excess story

gluttony the forgotten sin
looks longingly out the window

at our diffuse anemic litter
the state school budget bulges

i pull my belt another notch
tighter who has a lighter

(what it means to be held
back at the breaking point)

why don't we all jump
give the abyss a big sloppy

kiss and forget about it
well forget about it

there are faculties at work
carrying you when you

can't even face the facade
or when the academic filing squad

at the ready watches you
when you are eating breakfast

there's a notion of living
that your feet are the messiah

delivering you from back there
bringing ever forth

your body glass-blown
by the flames of your soul

is that an hourglass in your eye
or has the clutch flown off

your irrigated ducts
i never struggled in the sand pit

i learned how to eat sand
and spit out the bad parts

you must pay attention
to the whispering

of those familiar faculties
they have not fallen

they are not frightening
they are your friends

following their own feet
battling the same shade

brothers of bad decisions
and keepers of the keys

to the same home
i hereby decree

that this perpetual emergency
be flushed with a hug

and that nothing
nothing

will fill the empty
like the nothing we do

only minding my own business

i'm out to make my hygienist jealous

the next time i'm staring at a bunch
of dolphins wearing shades i'll regale
her with my many tales of bravery
before she finds my next cavity

i want banana silk on my gums
and i am going to want more of it

i want to hang out with the dolphins

do i even have an appointment?
with the dentist i mean
i'm sure the dolphins will accept me
as who i am, whenever i am

but are they waiting for me

the dentist, the hygienist,
bent over the reclining chair
little silver tools in hand
ready to fix me up again

i think not
they probably fix a lot of teeth
and unless i give them a ring
i might not get the chance
to see her rosy cheeks turn redder

i forgot red is not the color of envy
it is the color of outrage
i want to make my hygienist wonder
what the hell happened all this time

it could be that by the time
i make the call
my mouth will have torn asunder

and i will have to ask my dentist
to call 9-1-1

Pine Trees And Vertices

Now that the way ahead
has been placed upon my head,
my wandering eyes have turned
towards this thicket of thorns.

I may not be gone for long,
but until I have found my song
this adventure will not adjourn.
It may be the reason I was born.

Melody

Spring delivers another dousing of pollen.
A trickle of blood through cob-webbed canals.
A tattoo: I Don't Deal In Absolutes.
The drift of possibility, which is hope's gift.
The song has woken. Silk voices and brass
of pearl ascend from my shadow,

matching my every move with splendor.
The pressure of it is immense. In my ribs
a mallet reanimated is letting loose, striking
every various note of wake up, don't let go,
get going, nice try, time to go, and don't cry, 
playing the music of being alive.

Vanish

Behind the curtain, dust from various evenings are mingling,
and the bright sails are flanked by three promised words:
Special Export Beer. On the rug a cocoon swathed in
a yellowjacket-yellow blanket grunts, turns over.
An electric flower burns blue over by the corner.
The lights have little voices, they remember everything
from the moment you flick the switch. Whatever is left
of a candle won't let go of the air. Who goes there— 

I used to wish that no one would ever disturb me.
Now I want nothing except I stop disturbing people.
What can I be without disturbing people.

The jar beside the back door has refilled quickly.
Seems the days have not been getting any easier;
the day to quit does not seem any closer.
Though I note a certain levity behind locked doors,
I am crooked to comfort, and have a certain itch.
The content ones sleeping may stir or dream
but if I unbolt the door they will not object,
even if I am leaving and returning all night,
refilling, replaying, awakening, disturbing no one.
Who says I'm not the happiest ghost of my household?

whatever is missing

Make sure you're clocked— 

nevermind. wrong mode 

again. i wake to a knock

on my door and it's a driver

asking why the store is 

locked and dark. i said

i have no idea and please

leave, i have work at 6

and fell back asleep,

imagining the empty

store and the board,

filling up with orders

that no one will see

or receive.

Before you go home,

gather up the trash.

hey, here's a spatula.
the butter is looking lean.

i will be the one to retrieve

whatever is missing.

the gab of corporate apology,

i have become fluent.

if you want to get short with me,

i will find myself a stool.

sad to say it 

but anything you throw at me

will be caught in the soapy net

of my burst bubble.

Thank you for all of your hard

rights when the way ahead

looks downright impenetrable,

thank you for showing up

and not throwing up.

thanks to the disappeared,

who know little of the showers

cast down on me. like hell

i'll quit. each day to myself

creates an irreparable distance.

the hum of greasy machines

are the only company

on nights i am summoned

to clear the board alone.

