If Time Were Cupped In Our Hands

If time were cupped in our hands,
Like water of a well,
We could breach the summer beach.
And over silver, set sail

Towards islands I have not seen
Or half-dreamed
On some loud, crashing evening.
And you were there

Looking handmade out of
Multi-color glass,
Only asking if we could talk
Sometime before

You go.
And there again lies my reason
For ducking into the sand,
For breaking off a hand.

Like the beating wings of moths,
Another thing I can’t control,
Another fate I watch roll like a corpse
Down a ruptured hill.

I have a shining city to go back to,
And if my heart were to crack,
That would be an unfortunate handicap.
An invisible cog splintered.

One, wet drop in the cup of time.
So what’ll it be, my dear absence?
What kind of promises would you make
If you knew they could not break?

The Foyer

You are an awfully engorged enemy,

If I do so dare say.

Keep your mouth agape, allow me

To aim information towards

Your most visible wound:

You know, it's not nice to pity the rich,

Or throw your napkins at the poor,

Or whatever else you might do that will

Split like lightning the foundation of your

Perfectly decorated household of being.

my betta

my betta poor betta

rests in a spool of pollution

tightly wound

my betta sweet betta

once spun when he was hungry

spinning ruby fins

my betta small betta

had one fin torn but I still

kept him warm

I Picked This Poem Out Of Your Pocket

I was about to write it down,

hoping for some obvious answer

to cancer or something as chaotic,

but I forgot that I was nowhere

near land, adrift in a massive sea

hovering over my heavy body.

I needed your subtle remedy

to the very undetectable demon

that you created in the cruel,

humid depths of your heart.

But I've been dropped a long way.

Not a single pen to stroke and sway.

on the marina

my body had not yet fully woken

when i arrived at the marina,

my lips in a sling, my limbs

like fishing poles lost at sea.

yet soon the marina opened up to me

and my eyes, peeled like ripe oranges,

could not keep off some blue-gray beauty,

like a single drop of illustrious rain

that dances on the forehead of downtown

Stillwater, where the ice cream melts

to a laugh, where the river overflows,

where the marina lies and never goes.

where the brook fades

a butterfly whispers to me,

this is your lake as of now.

take good care of it,

for it is long,

and difficult to clean.

i think the butterfly expects too much of me.

after all

i can't even sit on a log

without crushing a web,

or admire the breadth of it

without stepping in mud.

the lake wants my blood,

but i want longer days,

and a house made of brick

where the brook fades.

resident sadness

it takes up a lot of room.

it is enormity with a tiny tongue,

flicking into my ear.

it stalks both the fit and sick,

it has no code.

and it's awfully cold

in the moment before it sits,

writing out prescriptions

that do more harm than good.

it would be easier to be friends

with it, but i know better

than to put stock into easy.

and when i ask it to be nicer,

it dries up to a wisp.

and i am none the wiser.

Stroke

I have never

Had a stroke, so donʼt start

Now with your glare.

Your snake-eye plums

In their chalk-bone skull

Eclipsing away from the sun.

If you condemn my wings

I will only knit them tighter,

This is a resounding warning.

If you care to see me dance,

You better be prepared

To pull my body from the water.

no right wrong

to us rain is no obstacle.

despite shirts clung to skin

and lightning clanging metal floors

and the brute falling of it all,

the sky has never felt brighter.

the milky way drops of sweet

mouthfuls of rain, turning purple

and cascading like summer bells.

i couldn't cry if i wanted to.

and even when we are warm clothed

again, there is nothing left thinking about

except for the vicious eye we're standing in,

where no wrong is right, no right wrong,

and though we wait for the angel of our swan song,

while the days are still young, so are we.

artist of conversation

i think it was the social dynamic

of the whole operation that did you in.

the closed doors, the wide open faces

and the dead long spaces

gaping between every word.

the sea-sick tones like music at a funeral,

where i once had a greater grip on myself

because right now i'm all over the place,

dissolving out the window, choosing to flow

through the casket of darkness.

it's nothing short of a tablet of scripts

that offers me a temporary fix.

i trust in its earthly prayers

and that somewhere in its layers

of pages, i will find a drive.

and now i am an artist of conversation.

at your service, worthwhile to keep,

unfortunately prophetic and quite cheap.

i string the webs that haunt your walls.

i lay siege to whatever and all.

Devolution

Autumn reverses,
At once leaves

Scurry
Into an opening of oak.

The wind remains still,
Here and over there.

Remember to keep your fingernails clean
When out you go foraging

Otherwise you could end up
Having to wash dishes

On some weary Sunday evening.
Once

There was a mother
With blood at the corners of her mouth.

