away—

Until some later burdening of the clouds with light.

All grief's fled and wept, whipped into a calmer night,

Painting tomorrow a puddle of primary color.

You expect hidden driveways. You expect to be able

To congregate outside my temples. You ask for tin

And later expect bronze, gold, pearl. You strip

The armor right off of everyone you love.

Are you asking for a more perfect view of everything

I do? You have never inspected me closer, slime.

I'm an idiot a very good one it's true,

Go write it into your holy, elusive, key-worn scrolls.

Come on over, I'm naked. It's quite the view.

And while you think of only the words

That soon rhyme with that perfect, expert "you",

You ought to learn to expect false promises.

My shoulder is kept clean, no tears, only little dirt.

I am stuck underground again, where worms glow.

There are no forests big enough to hide you in.

No pillow white enough for you. No doves, either.

I am going places you'll never visit. You won't be there.

And if you still wish to follow, with your moth-worn lips

Fluttering behind a purple moon, then I can't

Keep you anywhere for too long, can I. You vanish.

Sometime soon, but I can't guarantee at what hour.

Which phase of that moon. For now it's us,

You the enemy. You're out there in the cornfields.

I have a strange, friendly road to take.

You lead me straight to the core of every mistake.

Do you hear me? We're through. So give me

Your arrow. Hand over your silver bow.

I have so much less breaking for you to do.

The Solstice Effect

Lying down still

Light breathing

Lacerations on my

Wrist a hair binder

Quit your worrying

Quit your lectures

Longest day of the year

Sun's sticking around

For a ( ) while

Your hair

Isn't going anywhere

Neither are the shocks

Of skin and lead

That pump my body with dread

I deserve the floor

Flat, _level_ carpet

To leave me aching

Because the evening

That takes

Shallow breaths

Distorts the view of

You.

The night it rained,

I beg you to understand.

Tip Of The Stepfather

The car is toast.

That was the most I could get out of him.

I'm sure he's got more on his mind

Than toast. A little jam, marmalade,

A fat, green loan for my future.

Something for the new sisters

To jump around on when I'm gone.

I'm not sure what his plans are.

Someday I'll ask for the blueprint.

The schedule for my feeble life.

Where he keeps his lonely carton

And where I can shove mine

Through the silent, gaping hole,

Closing longer every hour.

Now is not the time.

Now is not the time.

There Was More When There Was None

There was more when there was none.
No one mourns more than the ones
Who step into the vibrant circus ring,
Expecting faces and carousel lights
To recognize something never there.

No one mentioned that it was fair.
What’s lovely is lonely,
What’s dangerous is done.
They have found fame in darkness,
Where there is more

Where there is none.
Now what applause do they get?
What faces for them to keep?
What empty songs left to be sung?
Any more goodbyes? Maybe just one?

Mad Canada Riots

All night we've been slipping on your floor.

We demand payment through apologies,

We demand that someone get fired.

We the humble and cash-carrying people

Want something better out of this god-forsaken night,

Where the clouds gather in clam shells and release their pearls.

We have had enough tornadoes for one night.

Our stomachs hurt we're homesick.

Give us a fucking job.

Give us a family diner that won't board its doors.

Enjoy your rusted penny

And the raging flames creeping up your stairwell,

Breaking and entering,

Kidnapping your newborn children.

For ransom we demand nothing but a brick of gold and some sanity.

Conclusion

If you should fool with wine,

You will come out fine.

And if you should swallow air,

All will be easy and fair.

Yet if the two you should combine,

I wish you would beware:

Somewhere down along the line,

Your strong and beating soul will tear.

Last Night A Dog Died

Last night a dog died on top of me.

He was black, friendly and furry,

A common breed, prepared to die

So that I would not be seen.

His fur stiffened when it happened.

When the snap rang out, he went

Heavy and lovely. I have never had

A dog. Once finally he was off of me

I could not walk straight. When I

Touched the railing, planes took off.

If I cried I would have been found.

Though they were no longer around,

I could not keep from calling out

His common name. And as he was

Soft and calm and loving in my arms,

I don't know what it is that he died for.

From The Very Spring Of A Start

Through harmless rain came the night
I first saw the depths and your key.
You seem to have pilfered my heart,
And from the very spring of a start,
None have been luckier than we.

You stole away with all my light,
I miss you in darkness dangerously.
Your hair no longer falls in waves,
I clumsily grasp at the handful of days
Until again you are closer to me.

Showers never left a sky so bright,
Nor have stars left such gentle streams.
In your eyes, I am lost before the sea,
And am everywhere I wish we could be.
I see you dance in the space of my dreams.

