This Is Too Much New

Silhouettes slapping ghost railway cars,
Families on the bluff, cans in the ditch,
A shadow trail into the frail forest.
Fireflies of insidious delight pepper
The scope of the forest.
The uphill path, but also others.
Until the Lake arrives, temporary ocean,
Winding around like a carribean clock.
And then comes the soul of All-Time,
Silver-Dragon of Nature, which was a lie
Before now, he once stood with naked scales.
Now he has told me many tragic tales.
The Lake turns Silver-Purple, it only makes
Sense now that these were the colors of my school:
I am a firework over reflection of the moon.
Oh, but they have nothing to do. This is too much—
My knees, fallen trapeze, gone down to the mud.
My ass is muddy. It’s probably from when I was
Nearly crying on the ground. I get no satisfaction
In choking on my own leech of regret.It was a most

Terrifying
Beach, too many randy winds, too much sorrow—
I thought I wouldn’t be lost until tomorrow.
I melted out of the leaves: I wanted to believe
That nothing was stopping me from being stuck in between.
Where are they now, to have left the room, a blazing porch?
Like Billy Pilgrim, I went unstuck in time,
And every time I rambled into darkness, I met the moon,
A bald lioness over the canopies, loud down towards the pack of wolves.
Look, I only wanted to quit asking for you.
I hauled my phone over, my eyes cotton, I cannot move.
Pull me. Probe me around the perimeter of the bowl,
Where at the bottom I’ll sleep until my tongue is cold.
World so quiet you’d expect church mice to cry.
But they are stronger than that now:
They’ve been through Time,

They have incredible senses of smell,
And a tendency to run through shit
Before clearing the mammoth trees of my pilgrimage.

This Is Too Much New

Huge, tarry holes in the winding road.
Light out of giant windows, dancing
With who-knows-what feeling in the driveway.
All defenses down. Stars going down
In fear of too much of a perfect moment.
Clouds coalesce with our cool breath.
Moment, in lights-out stillness, soon lost,
Lost in clouds, in new paralyzing questions.
Handstands of voiceless frustration.
Sentences chipped away by plush,
Shy boy fantasies. Piss in the underbrush.
Two inches was never quite enough,
Not for the impaired, not for this queer
Who stutters to the honest moon.
Conversations under a chapel-ceiling
Clinking like dishes,
Swinging like an empty hour of boyhood.
We are heady, heavy and rambling fools.
The next morning we find out everything went wrong.
Lingered and then left, having cleaned
Out the grime of our hushed mistakes.
Walking out the door I imagined some more.
Still, I can’t waver those questions—
Are we having fun, what could I have done:
Why am I so surprised.

Anticipation Hours

This is a seizure of centuries old.
A Halloween sans masks or drinks,
Only ocular migraines when the phone rings.

Bar on the refrigerator, empty balloons
Tied to the door. It is an ordinary Saturday.
Dizzy ordinary, truly hungry.

I have never seen the face of a party.
It has been stuffed in the dark, painted
Neon-orange for jack-o-lantern effect.

Wide eyes! Orange mouths, shouting
Into the darkness of the sick cave.
Then out comes a brilliant cockatoo.

I pick up the carved battering stick.
Take aim at the paper mâché—
and out comes you, you, you.

Have You Ever Been

Denim-jacket wanderers

Bearing dry fruits and lint

Look for a sandwich.

They have vices

I have them too.

The booming bass

Of the dying city

Scores the mood—

A great woof.

Words are said

Between them and me.

They wander

To the bus stop,

Wait unseen.

I watch them though,

While a folded bill

Burns a hole

In my denim pocket.

Anemic Rain

I cannot sleep while you still stir.
The soft rain does not scare me,
Not with its silver fingertips.
But a broken hug breaks bodies down,

Hallways drown in morning sweat.
Shadows bless the sad face.
I refuse my body that fails me so.
My body vaults itself toward

The door of some treasured cove;
Floor wet to the marrow, it seems
There are no ways to circumvent the rain.
A single toe dipped in the pond,

A single bee braving the promise of the flood.
I cannot move everywhere I'd like to,
Unrooted I am to you— Oh dancing plant,
Thirsty: A stupid yawn sets in.

The rain comes in thin sheets of burgundy,
Disappointment drips out of my feverish ear.
Then comes fish-eyes, golden strands of hair,
A rainbow thick as a stack of cards.

Red Rover

Red rover, red rover, send our mothers on over.

Spread their wings like the stiff wings of eagles,

Send them running warm with grief like a river

From the rotten mouth of a volcano, babbling,

Water smoother than a baby's bubblegum tongue.

Let motherhood not escape them, or gut them

In the winter night once we've all been sent away.

Red rover, red rover, send them over some other day.

Red rover, red rover, send the next batch on over.

Roll their sleeves and let them sing past your

Playful hour, which will soon turn dark, shade

That turns forest air into sea winds. Soon they

Will have to learn what it means to be nautical.

How best to roll the waves, bite down on the bread,

Gather up everything we left and go back to the start.