Once there was a father
Who grew obscene amounts of hair

All over his rough, lumbering body.
They remember a time

Before recycling bins and alarm systems.

When leaves fell freely,

Scattering like fossilized tears.

full of light

i miss you when you're around

which complicates things, possibly.

yet there's another complication

ballooning up like a honeymoon

spent on a hot air balloon,

and it's that every time i see you

i count each and every band of sunlight

which peacocks around you and trails

behind like a hundred shining ribbons

and i think "my god, today is the day."

the complication is that i've said that

a few too many times. and every time

it seems to get closer and bigger,

like a melting iceberg traveling long distance.

but i know a secret

that no one should know yet can't be refused,

and though emotion should rarely go unused

i'm quite scared to defuse this heart of mine.

it grows and slows and there's nothing i can do.

it burst inside my body and then everything was blue.

hotter than sin itself

yesterday i needed to take it slow

i sipped a chai too early in the morning

and smoked a cigarette

i have a girlfriend now so i smoked a cigarette

to celebrate after our first official date and

though it was hot she sat in a metal chair

i drove to new brighton three separate times

smoked a cigarette each time yet knowing

that i deserved nothing for my kindness

the boats made clinking noises on lake harriet

after sundown, seaweed wrapped around my hips

while i smoked three cigarettes to drown out the noise

trying to work out my future from the comfort of my room

i left, my mom warning me that it's hotter than hell outside,

so i poured myself a glass of lemonade in the shade of the family boat

where i smoked a cigarette

The Bind

They call this common sense,

In places where common sense

Is considered an art.

This is the bind

That has twined since the start.

Whispers of summer's swift end

Are insincere, they know no bounds.

They are like me, they don't understand.

This is the bind

That roots in my hand.

What other surprises hide lurking,

Waiting to reappear, and make friends

With the stones slowly sinking in sand?

This is the bind

That ends, that ends, that ends.

Victim

Can you hold on to my microphone?
A break is needed. Water, maybe.
Another tough chunk of feeling

To chew. Iʼve been at this for years
And am offered no benefits.
My teeth have sprouted more teeth

And my toes are sore and congealing.
Some nights are born wild
And others are dead as the dock is long.

And to continue, there isnʼt even a rail
To keep me steady anymore.
Next goes my caller I.D, then my calling,

And how am I supposed to reach someone
Then? If this is your plan,
Keep it up, son, you'll have to entertain us all.

Two Sons

Two sons

Is the minimal amount of sons

You ought to have.

Any less and youʼre asking

For your queer to be sent to hell.

The more the better you know.

Three and over is like a pass

Straight through the overpass

Of ice-stinging water

That peels back your isolate sin.

You ought to know:

Only your many sons

Have what it takes

To end the suffering

Of each brotherly other.

perilous situations

perch me on the lip

of the volcano.

breathing too much?

take it slow,

donʼt spill your insides

into the raspberry

swirl. itʼs only the

end of the beginning

of the end of the

beginning of the end

of the beginning

of this alien world.

your first movement at last

first shell of the cocoon

whispers open: butterflies

emerge staggering on their wings.

it reminds me of a certain thing
the grass whispered to me:
the dew dripped vainly

into my shell-hollow ear.
to waste secrets is terrible
and a fire swallows

the ones who keep their quiet.
they keep it in oak trees
where none can reach.

i would offer them my
own tongue even if it
meant i had to lay down

my own songs and strums.
but the branches are bowing
to your every imperfect note.

and when we part it takes longer

not much else happens on walks

except for the soft steps soft

thuds that we create

in the spaces we carve open

and it takes dedication to remain quiet,

while deer stand idly by

to graze on the petals that spring

out of your every tiny step

we water gardens with sadness

and by night crush them

with our bodies warm

as if from a day in the sun

it makes no difference to me

what color the roses are

or what the chrysanthemums smell like

they are beautiful i touch them

while they flower like lips

i hope in the night you feel radiant

and when a train nearby passes

making its soft, shattering sounds

i hope you let it take you away.

the time we spend before dawn

it's red like clouds of fruit,

and tickles like a dream

where we hug our father

and tuck our little sister

into bed, promising her

that if she closes her eyes

today is gone and isn't she

lucky that she'll forget

everything while we're

still driving east into the

crimson morning holding

naught but our heads toward the sky

street light baby

a streetlight turns off

conditioned to let us alone

leave us to our own light

which we burn off of memory

a lonely bench appears

beneath a ring of trees with no eyes

no one watches us here

no one asks for a light

a streetlight turns on

electric baby in a crib

of steel, half moon sleeping

look away and it turns orange

and so i often look away from it

a change seems natural

but look how it glows

when we aren't coming back

distant storms

this as they say is

without a doubt of mind

summer's finest night

the pizza, enormously

delicious as usual

and then nothing

the hospital lights

wrap round the park

where #5 rocks

from ground to sky

where lightning domes

and no thunder comes

smoke breathes like air

which is like a mint

calcifying white teeth

which we overuse

for our true smiles

because we are in good company

a diamond earring shines

through a golden curtain

a common gem so

uncommonly beautiful

embedded in your ear

where i've got to tell you

you are no dark side of the moon

my dear, we are summer royalty

and you are always enough for me

since i just realized

is there no better thing than

wonderful?

