oceanside gone

this shit drags on with the tide,
over and over the waves comb
your matted membrane out of
your thick knotted mind the last
time your kind came this close
to discovering kindness there
were stars without names:
little yellow, big fuzzy orange,
enormous ebony star that
dumps the night into your
peeled black eyes with
a shimmering side of
fuck your day light life
and fuck your side project
life it's too big for you
nothing's gonna stop the
knife that spreads
your attention baklava-thin
and when the waves snap
the twigs on your shores
my footprint's gonna
store so much carbon
i'll breathe bricks of
gasoline like coke &
charlie sheen you
floozy, you fat
magnificent beach
with your white sand
and your golden strands
of love-locked tomorrow
and your boarded up
boardwalk where the
pipers talk of playing
and the carousel spins
a lullaby your way

~~

shored up in panera just waiting for a home

Apple harvest bread bowl tummy's full digital clocks strike a just-after-3 pose Mike missed his train again thankful i'm not there thankful for loitering poised for a grand old time in a grand new century Rhi sitting across from me soaking up the words we take turns watching the stuff while the other smokes or hits the restroom the password is 0123 I was only off by 1 number... security is seriously lax in this Panera... they'll bring you butter and a knife if you haffta ask for it... Rhianna's up again tea runs right through her she's always running on empty no one seems to mind us occupying the booth... it's been 3 hours and I reckon we've walked a block meaning yes we are a block from Back There which we are not returning to we shut the windows & cranked the heat & barred our rooms from the living... happy thanksgiving pilgrims and pigeons you've got a knack for bread bread bowl blood bowl bread in your bowels blood on your towels the bread will rise the heat is awful the bread will rise... are you sure about it all do we need a loan for the turkey does this stuffing collect interest and are you sure are you really sure you're still interested in finding out whether or not you really are the one chosen to bring the banana jello.... it's an unalterable recipe... grandma made it orange with whipped cream are you the one who received the mandate to change my family? get outta here... the bread will rise... Rhi's gone to smoke but she's saved her blonde hair and doll's stare for me... you wish you got this lucky... don't forget the turkey leave a stamp of Santa on your window to pass the time... pass the peas... butter my bread, the bread that rises... the bread that rises with the dead sun also... my turn to smoke

Askov, Finlayson & The Mines of Mora

I've been told:
that if you leave your keys at the bottom
of Lake Superior you'll get them again
the next time you swing around that hill
and your ears'll pop like a plummeting
stock. Being a northerner is like going
to bed with ice. You've just gotta wait
for the great thaw. Once you get used
to the gusts, or the construction, or the
calm, unobstructed views, you've still
got the good folk to get used to.
The ones who welcome fisherman
with gamy slabs of shit on bread
and a greasy handful of chips.
Ones who never thought after their
visits to the dentist
that it would end up like this.

The ones who are getting old,
and don't seem to get
our obsession with going North.
Why we peel back the highway
and are pulled the strongest way:
to the North lay the silence,
to the North rest the memorials
that memorialize nothing.
Where the mines dwell deep
within the woods,
and the roads hug the steep,
staggered curve of the
hilly neighborhood.

The night is cold,
and the lights in the lake
form a column in the sky,
like seven ivory discs
aligning for the big omen.
The barge is drifting
and tugging its lights
through the curtain of
the dark, long lake.
I've been told:
that with a black cup of coffee
you'll always make it home.
Past Askov, Finlayson,
stopping at Mora's mines,
which echoed a familiar fear
that we had traveled North
for the last time.

remedies

neosporin i need you
like i'm 5 years old
and i just tripped over
a water gun
on to the rocks
where i waited
with a mallard
for someone to find me
rubbing my fingers
between some leaves
catching some ivy
behind my knees
and hoping for
bathtime
expecting a dog
to sniff me out
like a shark drawn
to blood
he would find me
i thought
so i waited
there with
swampy sounds
all around
like i wait for
you neosporin
for your sugarcane
menthol goo
to embalm me

Melting Pot

A meltdown has occurred at the local mint.
Brass and nickel bubbles violently.
Copper rain stains the highway, as
dinner gets cold in a thousand different homes.
Expecting a fallout, the government
forfeits the idea of minting altogether,
going for new millenium alternatives:
hullabaloo vouchers for the kids and elderly,
insurance for the hardened insane,
jagged aluminum for bartering parents,
kicking around dumpsters to find diapers.
Look, maybe money was never the issue.
Money didn't start the fire. Money
never flicked that awful switch.
Officially, the government blames the people.
People, they say, are what drove money
quietly out of business. People ought to
respect the tender reserve of alloys &
silver metals that give their life meaning.
Tomorrow the mint will be nothing but silt.
Under the new provisions, government has
verified that it will be very difficult to live.
West of the river, the armory is stocked with
Xanax and crates of little bronze tokens.
Young children play by the well-oiled water.
Zeppelins fill the air, fueled by boredom.

