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.