Letter That Fails To Say Goodbye

Forgive me for trying this. I didn’t know whether to write a poem or a letter to you, before realizing they’re essentially the same thing.

You are a bigger deal to me than you know. In the short, healthy span of three months, you’ve taught me how to escape from boxes and trust in the stars. You’ve proved that even the seemingly random can turn into something beautiful. Not everything is predestined: you and I were an accident that no one could reconstruct.

Sleep means everything to me right now, because it’s a temporary state of having no distinct memory. And whatever keeps me away from having to build up our walls, send letters on Christmas, and forget another in death, is a welcoming remedy.

We are a bigger deal than the world will know. Trust no one to care for you the way that I would. I have faith that no one will care for me. And maybe one day, that might lead me back to your doorstep, with this heartsick letter in my hands.

Every word is a gentle countdown, another second before your passing from me, another pile of ashes closer to being my last. I suppose I ought to bury them in the past, kept hidden from my howling winds and your waterfalls. But they comfort me now, every word reminding me of you.

Your tears are blessed, in the sort of way that all running water moves with the power of some holy source. I swear, if you were any more full of light, I would be forced to give up sleep entirely. What good is darkness in a cave showing you always the safest way out?

It is a big deal, to know that an end must come to what you know is truly good. Your tears embarrass no one. I, too, have felt tremors of sadness that can only come out of losing a beautiful part of your life. But I am here for you, so that one day you will be there for me. At least, that’s something to hope.

Yours for now & for ever,

Kaleb Worst

bad poem

you've left me

scrawled and

scribbled

like a bad poem:

the stripped
bare and sleepy

kind that strangers

skip over
thick sections
of, wishing
it were over.
Even you
could think
of nothing
but the end,
how badly you
wanted it.

your lips look like there's something on them

what is on your lips?

are they crystals?

sunshine honeymilk?

soft pebbles colored

aquamarine?

i need to know.

a sprig of mint?

a bushel of bananas?

it's okay if it's onions/

asparagus/someone

else's kiss.

the particulars don't really matter.

i've grown numb to flavors.

i think you have

a hundred forgotten nights of love

on your lips.

for halloween i forgot to dress up as a ghost

as I often forget the state I'm in,

oh woeful mass-a-chu-setts trees

embroidered with leaves,

weak at the knees with snow in their ears,

walking hard the boylston boulevard,

catching glimpses of angelic asians

looming beneath broken umbrellas

what ever could they be waiting for?

forgotten as the state I'm in

I leave the couch as morning crawls

thru my pant-leg, hungry thirsty

and pitiful as a 3-legged dog

so I take myself out to deserted

streets stretched between halloween

trees howling like white ghouls

and my god, it's snowing

the great wings of season

It is cool

as autumn

unfolds

her auburn wings,

preens

her feathers

of leaves,

and lays

an amber egg

that soon

will hatch

into

a yawning

sprite

of midwinter.

this is your prince speaking

i would have taken your

forced cold paper kiss

all the way with me

you brooding animal

you soft-foot floozie

you my precious myfawny

it was embarrassing

what you did

don't you wanna feel pretty?

and after i carried you

like a cog through the museum

trying to fit you in

before we gave up, went to the zoo

and ate funnel cake drizzled

with rain oh light spackled rain

myfawny! my faraway wish

blooming at every sundown

myfawny! how i miss you

your grip, your warm shape

myfawny! where is your underwear?

myfawny! i've often thought

about the color of your door

myfawny! never tried twice

your pretty bow-tied crime

myfawny! beer frothing in your hands!

myfawny! cherrypicking grapes

off napa valley vines so easily

myfawny! the artist, the princess,

my untimely mirage and jester

myfawny! don't look at me so closely

myfawny! you're an object

of my dreams

myfawny you feel more real

than when i wake to another day

lost at sea, water everywhere,

myfawny! you feel more real

than this nightmare!