For Days

The ex-lover of my ex-lover got me drunk.
Probably a subconscious/completely
conscious ploy by the bastard
to return her to her other,
to the rain-retreater, to the salt-miner,
to the terribly handsome stick,
to my toy piano fingers,
to the rock of my night, to me.
When truth entered the room,
barking and delirious,
people told me to let truth stay.
But the fucker was biting me
and that is not the way
I like to spend my Saturday.
So I shuffled off the stoop
of the room, pursued by a mood
killing diplomat, in full fanfare,
sweating and serious and
far too drunk for a night with me.
I threw my keys. Missed his knees.
And when when you came up,
and smudged my white shirt
with your eye-makeup,
I could not believe
that I, the stick,
had given you up.
The promise made its way
from the cup to our mouths,
and the seal was unbroken,
some of the bad undone.
In and out of my playground dreams,
washed with salt and the sun,
I just listened to your breathing:
light like the sleep of a baby.

Sandman

My mouth was stuffed with
cigarettes like sardines,
ashes pooling under my tongue,
filters lining my lilac gums.

Long Time Train

Long time train coming
through to the platform,
hissing among the kisses
of farewell's and it's been
so long's, screaming like
a bird shot down in the sky.
Long time train trucking
right on to the dawn,
where the cedars cry.
Last time we were
in this much debt,
I forget.
Long time lover's
singing wafer songs
while the locomotive
unloads its burden.
I brought a bar of
chocolate dipped
in salt.
Been saving it for today.
Welcome.
You aren't home.
You aren't alone.
The only scary
thing out there
are the children,
begging us to keep them.

What is calcium?

Who gives a shit, do you?
Let's talk about drugs.
Let's issue a new company motto.
Let's strip-search the human genome.
Let's write "DOG LOVES YOU"
in chalk on the kennel sidewalk.
How about them vandals?
They're pretty good with a skillet
and even better with some purpose.
Their bones are even made out of it.
Let's talk about sex this time.
It's important to be strong and good
at sex, or else you'll break.
This I learned from a book.
What they didn't put in books
they whispered to the vandal,

who left it tattered, dangling
off the chain-link fence, and
that was where I found calcium:
tough, condensed, collected,
sentenced to the bleak, bitter
and end-of-the-road
end of the poem that opens
a void blank as a glass of milk.

four me's

I am mendable
to my enemies,
expendable
to my country,
commendable
by those who don't
know me
and incredible
when I am alone
in a room with
you.

Kyle Died Twice When He Ate Peanut Butter On An Egg

He was allergic to both
and should have known better.

Look For You

When the children cry
with puddles in their arms,
I look for you.

When the dirty sweep
of leaves get trampled,
and form haughty maps
for me to follow,
I follow you.

When the barters
get bothered and
the clothes flake
off the scarecrow,
I flock to you.

When the weather
gets dumb and the
soaked bedsheets
get wetter,
I'm better to you.

Though now I'm undone,
my eyes crossed over
purple cheekbones,
with the magic receding,
and my logic fleeting,
still I look out for you.

Blessing

Holy is the lamb
soaked in gravy.

Heavy is the weight
of the carry.

Thoughts of you
still give me chills.

Thanks that I
can pay the bills.

exordium

I am Worst
for the job no one wants,
for the chlorophyll,
for the clean linens.

I am Worst
that dithers at the bat,
that dresses the weather
in blue and pink cozys.

I am Worst
at the mantle's lip-hair,
at the comfortable pivot,
leg-locked and overbooked.

I am Worst
teasing the embassies,
absolute ease in the hall,
significant armistice.

I am Worst
bar the home-cooking,
fearful of the bar,
drawn by a moth's shadow.

I am Worst
splayed against a train,
sand-drenched at the bay,
dripping with piss.

I am Worst
who sleeps entrenched,
who palms a wandering spider,
who awakens by the spring.

bathtime

i'm telling you
i've got eyes
that only see
what they look for
and i've been
bubbling in a bath
of regret feeling the
sweat that comes
floating out of the
soapy fen
in bubbles
magnifying
the terrible
sweet moments
that have clung to me
since my beginning
of memory
and when I
reach out my
hand to feel
the imprint of
importance on
the swirls of
my finger
they go pop

Time Isn't Mine

Well, I think there's a time

made for mid-morning birds

when the raspberry bushes

grow fresh maroon words,

and a golden coin sits

on the crisp skyward line,

but that time fears the fire,

that time isn't mine.

And I think there's a time

to abandon sweet dreams,

so swelled with imposters

they're not what they seem,

and instead sit forgotten

in the milky moonshine,

but that time's gotten tired,

that time isn't mine.

How I wish for a time

to hold my own hand

when the birds move along

and the shells fade to sand,

so I'll wait for the lilies

to bloom me a sign,

but that time's long expired,

that time isn't mine.

I believe there's a time

when the curtains are drawn

to beat back and turn on

your statues of dawn,

and the naked grass with

their proud tears combine,

but that time's in the mire,

that time isn't mine.