Toy Soldier

Toy soldier, hand over your nuts
and bolts. You have been pacing

and making everyone nervous.
Here's a beanbag chair.

I'll be working on my posture.
No you don't have to watch

but it would be nice if you could
STOP with your moaning.

Let me have a turn at the watch,
it's my turn to make everyone nervous.

Toy soldier, assistance please.
My doctor has advised me

not to reach too far behind me.
Wind up this key stuck in my back,

and make sure you twist hard enough
to march me into tomorrow.

love has cold hands

and I— 
the slightest
bit surprised— 

felt them
on my neck
when i lied

My Lonesome Agenda

Though my weaknesses include numbers and laziness, I have kept myself busy calculating the evens and odds of this quandary. My arms are bruised by boxes, my poor ox bones, folding over each other into an inward hug. This cloven crush (it is so stubborn) keeps driving deeper and deeper into my chest. I make a stew out of the hundred things I have failed to do. Serve it in little sauce cups next to the steaming heap of excuses, freshly cooked up. Did you suppose yourself lucky to be with someone? It is as lucky to be still alone, when you have so many chances to get it right. Get it? This space between us, it's warm. Getting warmer. Step away from where the gestation takes place: it is too much for one person to come in contact with; it will sweep you into the creation. The parts of you that are borrowed, did you ever think they would make their way back to you? Has I will give them back ever quelled the misery of standing naked in the middle of the street, turning: east, north, south, west in search of the hands that tore the cloths from your body? I have been like that before, in lecture halls and between walls that I swear were closing in on me. Not naked of course, but sparse. I wrote small reminders on even smaller bits of paper: Get it. Today I wear a patch just above my left hipbone that pumps me full of lovely images throughout the day, curbing the hunger. My elders all warn me to stop smoking the burning bush, because they are deadpan serious He will have business again with us someday. Business sags— business booms— business it stays either way. This life is labor. Still I hunger. My frozen instincts have been wiggling their big toe. The vertebra that goes against the grain, like the lone bat who veered right while the colony flew left, calls out for a solution. Something living grazes behind the dilapidated barn of my back, and should it ever spark, there will be not one moon—but four. Get going, cries the sparks. Get busy, cries the business. My smile is taut. Got a light? Strangers and I weave parables, we make each other's day (though my days have all been made). I gestate their stories, chisel their name into the monument, and walk the opposite direction. In the mass, disparate cloud of voices, I hear the inklings of an answer. Get started on the grand invention before you find it's been invented already. Get lazy with your conversations, false with your kindness, or careless with your brain, and you'll find that you're not so different. Your face flushes for anything. Dear me, (I'm afraid) you're not all that you think you are. The only thing that matters now is that you are moving on your own two feet. Box this quandary up and stick it in the warmer for a while. Better to be forgotten than to go cold or bad (trust me). You've forgotten what it's like to be scraping the gutter for a chance at peace. In such a rush to repeat this track? You know the words (sing it yourself). The shadow across the moon when the sun starts to rise, that's where it's at. Not in this life, sparks. Not on my time, business. Standing in the middle of the street, I see all of the beautiful faces, perpetually turning away. A shot in the dark is not wasted if you aim for the dark. A drop in the bucket will fill the bucket eventually. Skipping stones may one day make a bridge.  Dear me, by now do you get it?

Somebody's Son

Evening falls through my fingers
and shadows spill like liquid
behind my reflection.

This night I allow no more
whimpering for what else,
extending toward answer.

As mother always says,
you can do anything so
long as it's not forever.

The trains rumble,
spirited by the crazy notion
that love is locomotion.

I refuse to acknowledge
the outcry of my own
reflection. This face,

stowing my Father away,
sticks out a stitched tongue
and returns a smile.

I know whose eyes those are.
I must be loco to hope
that one day, on the coast,

I will dash over hard, wet sand,
and scream what I am—
a drop from the ocean's eye.

My love has taken me everywhere,
you knew all along you were even there,
I have done my best to be a good one.

If I should trip just before
the moment, violently
shattering all of my teeth

and shearing the tip of my tongue—
well, you guessed it. I will get back up,
because I am somebody's son.

Observation Wheel

Though I am stuck on this ferris wheel

of trodden fortune, my jolly roger

still flies with the gusto I'm after.

The last thing I need is an emergency.

A jump from car to car, brains below

on the pavement, which I admit

from here look a lot like art.

I'm gonna be king of the ingrates!

Brand me with the company spoon,

see how tricky it is, like wearing a suit.

Treading water's good where there's water.

Where we're going, we don't need lies,

not even the ones for ourselves.