somewhere towards alaska

i'm waiting for a brown truck

to bring all the goods

snaking through drain pipes

down valleys and fjords

and into the big belly of the water

yup it's calendar art at it's finest

near the back, a moose

is showing off his new horns

the foreground is full of blood

skies dispensing bullets faster than you can say

under god & indivisible

and by god, the air is clean

summit

meet me by the snow
lilies i’ll bring hot cocoa
there’s no other place
quiet enough you

would wear a parka well
and the snow would
be the brightest reflection

unless that’s no good
the cold would make us inevitable
drawing nearer no option

ah, that was my best idea, well
hold up hang on i have
a bold request

meet me beneath the door
of the barn bring matches
on a full moon we’ll spend
a few hours walking along

side the meadow then
as the barn burns
the moon will wash

your face in its light

why not elope!
why all this planning?
or we’ll play it by ear
since this is no scene
no opening of the second act
besides i’m a monologist

okay i have one more idea
hear me out hear me here

meet me in May near
the still warm tracks
where the train that took you
would eventually cross

where i could come close
to you as life sailed over
us in streams beneath a too-
bright sky and where

I would never feel it necessary
to close my eyes
because it felt so right
to be looking at you

How to Get Into Heaven

The door to heaven is wide,
people can get in from wherever.

There are those who run in,

with their big white teeth on display,

who throw up their hands

as if they just caught some shit crazy hail mary.

Some people climb and crawl.

Others tend to live forever.
And some like to walk in backwards
and pretend that it means something.
That by walking backwards
into heaven we somehow allow
ourselves to pretend there was
never a heaven.
But this is false.
Walking backwards into heaven
just makes you look stupid,

and everyone will only laugh at you.

Environmental Poem

This cup grew up

in Blair, Nebraska.

It really did.

It's made entirely of plants.

It's 100% compostable.

I Feel the Wind Wrap About My Arms and Resist the Urge to be Taken

I tried losing you
but you went hiding
in my mind, instead.

Somewhere near the back of my eyes,
I am tempted to think.
You fold yourself

into everything I see.
You are eclipsing within
fuchsia clouds

in a not-orange sky,
witness to all the colors
only I can see.

You watch me shift the bills
as I’m cheated.
You are there

whenever I am elsewhere,
flattening out highways
across a night,

or traipsing along
train tracks,
reliving all of my

Stand By Me shit.
Why is it
that you see me so often

standing by the water,
peering into a
distant memory

only you can know I see.
Why carry on this way,
knowing you are asleep,

and it’s only me
hearing the wing break
on the morning wind.

With Gratitude for Romance, I Publicly Pledge My Soul

Through no basement doors can I slip through,

I am stranded between the coffee table

and the rave,

extending their electrons above their bobbing heads,

forming light yellow halos, flickering.

From no bite of cold can I extract the poison,

the sour flakes drill deep beneath my pores.

They breach my bones, and

I can no longer remember the sensation of warmth.

My previous perfect nights, I pledge

from here on out until the eventual great thaw.

I've been selfish as it is, and abused my luck

thoroughly enough;

Twisted with hope that someone out there also feels

this being unable to dream peacefully.

Out of the Darkness and Into the Blaze

This cerulean claw
clamps shut on the pearl—

This flattened carapace
and aching thorax

buzz no more through foglight.

These rainbows swirl like eels,
stalking clouds of blood.

Young universe, kiss me
with your cosmic fade.
Veil me from your darkened face.

Blue webs string themselves
over the cream-chalk walls,

sticking me where it hurts.

The last light lick of morning
drips down my forearm.
Soft fingers of the river,
working their magics on my skin.

Maybe I’ll come back again.
Maybe the fog will lay an egg.

And I will poke my nose through,
an ivory shell yoked with flame,
and everyone I touch will melt
into a pool with no reflection.