Yes, I hope there's a time

when our palace of leaves

gets torn and blown down

while a butterfly grieves,

and maybe just then

our faces could align,

but that time's gone on higher,

that time isn't mine.

good night fright

i'm gonna open you tomorrow
and feel around the place

get a feel for your phantoms
you know, fuck your motor

move over your bridge
tuck under your kennel

set the pieces at the table
kick wildfire

into your pretty muzzle
remember your number

and then, um,
fall asleep afterwards

decay okay

i started a poem
about sex
but i wasn't
thinking about sex
now i am
now i'm restless
now you want me
you now me want
i'm now restless
am i now
thinking about sex
i wasn't but
sex is about
a poem i started

Baby Owl Feet

still look
for
plenty
of
fur
to line
their
belly

sentriessentries

got a handle
on this slick manual
shift stick shit

got a raft
draggin on the highway
put your pictures away

now where
oh where could my
butterfly be?

oh how did i
scare the crow?
i'm on a slate

where nothing grows

am

glad that     we're
feeling
the s
       a
         me rain

Monsters Between My Teeth and in Other Dark Places

I'll crook my floss
around your ear
and whisper things
like you scare me
and you made me
my all and if you
don't leave now
i'll take a shower
and scream

All That Begins Today

Boston is a bubble of noise
and I am sick of noise.
I have missed everything
and even my own hands
seem to miss me.

The morning is sick in the belly
and I am its undertaker:
I blow the leaves,
I look up to the trees,
and see nothing but birds
welcoming me.

There is time now
to discover the rings,
to stack them vertically,
to spin them around and around
until my doubts buoy up,
and drown.

asbestos

deep inside the houses you can hear the hollow ring-ring of here-to-there things

it was every day

i clutched a frond, and from the frond came my fondness for the pond

i kept you in the spam folder

for months
and though
there are
click
other things
worth click
clicking
i can't click
convince my
click self
to click clear
it out

Poem

Never mind I'll find someone
else to plug in my hairdryer:
now plug your ears. Place

your elbow on your knee
and go somewhere else.
Follow the yellow-

throated warbler
to his nest in a tree.
Make a donation

to save our black sea.
Get interested
in your honeyed dreams.

reprise

the
open sounds
of morning
trickle
down
bricks
gradually curled
until they form
a nest
for a
home-hungry
bird.

Best Wishes

I would like a wild mountain pony.
I would like a cobbled little street to ride it on.
These are not my only wishes.
Popcorn would appear for every movie
in the theater premiering my memories
both forgotten and not, so I could live  it all again,
but this time with popcorn.
A cloud-stuffed bed for the perpetual,
fraught-with-friends summertime.
I would marvel at so much architecture
and sample every inn drunk as night.
All the damned dogs would be met with my bark.
Woof! Woof! How does it feel, fuckers?
I'd send for you to visit me by the pond.
There would always be bread
with which to feed the ducks.
Every day you wear a different plaid, flannel skirt.
I would lock myself away on the weekdays.
The fake things I sow would sprout up as real.
This discovery could land me in government.
I guess I've always wanted to win for a living.
Along with the pony, I would get four ferrets
and name them Earth, Wind, Water, and Dragon.
Dragon is my favorite of the ferret crew.
Through the center of my porch a waterfall pours.
In the back of my yard there's a well
that links to an underground river of money.
Every soul I know habits itself to a frame,
shoving for the most visible spot on the wall.
I would massage the soft, willing feet of angels,
eat soft pretzels every opportune moment,
not give a damn what’s on the television.
I'd earn accolades among my repugnant peers
and write poetry inspired by my ferrets
Earth, Wind, Water, and Dragon.
One of my poems would be about
the way they sleep so close together,
as if attempting to share a dream.
Then, at the zenith of my genius,
I'd be awarded a Fulbright.
Then I'd shoot myself outright.

The Story Was True

I tried to write a story about a swan.
I tried making it long, or allegorical, or refreshing.
I wanted it to be good as a piece of gum.
It turned out to be more of a cashew,
more of a walnut, macadamia sort of story.
It has variety, at least.
This poem is a party mix
but with no perfect punch of an opening line.
At least the story was true,
well, except for the swan part.
Everything else in the story fit,
but more loosely, like pajamas.
I tried to write a story about a swan
when I was trying to write a story
about you, and it looks like
I can't really do either, can I?

Millenia Ensnares

We were taken
out of our outhouses
and into the pews
where they slowly
hypnotized us
with an oozing vat
of hand sanitzer
and they gave us
welcome mats
with our last
names written
on them along
with a brand new
brand of fertilizer
chock full of
egg shells.

So.
That was
where I was
when the clock
dropped a dawn
above the clouds
and a white
circular jewel
disappeared
into the new dome
they had installed
just last year.

Song of Myself

I
I dress myself,
and what I adorn you shall adorn,
for the underwear I wear is the same as yours.

I loafe in the lilac-scented laundry... observing a strand of my hair.

VI
A child asked, What is your hair? pulling it from my head,
leaving it in stale clumpfuls around my feet.

Perhaps he thinks it morbid, or perhaps he thinks it dead,
but yet something tells me it is abounding and alive.

And still it seems to me now the shavings of my back yard.

XVII
I abandon original thoughts,
I adhere to the common thought and the good idea,
If my thoughts are not everything they surely are nothing.

This is a poem plucked from the wing of the globe.
This is the poem that has been written before.

XXV
The sun has a gun and will murder me,
but it does not know that I too have a sun,
rising and diving daily within me.

I hear the orbs and seizures of the universe.
I hear you whispering, O planetarium.

