Bleed Loudly, Be Heard

Even as the plane lurches forward, closing my eyes to get one last glimpse of how I imagine things would be if the air was a little warmer, I waste no time and begin composing. Even as the de-icing fluid runs straight off the wings, leaving tangerine streaks of orange stained on the silver, I think of rain and lilypad hymns. I am being vigilant. Heeding the warning of the TSA, if I see something, I say something. Even as we break over clouds, and I feel relief at being so high above any final destination, I think of home, and feel rotten confusion—in Boston where I have my own bed, and breathe my own air—or do I belong among theaters and lakes, the thrashing cold raking my lungs, where no one is left to call my name? I feel joy only from the newest sensation; the small things forgotten, I cherish as they light up in my mind. It seemed right to endure the cold on my return to Minnesota—but wouldn’t you know it, in three days time I took hot showers several times a day just to feel good again. So stranded in no certain sky, being shuttled from one half-home to the next, forcing myself to ignore the dull bleating in my chest, it is no wonder that I feel apprehensive thinking of you, whoever you are reading this now.

I want to close an open secret: This all goes away. The confusion, the frustration. Even you go away. You fade and twist into one more knot that ties me to port and that’s about it. I can’t go any longer pretending otherwise. We don’t have to be bitter about it— I’ve saved us from that ugly reveal—the clouds are pale blue and wispy beneath the sun, let’s just enjoy that. Just look at it, hovering like a liquid jewel before us this morning, indifferent as ever. The biggest mirror I’ve ever seen. Just two lonely dudes in the sky, and if this string was long enough, maybe we’d talk about our celestial bodies and all the angels we’ve seen on our shoulders. But the string is never long enough, not for anyone. Not for those who stand at the end of the dock reaching out their arms, not for those whose coffee burns their hand during turbulence, not for you sitting elsewhere, and certainly not for me.

The man sitting in 35E—the middle seat, with me at the window, squinting down at Newark’s bleakness—told me that, no matter where I go in life, no matter how sweet my victories, or even sweeter my failures, I would only go to Heaven by accepting God—and the rest of this-and-that’s we’ve all heard—and when he asked me if I disagreed with him, I should have said yes—Honesty is, after all, more virtuous than Faith. If I had told him that sex is the closest we get to God, would we have smiled in some semblance of agreement—his six children might find it plausible—or would that have been it right there, the end of what little we had between us? I would have liked that. Why can’t we all be as honest as a man like that—coming right out with it, pamphlets and all—tell me what you’re trying to sell—

Because the only thing I’ve been trying to sell is Care, packaged into neat sentences that you can carry with you. Care with honesty and candor. It’s a delicate commodity to be dealing with. It has no supply or demand, but is still worthy of my full attention, as it’s the only thing that makes this—this back-and-forth, often one-sided conversation between us, full of sighs and yearning—something worth doing the rest of my life. Maybe you know it, too—maybe you care more than I do, maybe you’ll never let me know how much you care— but regardless only one of us will be here, in the end. You go away. I feel that’s worth mentioning twice.

I don’t mean to be so cold—there’s no ice on the wings, I’m light and blanketed in an ocean of cloud, everything really is incredible when you manage to stay awake and see. I want to breathe in this moment forever, far away from you as I am, unable to cast even a single sound into the stratosphere. I have nothing to waste. I pour my Coke into a cup avalanched in ice, wondering when our end will come. Until then, I care for you. Live confidently. No one knows you. See often, and say with sweeping certainty all that you see. Meet everyone. Praise the brazen, seek no judgment, give without an asking price. Go into the most night-like depths of yourself to find morning, watch yourself washed in golden. Wheels are emerging from their hiding places. Take this city and make it a home. No one will do it for you. Please be seated. You won’t die today or for a while. Be careful when opening the overhead bins. Today, you excite me. There are several reasons why. Someday, I’ll go this way and you'll go another, clanging tambourines and singing the noise of our thoughts. Today, we’re just figuring out more and more ways to say goodbye.

Quit playing Call of Duty, quit wasting your stupid life...

"Quit playing Call of Duty, quit wasting your stupid life! I’m hitting up the streets with Jeff, about to print my ticket and other plane-related shit, and upon returning I shall tell you about the worst emotional mugging of my lifetime."