I Am In The Wrong Sort of Place

I
Halfway thru October
And fog’s swallowed everything
Lonely granite archways
Square heads of buildings
The whole mass mess of brick
Gray and unfamiliar

They said I’d do well here
I saw myself kicking ladders
Once I had reached the roof
I knew I could remember names
I knew my hands were strong
And able to clasp the hands of others
I placed myself at the end of the race
Imagined mountains of cake
Streamers of delectable colors
I was willing and aching to win, win, win

I had gotten it wrong

II
Prowling prisoner!
By radio stations
Beneath dull rows of light-bulbs
The prisoner prowls
In his p.j’s and robe
He prowls the bathroom
Wiping down the tiles
Peering and scowling
Down the hallway
Piercing the quiet
With his muffled tones,
The prowling prisoner!
He could go anywhere
He’d like to
But he roams nearby
Always lost
In a useless thought
Prowling around
Cemeteries
Perched beneath
Oak branches
Lighting up
The prowling prisoner
Has given up!

III
What sort of hell
Charges you 50,000 a year

Offers you free meals
Which in reality are a part

Of that 50,000 I mentioned earlier
Provides your rickety bed

Tousles your hair
Says “Chin up, be grateful,

Buy more of our thick books.”
Screams at you when you arrive

Closes off in private circles
Creates purple rings

Under your thin, yellow eyes
Brings in guest speakers

To speak of life after hell
Stirs you from a summer dream

To stare at a white screen
Tells you how to get better

Promises that you’ll get better
Puts no such promise in writing

IV
I fluttered stupid as a moth
Felt wings rested on my knotted back
Washy-eyed flying drunkenly
In figure-eights around a traffic light

Sometimes I expect myself to be hit
By a car dropping beats on my chest
I imagine myself crumpled
I imagine my wings starting to unfold

V
Forget me
I’m sandbox skeleton serious
Stay away
It’s a matter of health
In my mind you’re frail
And I often swing wildly
I’m hiding
Some still see me
Some still wave
And stop their routine
And ask how it’s going
I pull out my script
I’m not subtle
Don’t approach me
I’m keeping myself
In the past
I’m severely displaced
Swimming in tar
The blood and cum
Of the grey city
That once tasted sweet
I walk Stuart Street
With nowhere to go
By the fountain
I decide to go back
To nowhere in particular
When I lie down
I feel dead and old
Don’t try to make me young
Don’t write to me
Don’t call
My phone is dying
I won’t save it
I have declared the Internet
My enemy
It’s not politics or anything
It’s a matter of not existing

Frat Boys at the Opera

a pack of suits
roams in shined shoes

ties a little loose
unraveling

down their fronts
like embroidered bibs

one goes to spit
another steps in it

a communal gesture
they clasp hands loudly

howl in garbled tones
and liquefy their bones

the opera is long over
night slipped in instantly

confusion on a mass scale
like dude, where are we

what the hell was that
who do we think we are?

Out Past Sea

As the dingy boat shack rides the affronting waves,
Beaten back and farther back still by the winds
Whipping up salt and endless spray of clouds,
And the cobbled captain samples a taste of his course,
Wanting no sand, clay or dirt in the grip of his palm,
Caring not for the counsel that sent him, caring only
For the senses that steer his steel-shackled horse,
Knowing within that long ahead sprawls a behemoth
Of land, fitted with fertile soil and all its green ornaments,
Then rights his course, aligning with the spine of the sea:
So I right myself in denying the fruits of my home,
And as the captain lives to ride the waves, I walk on alone.

Sublime

It sat square and sour
on a dark cherry napkin,
lolled on its misshapen side,

and with pudgy fingerprints
pressed to form impressions,
it looked a rather lame lime.

Yet the faces surrounding
the thing seemed impressed.

They noted the way it spoke
with acidic hisses, how soft
its bruises, and though lifeless,
they forgave it for being boring

and swiftly bore it open, anxious
to grasp their tap tapping fingers
around its sweet, emerald core.

Across The Way

O the girls across the way!

They bounce into their rooms
with their black brassieres—
ripping curtains

and pulling me away
from lonesomeness.

They flop on their beds,
wrestled within quilts,
tapping their phones.

Nothing connects us,
binds or intertwines us,

except that we both
watch out the window
for a flash of rain.