LII
I am large enough to fit in my bathtub,
hold nothing back from the present,
and send myself drifting in lacy jags.

I have left a message for you on the sidewalk,
Look for it between the cracks and in the gum.

Soon I will discover you, only later will I remember.
Lighting my fire just moments away,
I wait until the day you find me.

XIX
This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody but I will tell you.

Calm Keeping Lights At Middlebrook

See, my breath is a paw print etched into the glass.
A watermark on the postcard of the I-35W bridge.
Spanning its brave, unbroken metal over the dark
Blue so far from where I stand. Scattering my calm
As the wind wraps about my arms—nicking my cheeks—
I feel nothing short of the lights that surround me.

My awe for the swift-keeping green and my shame
For the rage-keeping red are rocks in a river next
To my joy for the infinite pouring over blue edges
Of the bridge. Even myself fizzling over the rim
At this moment, the wires could snap. The map unfolds
For the sound of tongue icing over jutted lips.

 Do be careful of that bridge—lovely as it is, it has a
History. Tonight I wait for the shining bullet of a star
To splinter my infrastructure. Staring out from
The window of Middlebrook, weaving the river
Like a ribbon between my fingers and watching the
Bridge—O blue bridge—I wait for you to bend at the 
knees.

An Editor's Note On My Editor

We met at an unfairly emotional time of both of our lives: I was bed-ridden with an illness born from my natural design, which is to love and feed off nothing but that love; he was coming to grips with the fact that he was an editor. The editor calculates success constantly. The editor rearranges ventricles to create a much prettier leaf. The editor pores over stars stamped into books and makes dwarfs out of them. We were not set to get along, but then again, much of what I never got along with became the flask for my elixir of personality. My editor is such a flask, mysteriously self-filling and fulfilling. I've borrowed from him greatly, whenever my cracked lips reveal their worn flaws, every time I'd disappear from myself, reappearing with the smallest pull from the flask, my editor. There is, I know it, a story to be told here, but my editor has just texted me asking me to tell the story about when we first met, and I am struggling to tell him it, so now my attentions should return undivided to my editor, like an undivided captain nodding towards the bow. 

My Editor Comes Back Looking For Another Mistake

I was making fruit salad
when the bastard knocked.
I blanked, asked who is it?

Knock, knock, stet.
The wood was harsh.
It was winter, and cold

in certain parts of the world.
I let him in, and the wind
hammered the walls.

I went back to the salad,
dicing cherries and whatnot.
He laid his walking stick.

Through the thick current
of electronic licks
from the idle radio,

I could hear him wheezing.
So I gave him my journal
from the bottom of my heart,

and he made a puny fire.

Releasing My Editor To The Wild

Stumbling down the stone stairs,
my editor hardly had time
to mumble goodbye.
He slipped out of sight.
I was eating an apricot.
I threw one at him
so that he
just like me
would have something
good to eat.

On Sleeping Nearly Naked In Another's Guest Bedroom

It's either the house
or the birds making noises.

Don't charge your phone,
you're a monster.

Have a glass of water.

The sink is down the hall.

I'd bring it to you,

but I'm in the process

of installing security cameras
in every room of the house,

so that when the spring
comes, we'll find out

if it was the house,

or just those damn birds.

Wring About It

If i offer you a coffin
and let you
pick the music
at your funeral
can i throw away
the rest of your
invitations?
i'd like to attend
alone
and not because
i'd cry
or write
or touch you
in your sleep
i'd just like an empty room
in which i can
think
about you

Angel

From the way you carry yourself
it was inevitable, the big split
between your beauty on the right
and whatever else is left.

Rail 135, Rail Away

The water spreads out before me,
moving away from me also,
a flat-lining hurricane
chasing a late-afternoon train
well into the pit of evening.

This is where I am, this is where
I make my absolute stand.
This is where I am out of cigarettes
and the sun filters through the straw.
This is the announcement, the attempt,
the withdrawal, the consent!

These are the woods, the rocks,
that by the end of day will fill me up,
and make inquiries about how
my portfolio's been filling up.
"Funny you should ask, wild woods
and isolate rocks, about my portfolio,
because in fact you are filling it up."
And that is how it would go
if I could talk with woods and rocks
who fill me up with company.

And if I could talk to trains,
I would make a few citizen requests.
I would ask it to stop and allow
me to ordain the dilapidated barns.
I would stop to baptize the islands,
teased by the New England spray.
I would order a resounding silence
of noise rattles, and love rattles,
and rattles of both love and noise.
Because there is no love loud enough
to stop this train, it only goes — 
in lack or for lack of love,
it goes and goes and takes me with it.

Out with the sun!
Out with the marshes and tracks,
with the harbor and the breeze,
with the flutes, tams, and squeals,
out with the rocks and trees!
All is out with the secret of me,
unintelligible, transparent, which is me,
the secret and all good with it is out.

Now I know what it is to sleep hard,
have you slept hard, lately?
Have your dreams pull'd you inwards,
have you explored the vacuum of your belly
using the lamp of your imagination,
has the mine ever fall'd in over you?
To say that your dreams
are an escape frightens me.
Your dreams may escape from you
but O there is no escape.