So goes the dial-tone
echoing like a foghorn
in the throat of the cave

there’s not much else to hear

taxis drive by cross-eyed

I steal another cigarette

from Jeff, who is sprawled

over his sheets
my paperwork is ready

I have nowhere urgent

to be I only

wanted to hear your voice

I got what I wanted
trapped inside
an hourglass

cracked and sand

now spilling

out my ear,
into my hands trembling wired I can’t feel

the cold cradling
my baby breath

giving up has never been so sure of a thing
grant me the words to cross over countries
and the grace to lose what is already lost
for I’ve never felt so displaced as I do now
give me the luck to stumble into accidents
that might set me onto a wholly new scent

so goes the prayer

of the failure

so cold it might be springtime

when parting the great thick cloud

of cold that hangs over the midwest

like a curtain rimmed with icicles

it isn't worth trying to solidify yourself

to turn into yourself into some kind of

marble stone that you've only seen in

the venetian hanging overhead like some

great dream you couldn't quite reach

but could see as clearly as if it were the

cold, crystallizing in your rapid breath

over and over again, the white cloud of

oxygen making noiseless sounds out of

your cactus mouth, freewheeling like a

butterfly and sinking like lime colored

coral to the bottom of the dark blue sea

where it's just as cold as the place you

call home where i call home where we

grew up learning to hold doors, promises

and the rest in the nest of our hearts where

birds compose symphonies sometime soon

Sparky's Bar

Out of the woodwork

the crazies come,

looking for a fix

that they're willing

to buy. The bouncer

inspects the crowd

almost as closely

as I do. The bro

with the black hat

is inches away from

a good night, I wish

him luck. License

plates hang overhead,

mapping out

the many places I

would like to be.

This includes

Nevada, Missouri,

Indiana and home.

Blue, striped, bland,

they blend in together

as if from one country.

So this is the states,

the manyfold counties

that crumble together

into one smoldering pile

of unabashed wildness,

living the life that ought

to be lived, living in the

moment that never seems

to slip by, everything,

everything goes on around us,

not stopping to notice

or lament the lame things.

holy shit what did i do

perhaps you can help me with this one,

maybe you've been holding a number

and i just called it, step forward,

blush graciously, pick up a feathered pen.

just a few questions, i've lost my mind.

first, holy shit what did i do?

i serve myself up like $2 breakfast

and am carved as if i were

thanksgiving dinner, stuffing and all.

second, whose responsibility

is it to keep the peace?

i'm doing my bit, chomping down

on the bit, pulling the plow in completely

straight and conventional rows.

not quite full-grown wild,

though give it time,

soon i'll be marketing your eyelashes

as commodities of my fantasy land.

do not act surprised, it's a given.

the form's almost black with ink,

only one question left, and thank you

for bearing through this,

i know that the rough times has hit us all,

but third, how cold is it, exactly?

i forgot to bring a sweater

but something tells me i'll make it through.

Blithe

You’ve gone too far this time
to know what you’ve even done.

You beggar. I should have known
when you pushed my mouth open

that you were just hungry.
I won’t tell your children about it

if you promise never to have children.
I’ve dipped my hands into your man-made

lake, my fingers withered, I won’t be cruel.
You stole. No more, no less than that.

O there are some blithe things in this world,
but none so miserable as you.