I turn off the light that glares
and loftily pray for a fire drill.

i know nothing of the beauty of dance

i know nothing of the beauty of dance

and still i want to dance

for life to fill me up

stretch me out & pull

my arms to the horizons

for wings to fold

about my head,

lift me to where

the air is tighter

spin twirl and flaunt

my many crooked sins

i want blood on my smock

i want sweat on my bones

leap and bound

everywhere

like i can't help myself

because i can't help myself

i know where your doubts lie

i know the punching power of words

i even know the right way home

but i know nothing of the beauty of dance

for i never saw you dance

Free Stress Test

Are you alone? right now? do you watch people go? do you follow them? with determined accuracy? has winter held you? by the throat? have you noticed the dark patches fall? do you still walk around? have you somewhere to be? will you bring a coat? buttons? how many calls do you make? in a day? late at night? do you prepare your words ahead of time? will you ever have nothing to say? do you make demands? for peace? silence? are these natural in you? or do you force it often? every so often? could you dance? without standing? do you often stir? while sleeping? how long does it take you to fall? asleep? do you know? what's it mean to you? to sleep? what of your short-term experiences? your long-term memories? do you recognize the divide? what does it mean to you when I say the past is a myth? does everything flow around you? or ahead of you? how do you feel about being a stone? in a calm current? can you hold your liquor? do you drink? or does sobriety glue you? when a drunk man yells hello to you, is he crazy? or are you? for turning a sober cheek? what podiums do you possess? or which colored sign at a protest? which would you hold? with grace? in regards to race? would you talk down to evil? stand up? if someone told you "there, that is evil"? would you be confident then? what of your body? is it neat? do your muscles stretch? like rubber bands? how often do you mutter about massages? have you grown deep enough roots? do you feel the earth when you walk? or have you been flung? are you floating? who has you? your heart? who would own up their mistakes to you? who saves & makes their mistakes on you? do you see your mistakes as flukes? pariahs? or as accurate representations of your failure of a personality? this part's important. do you think? or do you feel? both? how on earth do you manage? are your parents proud? are they still alive? do they feed you? do they fight? will it last? are you all right?

I Cannot Do Away With Your Chains

I cannot do away with your chains,

because you are graceful, you have none.

Such a delicate petal in the breeze—

I can't yet pretend to know you,

only through your face,

which is telling in its arrangement without flaw.

Cokeheads hold flowers for you,

and all of the asylum flocks to you,

sometimes I get a little sad

but crazy is for you to decide.

I think you're lovely.

But no— lovely suggests a rose—

a poised, fragrant thing

that need be watered.

But forget water, we're free.

You move greater than water,

like the sweetest wine.

You move and breathe so unlike a rose

feel alone and I know the feeling.

I will shine brightly for you.

Can you stand admiration?

I think myself no exception to any rule

except I can't stop seeing you.

Sunlight sears my hand, wishing it were yours.

4/15/2011

continuation of the party in the name of the lord

i live in background noise

the fan blowing midwinter winds

straight legged skirt girls stalk me

sparkling with their nails

there are no more lanes

cars swerve around petals

the security guard's asleep

dirty beats lay wasted on the pavement

if this is how we keep going

we'll be kicked out of olympus

and knock on hade's speakeasy door

the password is "righteous"

tell me how to sleep

tell me how to sleep

i keep asking my all angels

and they all keep saying no

party in the name of the lord

my headache clings to me
like film wrap
and turns me into a figure of knots
ripping bass-string arteries
leaking battery acid behind me

street light disco lights spin
silver threads on the canopies

my headache forgets yesterday
and drops bullets
into the sockets of my eyes

there’s a taxi speeding
through one ear and out the other
laying down the horn
and charging me for
everything I have

Lumination

All the bridge

is a countryside.

The pond is ocean.

The duck, a seagull,

And the fish a whale.

And the air, sweet air,

the air is a whisper.

Not A Girl In Boston

I’ve been searching for a month and haven’t found a one,
I went asking all the guards and the rays of the sun.
They spoke not a word, but just lit their cigarette,
And looked at me like I had forgotten the alphabet.
I haven’t asked them since and I’d rather not cross them,
But I think I’ve learned myself there’s not a girl in Boston.