wreathes of nights

and the

flung, stupid sun

go paddling

through a frantic pool, ergo

dark sky.

were there white holes in it?

or did I

just make a choice that

eclipses

all others I have ever made.

-kw & cp

The Vastness We All Must Spin Through

The roof rumbles a vertical truth,

I am not high up as I once thought.

From here I can see Stillwater—

I believe in willpower, shortcuts,

A rock, skip and a fire-hoop jump

Over miles of reflective puddles

To reach an overwhelmed harbor.

If the day is allowed to expand:

We are doomed. Without food.

Left to chew on long stalks

Of unidentifiable plant life.

Forever furthering the stereotype.

Ruthlessly defending our honor

Cut in half by a rainbow's blade.

This cesspool is beginning to whirl!

Drink more to stave off the wild tide,

Soon there will be nothing more to see.

No bed ghosts, no refrigerator locks,

No Time to fix on a crooked cross.

Just a plastic cup and a tangled line

And another plastic cup in your hands.

These are the days that copulate,

This is my expansive crevasse.

These are the days that pass, shall pass, will pass.

When Far I Go Traveling

When through still and endless land

The winds like waves begin to blow,

And far I go traveling with dust in my hand,

I do not know how far to go.

When stars in murky pools go sailing

Above my wayward head,

I know that my time is failing,

And these nights grow numbered ahead.

When the grass is wet as the mind is dry,

And the fireflies go caroling in fields of black,

The only sound I hear are my footsteps in the sky.

The whispering lights bid me, go back.

When sometimes I go traveling far

Through a long dark curtain of land,

I cannot look away from such perfect stars,

I do not even know who I am.

What Else Could We Be

This morning I woke so worried

About the fate of you and of me.

Yet now I lie in the grass and find

That I am free as my bed was green.

And the insects that crawl through my hand

Keep me restless in company.

And as they lingered around my fingers,

I knew that lonely is not what I'll be.

Now I am glad to simply understand

That I was made to be rootless and free.

And that I am for you as you are for me,

A green lake among undying seas.

We Are But Fireworks

We are but fireworks in the deep tonight,
Where fire unfolds like flowers bright,
While fireflies do colorize a field of hay
To keep the night's cold sentence at bay.

The spidering blaze and ruby flash
Drums while golden streamers crash.
The gorgeous fall of the deep blue boom
Will all be but silence soon.

I wonder if I've made some mistake
To watch it all reflect from the lake,
Where embers go to sizzle out.
They have no warmth or comfort now.

Why life bids slow for me to go,
I raise no flags, I will never know.
The hollow sky makes quite a din,
Where questions end and eyes grow dim.

The Self-Declarations That I See In Mostly Myself

I AM:

NIGHTFALL & AFRAID

MEADOW & ALONE

LAKE & UNKNOWN

SPACE & SICK OF DREAMS

MIDNIGHT & RIDICULOUS

CANYON & PRETENDING

SUMMER & DESISTING

FOG & STUPID

FOREST & IMPRESSIVE

SHORES & EXPANSIVE

TORNADO & FEARFUL

MORNING & MELODY

Weddings & Endings

Marriage—
Is insistent—
Is a promise to run
Together towards similar ends.

White dresses
Clutter empty rows.
Marriage is sorry—
Marriage is white rocks on beaten shore.

Marriage,
That reckless ending.
Which was once the machine,
A gentle ogre in the room.

I do!
Its withered battle cry,
Dull blades for arms,
Concrete hospitals for legs.

Wedding.
It walks for me.
It waits for me.
You my faded shield—

The force that blinds.
You can’t know it’s there.
It’s coming for me next—
I’ll be nowhere.

Hull

Ants constructing fortresses

In their concrete landscapes,

I am cultivating a green thumb,

A purple heart, an orange heat

Alighting the pygmy watertower.

This is no home for a long-hair boy.

They tax me, they chastise me

For playing with their ruddy reins.

The funnel-torn lakes of home

Are spinning and ripping away

From my busy, ant-like hands.

The watertower burns like a beacon.