Stillwater

Stillwater I never left you.
Stillwater what kind of fate do you call this?
You still have fruit on your trees in Marina.
When were you going to tell me about your curse?
Stillwater five times a day I face east and I’m still not saved.
I walk around like an animal and write down names.
There’s nothing honorable about it.
Five times a day I walk out the door and watch the clouds deliver faint messages to you from the bowels of a storm.
I need help there’s a tornado on me and I can’t get it off.
Three days ago the walk around your lake was clear as a diamond ring, now I can’t see a single carat.
Stillwater your borders are quickly fading.
The penetantiary is opening its doors to the hungry and homesick.
I keep trying to make my entrance but I can’t cross your long highway.
Stillwater I’m drinking brandy and it hurts more than anything you’ve ever done to me.
If this is all you’ve got then you need to try harder.
I’ve suffered worse than you, Stillwater.
All of your sprinklers were going off under the moonlight.
The dogs tried barking with pinecones in their throats.
Stillwater you are the original capital!
You are the rustic bridge that crosses to home.
I’ve done nothing to deserve your phantom lights.
Stillwater are the boats still ferrying? who will you guide home?
Silence is not an answer.
You’re evading me again.
I should have known peering over the edge of your mossy dock that this was going to be the end.
Now I’ve gone east too far, you set me in motion.
Flying through orbit. On a new axis. Becoming smaller and smaller in the dome of your star-swollen sky. Stillwater, you’ve lost the moon.
The grocery store is still open. Eggs in Stillwater cook faster and taste better.
You store up your tears in the gas pumps! the car washers!
I could tell you were sad, that night we watched you cocoon.
When I watched the way your weary sun set, and shivered at the brush of your harsh air, until the night passed over us like a stream, I could have sworn you were my future.
Stillwater I remember a time when we used to share our feelings, when our only walls were bridges that carried us over your violent river, which has flooded over your angel-white gazebo ever since I’ve known you.

Stillwater, you never call me back and I never call you.
I don’t think we’ll ever be able to arrange a meeting.
I think when I said goodbye I must have meant it.

soon after waking i hold

tonight, being only a

continuation of the night

before, i palm the sun in my denim

pocket &

steam what's left of the coffee

in a milk-colored cup,

getting the first fix

while also

fixing the rolls of my mint-gum

colored shirt clipped onto

my chest, cobwebbed

and holding

in it a very dusty secret

old to the world

as blood,

let go of it

& suddenly
everyone's swept

off into the thickest

part of the jungle,

whispering
lullabies

as snakes force them into sleep.

So This Is The Night

In my soft-headed

attempt to marinate

in the depths of forgetfulness,

I have — for a monotonous

month of dry-eyed cut-

throat carousel humping,

grasping at banana green buds

that could only be seen

with a plastic microscope,

wading through the

garbled sounds of gardening—

clearly forgotten that

this is the night,

where my only saving grace

is that my silhouette

cannot be traced.

we are no longer safe

tonight we spit-

shine our trophies

gag ourselves

with the perfume

of rain

tapping on the

aluminum

run away

to some nearby

place and

bolt the heavy

door

never to come

out

until someone

brings the news

that the

internet is safe

again

and everyone

we were keeping

tabs on has

vanished

The 27th Fable

oh right
the story

so basically
orientation week

they made some eyes
and began the

cute texting phase
and after some time

it was revealed
that she was taken

by some other soccer guy
in New York

so Mike lost focus
until she burst

into the room
saying “this is it!”

sealing herself in the bathroom
she was on the john

on the phone sometimes
crying and Mike

while Eli and Taylor
(some cute somehow-

relevant girl) hooked up
in their room, well

Mike listened to it all
she walked out

drained, saying
“I couldn’t do it”

that was when he lost focus
for an unavoidable amount of time

Say Yes To Drugs, Say Yes To Pizza

We're the greatest generation!

The theater trips around outside,

standing beneath telephone poles,

egging on a parking meter.

They bark C'MON and HEY

with many E's in the middle.

A dumb act on stilts, stalking

past the Ritz Carlton in defiance.

Someone left the light on in their car.

No one notices. Dogs bark at cars

afraid of their intentions.

I limp beneath the rows of bulbs

lining the ceiling, hands

on my mouth, unable to make a sound

that could be heard from

the all-night diners of Chinatown.

World's Smallest Harbor

Hey, have you been to the World's Smallest Harbor?

They have a giant sign in the shape of a humpback whale, in thick yellow letters advertising "DEPOE BAY, OREGON WORLD'S SMALLEST HARBOR" for those who didn't already know.

They make a mean crab in Depoe Bay.

Across the street from the hut-shaped information booth, regarding of course the tiny body of water housing six or so boats, otherwise known as the World's Smallest Harbor, is a diner that serves good crab soup.

The waitresses are cute, make sure to forget things constantly.

Hey, were you down by the water at the World's Smallest Harbor?

I thought I saw you there, noting the 1 acre-wide pocket of the sea, trying to figure out if truly was, as everyone said it was, the World's Smallest Harbor.

Why must you dominate the sea? Know the unknown and question things?