I’ve ran around at the aquarium, looking through the fish,
And I’ve been at the fountain with no change for a wish.
I’ve waltzed across a brick path with my nose in the air,
And wherever I go, there’s no time to take a chair.
I’m twisting in the wind, I feel like I’m missing an arm,
I don’t know where they all went, I swear I mean no harm.

I’ve taken a few shortcuts through the alleys and the malls,
I’ve stolen a few rolls of paper from their bathroom stalls.
All to get a glimpse of some girl, who only needs to smile,
So I can pitch a tent, feel content, and breathe for a while.
But I’ve used up all my luck, and I’ve got to have my fix,
I’ve been sleeping on a boulder and a mat made out of sticks.

I’ve felt a little wobbly and I’ve smoked a lot of weed,
And went chasing little rabbits right down into the reeds.
Feeling lucky, I’ve circled the common hoping for a face
With eyes that could see through me and stay off of my case.
And I found one, she was something, looking cold and alone,
I didn’t even realize she was a picture on my phone.

I called my best friend who was having sex up in Duluth,
And described my new surroundings and asked what I should do.
He cleared his throat, grabbed his hat, and strolled on outside,
Then struck a match on the moon, letting out a tired sigh.
“Well, once you meet them, you’ll blink and then you’ve lost them,
So count yourself lucky that there’s not a girl in Boston.”

Goody Gumdrops

a handful of goodies goes around,

tongues melting globs of gooey stuff.

sugar cubes turned to pools,

keeping kids awake in school

and bringing water to our eyes!

bastards with goody bags.

autumn arena full of festive treats

dragging me away from my sheets,

and no bitterness for coffee.

no slow roast sun slow morning,

more corn syrup, more sparkles,

more rot to the living and stomach lining.

Crying Call

I'm losing the game that no one plays.

I'm losing pictures

into the wet leaf puddle gutters

lining the sandbox streets.

I'm losing the taste of storms

on my tongue and the unbridled

calm of driving, driving, driving.

I'm losing my appetite.

When I enter a room, it eats me.

It licks the inside of my ears

and feasts on my hair follicles.

I'm learning to not take it personally.

The sky is folding in over my head.

I'm losing and losing a very long bet.

Clouds rake in the chips I've thrown,

their stacks leaning against the sun.

I'm learning to leash my memories.

I'm losing money, charm and brevity.

I'm waiting for answers, no questions asked.

I'm learning and losing the rights of my mind.

Poem from the Father to the Poet

*pulls from the bottle*
Not all can be forgotten.
So quit trying, boy.

A Leisurely Ode to my Friend from the North

I remember us, once

building a castle
out of wooden blocks
and finding it easy to visualize
a dragon being born at sundown.

Once shoveling to break the dam.
Once running down ghosts with sticks.
We hungered for the chase,
the daredevil run, the toilet paper
plasterings and scribbled drawings
on the inside wall of the biffy,
all in the name of fun.

The phone was necessary to reach you
then. And now again.

If I had known that you played viola,
I would have offered you seriously
to attend the Conservatory, but I made you into a joke.
‘hey you should come to saint paul conservatory with me
haha teehee like you would’
is how it plays out in my mind,
though I don’t think you mind.

And from there rolled down high school,
barreling furiously towards adulthood,
a dirty metropolis at the foot of the hill.
The same bus lunch bus schedule
giving us solidarity.

I started finding the pencil interesting,
it seemed like an interesting fact then.
You never held your viola with love
but then again, you and I both knew
that we didn’t know what that looked like.

I had a girl sometimes
but it still felt like somehow we had no one.
That was our big secret, wasn’t it.

The reason most people knew you before seeing you,
because my mouth was loud with warm breath.
But that was something that hardly mattered,
you knew something you had no warrant to share:
your friends were better than mine.

And not until I was sick and sniffling with soup
cupped in my hands, I wandered to the knoll
to find you among them,
but I could not shake their hands.