Nature Gives Nothing Away

The trees whistle symphonies but I feel no wind.

The elements leave me undisturbed

As I slowly rock back and forth,

Watching the moon sink behind a silver veil

Of fog, mist, whatever it is.

I am a faithful sentinel of the summer night.

All torches ready to be lit,

All horns ready to be blown,

To announce your early morning arrival.

Or will you slip in on another night,

One where wind wraps 'round our waists,

One where torn fences bring no fear.

All gates lowering down,

All time a festering light.

No clocks but us, my dear.

The Whale, The Cave and The Honey-Hook

The suit ‘n tie captain prowls the deck looking for his whale. He has grown impatient with living things. The reeds bow to his titanium ship and the wind forms bypasses around his heavy head. The whale is somewhere out there. And the darkness beneath the sea, cold and stranger to the whale, is no permanent home—so when the whale rises to drink the salt-heavy air, it is dragged through the foaming waves, hauled onto the refrigerator steel, given cigarette burns with spears, and using the sleek and tender blade of the captain’s honey-hook, its tongue is split, its fin is torn, its body quivering in ecstasy is ripped alive, first into long strips and then into cubes, and then the whale isn’t a whale anymore so much as it is one big merchant stand, where restless crowds can buy cardboard boxes of whale pieces to munch on while watching dolphins try to escape from their caves. The whale sings a weary song to greet the morning. The captain looks out into the burgundy bay.

The cycle has ended.

Mexican Cuisine

The spices once made me sick,

I never once touched the stuff

After such a cold welcome.

Yet now the hill of my plate

Is stuffed with the steaming stuff,

And with every loving bite,

I feel wrapped in something great,

A tortilla sort of home.

And I never want to stop

Eating so joyfully and quick.

And I never want to stop

Being on this good food kick.

In Good Health

Late in the night when I'm awake,
I wish I weren't, for health’s sake;
My mouth it dries, my eyes they sting,
Until the bells of birds do sing.

Yet in the day when I’m asleep,
My health in pieces still I keep;
Stowed within until the day
I need to hold Death’s light away.

For now I stir, and still alive;
I call your name and softly writhe.
You would not care to see me here,
With lungs so dark and night so near.

The steps I take will find no door,
They only lead to wanting more.
I would not feel so lost or ill,
Had you not loved, and loved so well.

Summer As If Light Through A Dream

You there, the one rocking around
On her tiptoes,
I think you have been following me
Through the nether.

Through the open void of dreams
That collapse
In on me like a tent. Yes, it was you
I saw in there.

I first glimpsed you months ago
Under a passing
Sun. Now you’re constant, now
I’m a lighthouse

Keeper giving constant attention
To your light.
When we lay still together I forget

About oxygen.

When we trace the neck of Draco
At the expense of
Our bare legs, now red and knobby,
I think about all

The happiness of centuries past.
Every exotic location
That has felt the brush of our wild
Coming together:

The purple loop of the slide,

Under a pond

Of stars, on a bouncing bus floor,

In the blanket

Darkness of an immobile car—
They have never
Felt such a good thing as us,
Coming together.

So now, darling, when I sleep
I know exactly
Who follows me, and I am

Not alone. Now

I don’t know who loves who

More, or how
I will release you from the
Arms of my

Dreams, but why think of that
When you will

Still come dancing back to me,

Every time

I swim through summer starlight.

Goodnight Any, Goodnight All

Goodnight any, goodnight all,

The baby's gone away for now,

The clouds are high,

My eyes are dim,

I'll gather leaves before the fall.

Goodnight my girl, goodnight friends,

My body's sick of all our gin,

All our music,

All our skin,

I need my strength to see the end.

Goodnight skies, but not goodbye,

For shortly you will shine again,

So save your stars,

So rest your clouds,

I see your angels, now let them lie.

Five

Crows cough and caw

in the rising afterglow

of a night long sunset,

as if they just smoked

half a pack

of gold-dusted cigarettes.

A Formal Acknowledgment That There Is Another To Love

The house is empty,

Though it won't be

Soon,

Soon there will be no noise

But the noise of look-at-me tears,

And feed-me tears,

And clean-me tears,

And love-me-fully tears.

And I will be

Useless to the cries,

Unable to intrude.

Soon there will be

Not one high-chair but two,

And cabinets overflowing with baby food.

I'm not ready

For the flood.

Because I am not ready

To explain,

As if I were speaking to a dog,

That this love takes time to grow.

And that soon,

My little sister, my battery of joy,

It will be time for me to go.