I'm sick, sick of fake intellectual tourists clamming up this place all the time, their pockets bulging with blueprints and tangled rolls of measuring tape.

It's enough to make someone plunge headfirst into the World's Smallest Harbor, which— as I understand it— is still relatively deep.

When the water snapped beneath my tumbling weight, I felt the sting of the pissed off Pacific Ocean on my ears, thighs and hands, all being resuscitated as if from emergency paramedics, wheeling around the corner just in the nick of time.

I fell as if falling from a dream, clutching my chest and wishing I would have stayed in bed, until I hit the powdery bottom, which, as I had calculated, was pretty damn deep indeed.
And suddenly I felt so very small, left to write by candlelight on the floor of the World's Smallest Harbor, while the tourists walk over the rickety white bridge, staring at their reflections in the murky waves, unable to see myself, so far below, waving up at them as if I were royalty.

Chandelier Skies

Floodlights fill up the street,

the rain now visible as a gash

is visible on a clear complexion.

Little freckles falling into pools.

A worm burrows deeper into

its sheets of dirt, unaffected.

Likewise I light a cigarette

and stand on the cleared-out

patio, making necessary notes.

A droplet clings to the end of

my hair, a crystal hanging

off a furious bushel of hay.

I tried suspending it, making

it last, tethering me to the

downpour, but the magic of it

left, failing to catch it as it falls.

Reunion

The liquor cabinet is empty,

who do you blame?

I blame grandma,

though it was me who cleared it.

I know she was watching

me through the lids of her eyes,

her mouth hung open

as if it were on a sling,

watching me rattle

the liquor cabinet

out of disgusted distress,

as if there was a swarm of bees

in there I was trying to tick off,

and, admitting defeat,

dragged myself off my knees,

and stumbled past grandma,

hacking up phlegm,

my book-bag packed,

leaning out the doorframe

to join the reunion,

clasping costumed hands

I no longer recognize.

Palette

Possibly you're untouchable,
possibly you're a ball of light
untouchable in the fog.

I don't know how it works.

Through the mystic wrappings
of nature's balmy breath
everything is a delicious mystery.

The long stare of the street-light
bathing leaves in white,
the cold cough of pigeons
rifling through the silence.

Possibly you're cooing, somewhere.

Men sleeping beneath elms
of autumn open up like clams.

Silver-licked envelopes,
nestled like eggs in a metal nest,
are all set to cross the country.
Expect lots of ochre, mandarin,
possibly a dash of wheat.
For myself I keep only a golden.

Exhaust Pipe

I eat handfuls of cake

in the morning-time

to prove my stomach

of sheet metal.

I buckle and bronco.

Oozing odometer,

dripping numbers

on the kiss-red bricks.

In old age, I'll need

a cute, blonde nurse.

I await the sunset

holding black wool

over my eyes. O

vicious bruise of

morning!

You are a crater

on the face of Mars.

You are a crater

growing bigger on the

face of Mars.

Have you found water?

Are hawks circling

you like vultures

descending on carrion?

Let me carry you.

It's been a while

since I've used these arms.

a hope that, in forgetting a forgettable saturday, i might again remember

boisterous women

of Boston hacking away

at the air, hatchet voices

rebounding off of metal.

we mutter

"this fucking city" under

our breaths as if it were

a prayer that would

keep our stomachs full.

we buy little else besides

food, still, it's a hunger

issue, it's a matter of the 99%,

the 99% are hungry, dammit,

make a few sandwiches,

pass them out like confetti.

something to celebrate

would be good for all of us,

since we're surrounded by the sinister

in Boston tonight, ego tripping around.

confusion is a weakness that I

do not intend to let swallow me.

standing on this forgetful piece of land

I can anticipate the movements of the moon,

and when exactly the light screams green.

a salute to those who shower and eat breakfast simultaneously, defying time

it was the kick out of the blankets

like a bronco out barbed-wire gates,

white-tailed and thrusting all of my

weight to my pelvic region, breaking

off splinters from a metallic rose,

that instilled a sort of super-serious-

sense in me that, for all the confusion

in the Midwest concerning dinner

meaning lunch and also supper,

my time zone never does matter,

that time is a super-serious looking

painting, and mine to color as I please.