Whose treehouse on the hill cannot be found?
I spot it only for a second, then it flits backwards.
I think it unlikely I should find it again.
I am so high above the pavement
I think it unlikely I should remember how to drive.

Everywhere, I have driven and been driven!
To Stillwater, thru sixninetyfour and thirtysix,
Thru to Marina, up thirtysix overlooking the Croix,
To Duluth, screaming up thirtyfive E with stories,
Down to Shakopee, looping down to onesixtynine,
West to Watertown, following everything in front of me,
East to Wisconsin, ninetyfour cradling us to Madison,
Then to Eau Claire, on to Chicago, to Indianapolis,
More cities, more lights! More of Kentucky, Nashville,
Louisville, thru Tennessee and blazing seventyfive,
From top to bottom Georgia! To the sun, Florida!
Now from Boston, now onto Philadelphia,
Every state I encounter and see again
I see every state, and remember affection,
because it was me who first placed that affection.

Now here we are in New Haven,
the sun glinting off the aluminum railway
that's headed the other way.
I am a gliding confessional
that would never spill a drink.
Don't you miss when you had secrets?

the longer that I stay in bed

the world retreats into my head
the longer that I stay in bed

I say "get out, no room for you,
don't you have worldly things to do?"

the world says "boy! the time is soon
when daylight washes down the moon"

I said O.K and read a book
though I couldn't see I look'd and look'd

for a way to start the night anew
or, maybe, something worldly to do

shower case

sometimes i like to shower
when i sing. i like babbling
over the heavy plunky thuds
of water rushing off the slide
off my shoulder. i like
the shorter songs when i sing.
and sometimes,
when my voice is no good for it,
i start whispering the names
of everyone i know, repeating
them until a song appears.

draw close, stay long

why doubt?
wander your halls.
leave a streak
on your skylight.
be known
by the nymphs
of neptune.
speak only
to advance,
leave only
where you are
to advance.
tickle the heights.
baffle the batter
at plate.
feed yourself.
do magic
in daylight,
turn madly,
pray no one,
and stand
in the spotlight
of the law.

to the melodic professional

your flutes are futile.
your clarinets, a knot.
your cool-breath jazz
is fogging your window.
they are the lullaby overture
to your wasted afternoon.
your pipes and tambourines
thread the silk of your dreams.
do not be afraid to hear it,
do not be afraid to hand it
out to people on the street.

poetry meeting

who brought the doughnuts?
who has any idea how to spell donuts?
what the hell is going on,
what dots are being connected here,
who wrote this appendix?
whose poem is this anyway?

this is the part of the comment
where i'm going Socrates on your ass
if Socrates had a great-great-however-great-
grandson that made a name for himself
asking bears about the pursuit of happiness
and ended up being a joke on the Animal Channel
like every other joke on the Animal Channel
that made me want to be a poet in the first place,
maybe.

i'm counting up your ambitions
and so far my right hand's got it covered
so my left hand can circle the spots
where you forgot your head.

this is the part of the comment
where i'm going Cinderella on your ass
if Cinderella somehow begat a poet
that could shine and polish circles
around that bitch.

thinking i'm allowed a potty break
(to smell something that owns up to what it is,)
i think of this also:
if ever i am asked why i spell my name
kaleb (worst) instead of kaleb worst
when i make my literary appearance,
i'll say this in response:
kaleb worst lives in boston,
kaleb (worst) lives in fairyland.
and maybe they're slowly becoming
the same person, but kaleb (worst)
doesn't know that & it's good enough for me.
and when i look in the mirror,
reflecting my vanity back at me,
boy do I terrify.

i'm back and thinkin' dunkin'.
this is the part towards the end
where someone spits their autograph on the wall
and is never seen or read by us again.
i'll wait until it's anybody but me.
but no one is or ever has been kaleb (worst)
so thank god, wasn't me.

Graveyard Shift

I dug a trough with your bottom lip
and made a florid jungle out of it.
Smeared a minty balm over your white
milky thighs, and spent the night.

Tucked and tangled in the willow,
I taunted rest and rest did not follow.
The orchid sky and the grenadier grapes
were too bright and loud for any escape.

Though if someone handed me a sphere of sleep,
swirling with ebony and moon-white sheep,
I would spread it like ashes to the yawning sea.
The dark is too big, and stillness is misery.

Nymphess

i ate all the bark
off your bark dress,
and spit out the
earth that once
covered you.
the moon was
in good form
as i took the form
of a priest
consecrating
your open peony.
i prayed yr pollen
would drive
the honey
from the hive,
and, thinking
yr rainbow
would never
touch
the ground,
i put a seed
into the universe,
waking
for rain.

ruined carpets & ecstasy

i heard you lost
yr virginity
while i was
cleaning up
the mixed nuts
that one of us
knocked
to the floor

with skins
of almonds &
macadamia nut
clippings overflowing
out of my hands

i threw them away
next to yr used
condom &
only 2 or 3 times

have i been happier

This Too Was Once A Valentine

A girl once touched me
and I touched her back,
pressing my palm
where the tangle gets ugly.
It was Valentine's Day,
so I bought her
a salt lick
and now she's
licking her way
to an early fame.