Say Something Quickly and Loud Before No One Cares

I have many things to tell you,

And one is that sweat doesn't come easy,

It comes with private, intense desire,

Which only likes sticking around for so long,

But really it's just yourself in a different form.

It's been born in heat,

Which in reality is something you should crave,

Something you should be jealous of even,

Because cold equalizes everything and we are tired

Of being equalized and being drawn on consistently

The same scale, the same volume of voice

For every new and sad story.

If only we had the means to turn up the volume

On the night, on its orchestras and brass,

Opera from the street lamps,

Symphonies in the grass.

You wouldn't hear a single word I have to say,

And I think everyone would agree

That on this night swimming in sweat,

That would be completely okay.

Every Minute Is A Tender Twig

Mother moaning on the tiles,
Praying for a visit from Nature,
Which, like the swollen Summer
Night, may never fully arrive.

The screen door’s kicked in.
Every bed has been sprayed.
Our final supper of five is still:
Something’s gotta give.

In the zeppelin cloud’s shadow,
I feel cold and wait with camera
In hand, to snap the heaving beast,
To prove that I, too, am alive.

The recycling bins are full to the brim.
The hazel rabbit stares ahead:
Summer heat’s a slow, heavy train.
Something, something's gotta give.

While You Sleep

The strongest thing I have noticed

about the clock-worn minutes

skipping before a sun comes

is that it contains

every little thing

that every other

hour contains:

so by that

I mean

you,

you and

your palms,

the drifting

of your eyes,

and other gorgeous

things found all over,

and if I ever meet another

side of you that is not entirely

night-worthy, I'm sure I will have

many long summer nights

with her anyway, just

know I'll take either

one, so long as you

can softly sleep

at my side.

Now That You Have Made Me Your Calmest

Tall glass of orange juice sunrise.
Scrambled eggs rise and shine,

Skip a beat breakfast.
Folded hands asleep like cattle.

What’s the matter clouds
Circling through pillow skies,

Last dark wine night
Bit into like a reverie.

Jam flowing out of a pastry.
Shallow stomach,

Full sheets of moon dust,
Laid out in a hurry.

The lack of lily pads
In this worm-woven lake

Brought the morning,
Which, like your hold,

Sets stars off my nose.
And gleams the lips

To kiss you with,
Endless breath and storm.

Sweet Sweet Crime, And Then Morning

Come quick, someone has stuck their finger in the butter.

There's a huge chunk of it missing, a deep compression,

Their fingerprint imprinted into the creamy crop.

That's how it's always been hasn't it,

The one with the sweetest tooth carries the heaviest crime,

Always guilty of something, guilty of fun, guilty of secrecy,

Guilty of running off into a world brighter than rain,

Sparkling like kitchen knives in this spinning house.

This house, whiter than a lamb, silent, overflowing like an urn

With more and more ashes coming out all the time.

If the air had been less swarmy I would have seen it

For what it really was: The inevitable cork

On a marvelous ravine, running barefoot through

Its constantly streaming, like a strobe-light dream,

Kisses and holdings and glorious channels.

Leave it to me to put a cork in the stream.

After the worms have stopped squirming and the light's

Welcome once again, everything else runs back,

Runs back to where you were standing against a high wall.

The best part is we don't even have to ask if we'll make it over.

We don't have to ask about anything at all, especially whoever

It was that stuck their finger in the butter, because it was

Just once, and they know there's always something bigger,

And hasn't anyone told them to never lick your fingers?

In Flora Veritas

I've forgotten something.

I know I've forgotten something.

Something game-breaking, delicate,

Long stalks opening into stars.

I left the flowers in the icebox.

I am a rubik's cube of nerves:

Is it possible that I am leaking gasoline

And that the friction of the dance floor

Will ignite my manicured clothes

And hurl me towards the draping cloth

And so on it goes until the foundation

Of the Landmark brilliantly explodes?

Or is it all so much simpler than that.

Is it just a gentle, fiery chord

That shoots out of the violet bulb

Which I have abandoned, left to frost?

Is that all that will bring us together?

It's pretty but it's just another memory.

Cadavers

When I opened my mouth,
Cadavers came out.
They were quick to rip off
My veil of words, my shirt.
They promised I would get hurt.

Just one week ago
There was nothing to go on about.
Yet somehow they know
About my trips into the woods.
If only they understood.

They asked about the smell.
I said my only crime was that I drive fast.
That was when they gave me hell,
And told me to step out of the car.
The billowing sky cried a star.

My rough lips can no longer part,
I am innocent at last.
I tell you, it is truly an art:
To burn down a wet, crimson tomb,
Where even winter can bloom.