an offering, in fragments to the dead, the lovely & those who still create

I was at the highest platform
of my widely-revered
circus routine, thinking back
to the time when I was in
rehearsal constantly

before I found the lip
and, thinking twice
about the downsides
of O thinking twice,
veered off from the veneer
of my oil-sunned nose
down toward the
pillows gathered below
resembling a nest of winter.

bushes were smuggled
in as an illegal species
but now are abundant,
and are ruining everything.
damn bushes, disrupting
the coalescence of seasons
against the backdrop
of nature looking somehow

like an illusion.

the tree, tip-spiced with
silver, pixies like jewelry
twinkling like the first sleet.
its roots stretch no farther
than the nearest
tombstone, unreadable name,
deceased, good-night, & may you rest in peace.

a necklace of napalm,
which was an oddity of a gift
sent in a singed package,
(smelling slightly of gasoline
and other bad burns)
brands to your neck,
giving you hickies
countlessly & all over,
purple blotches
that, to the outside reader,
look a lot more like bruises.

tonight then I offer,
in addition to telling-offs
and the auctioning
off of my darkest secrets
and even darker looks,
a telling of a much quieter story,
worthy of fire-places
where cocoa is poured as the jitter
ceases, leaving me to tell it as it is,
accomplishing more
or less the same job
as stirring gallons of gasoline
into a broth of fire.

Preparations for a Wedding

This is my 500th post. Thanks and love to everyone who continues to support, encourage and silently approve of this project. Through rough and wonderful times it has served me well, and I hope that during both it can do the same for you.

Last night I found myself in Phoenix, visiting several unknown relatives, the sky busy with invitations.

The way the road curved around Indianapolis, like a concrete merry-go-round, I felt joy but not enough to drop by unannounced—that is bad luck, isn’t it?—so I went straight on through until morning

where upon returning to my suite I woke up half-naked, burning between my sheets, and now buzzing with plans I have no aim for.

Unplugging the hair-dryer from the wall, I stuck my fingers too close to the wattage and now I am slightly alive—

have you shocked yourself lately, sweet mystery?

Have I been holding an unlit candle? you must know when love dies, don’t you, you’ve written it down somewhere, your journal would be so lucky! to feel the flourish of your fingers, which I once watched as if they were in a dance themselves.
Maybe one day we can write a poem together and then we’ll really be dancing.

My jacket is useless, crisp as the air and just as cold, and the gray sky giving me no light to work with. Still, all is in silent motion…

The ice-sculptor begins to chip away at the block as morning stretches onward, burdening itself with birds that fly as if carrying an urgent message. The fields have been thoroughly raked. Flowers. What main course? My stomach is in too many knots. I have been ironing more often. People notice on the streets that I’m ready for something but they’ll never guess. The harpist tightens her strings as the piccolo-player composes a variation of “Sweet Disposition,” and girls encircle my mind prettied up by dresses, blank white as canvas. It doesn’t matter to me what color they are so long as they match— it is your decision.

So I go about my day, often checking the mail, and seeing everything like this it is no wonder that I am sad. My candle flickers.

How much emptiness, I wonder, is needed to feel empty?

Consider me even in your cloudiest daydreams. It’s good to start somewhere. Have you received my invitation yet? I licked it myself. And inside, I threw in a handful of leaves, whose vibrant colors serve as a subtle reminder that no matter how many autumns pass, a leaf is still a leaf,

and love, it seems, is no rsvp.

oh artful bones, why you and now?

i sleep naked...

i sleep most often

partially clothed

in doubt & bones

tethered by a

fragrant hair,

wired thru spring,

waking to hold

your skeleton to the brim...

i would let you in...

it would be a quick visit...

hello with love,

goodbye without,

could life rearrange?

you're too sweet to stomach

in the morning,

your silence, too strange...

Meanwhile in the briar

I've lost most interest

in school-

sponsored activities.

Have a sandwich,

they try and tell me,

I

just say no.

Join

us in the movement!

they shout,

shoveling

meeting times

into my mouth, why?

Why is this only

what YOU care about

suddenly.

I'm spitting at bricks,

I'm kicking coffins

and hurting my foot.

Thorns lie everywhere.

Every night I fall asleep

and forget

so that when I wake up

eventually

I jump out of my bed

and howl.