the one where the pyromaniac drinks a glass of water

i lit my hair on fire
this evening
and smelled burnt marshmallows
condense to a syrup
in the cotton-squall of my hair.
rising to the occasion,
I pincered my thumb and the fore-
finger and squashed the flame,
burning a bump into my knuckle
that I would later scrape
against the scythe
of my nail,
devastating my equilibrium,
trashing my polished composure
and eating away
at my half-eaten half-sore
luminous body.

help i hurt myself for sport and now i sport no more

for jabs

i took a shower today
after hearing of your Rockstar status

and brushing the soap hard
against the ridge of my jaw bone

i thought about how obvious it was
that your number was 13

and someone should have stopped you
but no one stopped you

& now it's serious life is no sport
sport & your body will be what it

is see i smoke cigarettes (i'm tough)
i know what my body will be

CNN adores you
you're a damn unlucky icon of bravery

i'd keep an eye on you but i'm sure you'll do fine
without me, without me, jack

isn't this what you needed to hear
go it your own, look both ways before crossing the street

don't roll in the shoulder lane
and play sports if you must!

CNN & myself have a barrel of questions
like whatcha gonna do jack

when you get your body back?
whatcha gonna do jack with my prayer?

would you always blame the dead

i.
what's it smell like in the room?
smells like pumpkins wilt and mushy
smells like sticky slash stained laundry
smells like burnt marshmallows and lice
smells like the crackle of a fire sprite
smells like the sun straddling venus
smells like the breast pocket of a poet
smells like the breast meat of Ra
smells like gas-refracted rainbows
smells like harriet tubman's neck
smells like the rolling tide of a fever
smells like a wildebeest out of water
smells like a church ice cream social
smells like wanting heroin

ii.
i can remember the smell
of fall, the faint emptiness
in the breath of the air

but i wouldn't blame the dead
you know?

they're not messed up in this mess
they don't turn different colors

sure, it's hard to know where you're going
without leaning on the dying

but lean on a tree
and let the leaves fall in your hair

iii.
would you always blame the dead?
i can think of a time or two
where that's not such a bad idea

like blame them
for our obvious money problems
or for the many mysterious
holes in our wall

but would we always?
it's just been working
too damn well

like that time during sex
when you lost it, baby, i'm sure
the dead stole it from you

but what the dead take
you can always get back you know

poem from the safety of an elevator

i.ts all o.k now
we.re warm
and i kn.ow
you wanted .me
to.come with.you
but it feel.s.s s.o good
to be fa...ll...ing up
forget.ting yo.u
...
a
n
d
e.a.t. ing th. ...silence....

know now or soon

know now or soon
that life is good
that there's little
use for secrets
because the
truth
will always
protect you
and that
it's undeniable
you're lovely
and not in
the least bit boring
because
i used to sometimes think
i was the only
one who saw that life
is good
and now we both stay
up for hours
just to know it
and isn't that a blessing

Where The World Quickly Ends

Where the world quickly ends, there's a dock that sheds
For sake of my body or from the tumultuous water,
Which is everywhere, like the wolves (also everywhere).
Ducks make noises too, like distant mortar shells
Showering the cattails. A horse trots into the fog 
Curling gray and soft. Darkness hangs in the wings.

I'm only here now that I've stolen the wings
Of a vulture, what did you bring? The earth sheds
without a care for our contrariety. Speak before the fog
Bites its tongue and starts to bleed water!
Already the wetness has thinned the egg shells
Of the platypus. The rain retreats from nowhere.

What did you bring? Is it ivory? Up there
The skies are peeling from the madness of wings,
False as wallpaper plastered with ceramic shells.
The bison are frightened. Groundhogs groan and shed
Their long shadows, running for the mouth of the water,
Untraceable against the pervasive fog,

Which is the same slinking wall of fog
That's been roaming through folds of air.
Only the whales have no fear. They break the water
Noiseless as the shuffle of an owl's wings.
Bodies of mosquitoes are piling behind the shed.
I snatched the scales off an armadillo's shell,

What did you bring? If you lick a seashell,
You can taste salt and mercury. Lick the fog
And taste death. The jaguar cried when I shed
Its clever spots— I could be anywhere.
The dusk sails over with silent, tremulous wings,
And the clouds, finally emptied of water,

Have disappeared. In the cold mirror of the water
I see the moon encased in a starry shell.
The wolves staggered, drunk on the smell of wings,
And on their fleeting limbs they surrounded the fog.
My scales and spots were no help, they didn’t care.
The dock collapsed beneath murk and bloodshed.

The Earth’s water was quickly shed.
Stranded seashells form a silent prayer.
The globe rests in the wings of the fog.

I Am Never Too Far From You In Life

I.
Whitman, you hearthrob! you wrangler of perfumes, of plain sights and fantasies!
Every time you visit me, I greet you a new person in myself, lost in your fantasies!
You looked toward me, with stern and big beard you glanced my hapless way,
I'm writing for now to report to you that I have caught the glance!