Plans were scrawled on napkins,
fantasizing skin-packed Florida and all the warmth
of the sun stirred up in the sands.
You missed a meeting and I spoke for you.
The pizza was good, but we’ve had better.

Well, then you saw the ocean,
draped in darkness, for the very first time,
and our feet outran our shoes on that coast.
The only night we slept in beds
I told you to not open your mouth
when swimming in the ocean,
and the next morning you forgot.

Spring laid down parallel tracks,
setting a pattern in metal and stones.
We made ceremonies out of smoking cigars
and had little use for cars
except to drive down 42nd and turn right.

The kid who refused to wear headgear
taught me how to smoke a cigarette,
in the Perkins parking lot
after a long couple cups of coffee.

The boy who watched cars with me
out of the bus window
watched me smoke out of a bowl
for the first time, and saw me
slipping through the wormholes
on the forest floor.

I waited for you for that first glass,
but you were late, I hardly regret it.
You slept next to me with the kitchen
rug as your blanket.
My first hangover I was laughing.

We turned around
together, facing the audience
who at once jumped and shouted
that we did it, we have made it,
“Welcome to the end of the hill!”

Hell yes we did it,
throwing our feet on the dashboard,
cruising farther than west of Minneapolis,
sporadically leaving restaurants
to make distance stretch across the cities.

College was a certainty.
Summer no less of a sentence.

We overdid, plummeted,
pocketed good feeling
and left days open ended.

You guarded the door for me at parties
while I momentarily forgot you.

I sat on a bathroom floor for hours
while you forgot how to move.

We had cigarette breaks
on the buggy beach at Long Lake,
at the propane tanks of SuperAmerica.

It was a long walk from the foot of the hill to the city.

Now I’m here, it’s barren and cool.
But I’m sure that where you are
it’ll be enough to freeze a bottle of beer.

So with my phone off the hook,
I have summoned you.
Let’s light up our shadows on the docks
and laugh at our lonely personalities
and continue to forever ignore the clock.

Boys like us need still company.

Also, you went to church more than me.

I've seen you baptized, I have proof that you believe.

At least always in me.

stage directions

cue the doors swung wide open
cue the damsels
cue a martyr doused in flame
bring the lights up a bit
let’s turn everything white
cue script revision #14
this time it’s a happy ending
for now
cue the awe gripping audience
bring out the flowers
let them know it’s our first time
let’s ask for donations
let’s mishandle the money
and file for bankruptcy
putting cracks in the walls
cue everyone breaking into dance
to the song of conversation
we need some help backstage
our angel is melting
bring more hairdressers
pack the cabinets with L’Oréal
make her feel french and fabulous
we’ll start without her this time
cue script revision #15
Lights, Camera, Lion!
make it stand on a stool
and train it to never bite down
cue the monologue where no one cries
cue the child actor crying
cue sticky heat in linen clothes
and uncomfortable shifting in chairs
cue the raptures
cue the whining whale hunter
in his last big scene
cue the night wet nurse to mop
down the floor
pull on more ropes and levers
wear black do magic
pull it all together
did we even rehearse this once
or were you daydreaming
wait until she feels sorry
cue the director making an apology
cue the fire and the rain
cue the audience backed into a corner

perfect as it should be

drink up, it’s a long bridge
slow down, we’re going somewhere
could you hold my shoes
can I walk across stars with my toes
do you mind me asking
all these questions of you

are your needs uncomfortable
do your pleasures moan
notify me if you’re unhappy
make a stand or just call me
if it’s too soon for standing

I let the hot chocolate cool
I’m grotesque you should know
I’ve become a slight obsession
in and of myself
I watch so many ladies come and go

into clean carpeted rooms
where fire is poured into goblets
and burns out all beauty
eyes lose luster hair thins out
I find myself always near the door

where do you wander to
what songs get stuck in your head
the leaves are beginning to leave
which was something I knew
would happen

but it saddens me anyways
but hey there’s one star out
the sky’s orange as usual
I mean we’ll be all right right
it’s college it’s college
everything is in its right and proper place