And that through me your glance will diverge into a thousand more glances,
Not stopping for route of yacht or jet, taking only the river and road for ourselves,
Going city to city, packed into the borrowed vans, seeing the clouds outside Louisville and the strawberry bushes leaning up against the barns.
We have seen your poems in the weeds, tangling up the lines.
(Though I never mentioned a word, or made any move to remark upon the signs that you, Old Man, were with us and that loneliness was no limitation.)
Only with my eyes, being all that I know, could I whisper your poems.

I'm running out of breath!--
As everyone runs out of breath now and again,
As now and again our breath rushes back towards us,
Like the hurried sun rushing towards the dwindling afternoon,
Like the hurried sun retreating back from morning!

It is difficult to feel you beneath the narrow cracking sidewalk,
I look for you beneath the bricks and at least you still are soft,
Since the concrete has been laid out for you.

Yet with my harmonica, my fingers, the songs of my thoughts, I sing for you,
And long for you to visit me in the place known neither by those who have come before me, nor all of those who will follow after,
The broad, beating place in the strength of the hold,
The long, light road where in my soul I hold you,
You Whitman I love and go from city to city trailing circles within you.

II.
I left the Paramount on a drift of hunger, wanting of egg, bacon, bagel, cheese, waiting for the ovens to warm and the unlocking of doors,
Hesitating on a cigarette, first against the idea of its usefulness, of its utility, and whether or not I would be any good for that hungering use,
Then after striking a match sharply and swift, hesitated secondly upon the contents of my warped belly, full of hot air and writhing things,
And decided it did no good to wait for things to arrive, possibly moving slowly down from the horizon toward the road, or possibly not moving at all,
Toward myself who decided instead of depending on the strength of ovens or the swiftness of a cigarette, would instead preserve the morning in a balm of sweetness,
Who tapped into the bones of the dirt and the roots of the brick,
Finding you once again where you promised that we would meet,
In the sun that never settles on setting or feels content to rise only forever,
The sun in that moment moving one of us, from fleeting me to you, in the place I for the while of my life will never be content to know.

And while I slept, my stomach was full and my organs were in full song.
And I would need to die before I could forget you.

Time Spent

Time spent between kisses
At lips' touch quickens,
The soft feel of fingers
Shrinking winter into minutes.

Ms. Frugal

The cameras see Ms. Frugal coming—
She grabs a cart that doesn’t creak.

Ms. Frugal blows past the asparagus

and leafy lettuce, wet from the mist.

Ms. Frugal places a bag of pistachios
deep in the seat of her purse,

making her way through the melons,
her cart silent among the mangos.

Ms. Frugal sniffs a papaya,

pressing her fingers over its temples,

expecting the spongy walls to crumble.
Everything aligns to Ms. Frugal’s eye.

She slowly crawls her car home

and places her papaya in the bread bin,

where she hides last week’s lean pay.
The windows are open as the moonlight goes

winding through the loom: Ms. Frugal silently
weaves a forest green afghan of money.

misgiving

MAIN STREET

stillwater

f
l
o
w
i
n
g
with water

up
to your
knees

(and no bark on the trees)

fear me

i am
a menace
i obey all
the rules
i run away to
hurt people like
you like
you like you

Storyteller

She hasn't eaten many ice cream cones today.
She usually eats two, maybe three, a day,
and has a dog for a son who loves her.

She is always awake. If you catch her asleep
it's the middle of the day. And she
takes an hour to get ready in the morning.

I've rarely seen her among snow and leaves,
yet I've met her often among quilted clouds.
She wears clothes brighter than paint.

You've never seen the flowers like the flowers
that follow her wherever she goes.
For someone who hardly sleeps and eat
she sure knows how to tend to a garden.

She'll tell you the truth in a different language
and then smile in a kind of way that makes you
want to believe that there may just be people in
this world that make you want to go sky-diving.

Troy

In the city of Troy
sits a young boy
who holds a dove
in the ribs of his love.

peonies in the shower

i opened my eyes during prayer

to discover that i was awake,
reached for my noiseless phone
then vaulted toward the door
past my shivering cupboards
of oak and chrome

and morning was over.
noon flew against the window
like a cardinal with vertigo
and to recover from the
suddenness of my day
i undressed alone

without music or thought
and as the dirt ran off
my feet and snaked away,
i began to feel a warmth,
that became so much
i lost my home.

Prayer to Ra (On a Clear Night)

Tonight we can only begin to thank you, Ra,
for showering us with your heavenly light,
and we pray to ask you for safe passage
past that street name we are unsure of,
that one, over there, that Tremont Street.
Ra, we ask though we have not asked
for too many sunless nights, forgive our
absence in your holy name. Our great Ra,
please give us the strength to forge this trail.
Ra, please give us the wisdom to remember
the humble names of these brilliant streets.
We love you even when you are imperfect,
like when you betray us to our enemies
and insist we support your wars overseas.
We understand so little about you, Ra,
but you understand everything about us.
We understand that you are not perfect,
that you are human much like your messengers,
who in subtle and encompassing ways
deliver the hope born out of your image.
You are the halo and sun of this clear night;
and we love you for all the glorious things you do
which we could not, namely your divine ability
to be an eagle hatching out of the earth.
We revere the strength and light in you,
and the strength and light you give to us.
Please carry us swiftly through the light.
Amen.

Poem (Your Next Favorite Doll, Or Something)

I tried to straighten out the hair
Which curled every time I looked away

How I fuss'd and coo'd over every tear

That sewed itself shut in day
You poem were my flower-eyed doll!

The rock living to be thrown
To sink where the darkest fish crawl
Until then appears a stepping stone!
The farthest buoy in the ocean

Sailing beyond the pale port of orbit

Bobbing along waves of notions

And with the birds diving toward it

You poem I freely gave away
To mostly ones who so loved sleep
That they lost their urge and will to play
With the doll no one asked to keep
The fullest cup of the softest drug
The emptiest nest in the morn
The loudest chirp from the greenest bug
Though the stained leaves are forlorn
The palest color that heralds the sun
And a waterfall with no back door
You may be lost the minute you are begun
But oh poem I could not let you go

Dear Reader

We are a rare kind of soap opera
that airs only at night, every night

we are the bells ripped by the wind.
You are the creek in the brambles.

A sling for the fracture in my marble.
Reader, my mobile, patiently spinning.

I live on bacon, coffee and cigarettes
but don't say goodbye

because I mostly live for myself,
my self and all its bounties belong to you.

If I catch you reading other poems
let's not be awkward or monologue.

I could look the other way;
find another page to itch and bother.

I am a carpenter with no miracles.
I am sure that sometimes
we stare at the same star unknowingly.

Illuminate

The Dark Ages were dark
even with a sun in the sky,
so maybe there's a way
that you'll bring yourself to light.

Massage

The quickest route to love
is a lengthy back massage,
the heat of aching hands
kneading all the world away.

Elevator

The smell of warm bodies
in an empty elevator
is the smell of something
terrible about to happen.

Engine

I like to sleep most while flying,
often just before take-off,
and if I ever get the timing right,
I could have an earthquake of a dream.

Christmas

I love how you insist,
even when the tree is barren-
brown and probably dead,
on hanging the ornaments.

Faint

You emptied out your mind
leaving behind you a visible trail
before realizing that the ground
was the last thing you wanted to feel.

Father

My father is braver than yours,
because he got poison oak at Fort Sill,
and jumped across the Devil's Churn,
and he leaves when he has to.

Coniferous

I pulled out a fistful of pines
and gargled some green air,
finding ways to pass the time
as nothing changed around me.

Morning

Do you still think all mornings are beautiful
if this morning seems nothing more
than the night painted with gray light,
balancing like a nest on a thin branch?

Waterpark

In the pool there floated a magic carp
who didn't care that my clothes were wet,
and as he wriggled in my heavy arms
a waterfall swept me out of consciousness.

Mr. Gravity

Mr. Gravity tried to make a fool out of me,
and though it sure was nice to feel the ceiling
with my hands, he let me down eventually,
and to be honest I wish we had never met.

God

The morning after everyone's left His house,
God gets to scrubbing His floor, spit-shining
His china and dousing His lot in Spring.
Who could deny such a host as that?

Girl Next Door

If there ever was a girl next door
I would drown the basement in color,
and spend more time on the sidewalk
looking every which way away from her.

Papa

Papa used to squeeze the life out of me
although he never noticed how badly
his alarm clock kept me up at night,
and when he sings in church I hear him.

Family

I have a family who barters with food
in exchange for listening intently
and who worships whatever doesn't change
and I think they love me, too.

Nana

Nana tells me not to sag my pants
because I don't want to get raped
but I still eat her french toast
and wear a hat when she isn't around.

2011 (year of movement)

I breathed January through cotton

Cold as it was and unfit for fanfare

I kept to my script watched carefully

For signs of quivering change that

Refused to be drawn out

But kept clinging to the walls that

Bored me I bought presents and

Forgot them in the closet had no

Use for my own weather when

The skies were so dark

But in Florida the sea rose to meet

The lightning clattering the bells

Announcing March to the ones

Who had no more fear of rejection

And then she said yes

Enter Boston for the first glorious

Time! And all the mystery of my

Days keeping me fiery-eyed and

Fixed upon a life that I lived and

Somehow lost

The eyes of May wide as the woods

I stole away to releasing me from

Myself and all my stoic ways that

Now pay no mind to my increasingly

Erratic patterns

That quilted at first under the spare

Light of the stars in honest love

For you my beautiful other even

Knowing that they would one day

Dwindle and be gone

Even the fireworks of July saddened

Me to the thought that we were no

More than that blinding yes colorful

Like no other but I could not ignore

Your smile more so

It is difficult for me to recall the

More elegant details of August

I was drunk soon as you left and

Little changed for what felt so long

‘Till I returned to Boston

Who ordered this red prison to

Shackle me and who disposed of

My bones in the harbor and why

No matter the way that I try it

Can't I sleep?

It’s clear now I write Bad Poetry

It’s o.k so long as I got my nerve

It’s not so bad in October if you

Close your eyes and picture

Someplace else

But while I was doing that I

Missed the leaves and when

The snowless lawns of home

Failed to fix everything I knew

The choice was mine

So Boston is now my far-coast

Home and the seeds are stale

In the fertile ground I get lonely

Without you and the ocean around

But it’s just my kind