Red rover, red rover, send them no constellation chart.

Red rover, red rover, send this ending on over.

The final wisp of dragon breath, a warm upward draft

Into the reflective sky, flecked with beads of magic.

The ancient sycamore tree itself is even splintering.

The machines of creativity are creaking and spitting

Out screws and grinded gears, so forward us quickly,

End the withering dream, snipped short at both ends.

Red rover, red rover, everything is burning again.

Each Day Turns More Spring

Think about timid hands

And all the things they don't create.

Clocks turn their backs toward empty space.

I am waiting

In the pit of the lion's den.

Golden manes of imperfect memory,

Shedding all over me—

Dammit, I was going to wear this tie.

Will I ever meet your walls?

Do they shake hands or is it just awkward?

Either way I'll bet they're green and smiling.

Wallpapered with grass and seed.

Spring

has been slow coming,

But no slower season than Us!

The day grows a touch more special.

It is no inflated ego.

It is no intricate plot.

It's just that I see you in the breaking of the clouds.

A lot.

The Birthday Word (Variations On The Word Yes)

I
I am forcing myself onto the spot,
A valiant attempt to warm up the day, which ought to be hot—
But it’s not. Fear not.
I bring you many orbs of light. They emit rainbow heat,
A healthy sort of radiation, if you can believe,
But only, and only at night.
And these orbs that I juggle freely, and with great care,
Come in many marvelous sizes, some simply quarter sized,
Others as portly as pears. But still, how they radiate!
As you may notice, they are not simply eggs,
Which hatch and give birth to blind miracles,
They are sweet hand grenades!
But what will come out of them? Fire,
Smoke, green waves of Desire?
Would the suspense be worth it,
To keep them in a nest, never to be open?
That would be foolish, they are chirping now.
I can hear them like the breath of the ocean.
I will let you in on the secret of the orbs,
Since now they are yours:
They each contain a Yes, or many,
Each ready to be hurled
Towards a different question,
Or tossed aside at anyone’s will.
I trust you will keep them still,
Until someday they are ready to be spun
Towards flowers, shy young men,
The rising May sun.

II
They are different, each Yes from the other.
As different as the love of each mother
Who go to great lengths to deliver
Girls and boys of gorgeous caliber.
And just there are twenty-six words reserved for snow,
It seems every day there is a Yes I didn’t know.
One entangled with delicate strings,
Another opened with sweeping, chrome wings,
And more and more and others, like so:

Wasn’t someone born eighteen years ago
Who you have become so glad to know?
Yes, but keep that on the down-low…
Will the Earth ever rest her weary head?
Is her hair cut short, her tears made out of molten lead?
Yes, and we will leave flowers in her stead.
Is the land golden and rich for all to see?
Is this honestly, truly, the land of opportunity?
Yes, I have seen it, and we are lucky.
Can dancers, actors, musicians ever truly unite?
Will they quit painting one color, and get it right?
Yes, but probably not tonight.
Will the sharp words of ignorance ever desist?
Are you trying to tell me that hell does not exist?
Yes, just believe me, and know this.
Would you be able to understand
If I reached out and touched the rivers of your hand?
Yes, since life has gotten quite bland.
Doesn’t everyone deserve a second and third chance?
Shouldn’t you always call your mother in advance?
Yes, but… no rhyme for dance?
Don’t you wish you could see the girl dance?
Would you be locked in a joyous, schoolgirl trance?
Yes, and how I too would prance!
Can you ever hear the music of the spheres
If one simply closes their eyes and disappears?
Yes, across the country! Out on the piers!
Will the willows ever once again become trees?
Will May ever melt the long winter freeze?
Yes, winter will be brought to its knees!
Has Spring come at last, like I knew it would,
Have the leaves whispered their love to the wood?
Yes, now if only we understood!
Can we ever be truly out on our own?
Do our colored memories keep us from being alone?
Yes, but to which, I haven’t known!
When rain sifts like pebbles through the lawn,
Could it be time to give in to the indulgent yawn?
Yes, sleep until all sleep is gone!
Will shaken love return its smooth course?
Can I ever ride a truly wild horse?
-.--. … (That’s Yes in Morse!)
Does lightning convalesce around one a.m?
And if it does, will it ever wander back again?
Yes, again and again!
Will you go to Finale with me?
Will you ignore the fact that I’m helplessly silly?
Yes, and look how silly are we!
Should teachers be given our praise?
And beyond praise, should artists be given a raise?
Yes, let’s leave sports fans in a daze!
Tell me, do you know the story of this word
That you write about, so giddy and absurd?
Yes! It is a story I’m sure you’ve never heard!

But first, I’ll make my point clear.
All of these Yes’ are in front of you here.
Keep them near, on your birthday,
And you’ll never stray
From being warm and boundless:
Today, Tomorrow, and Yesterday.


III.
The Gods of Yesiprocity all met on a stone,
Gathered close like brothers or sisters they had never met before,
To discuss the century’s great mysteries.
And though they argued and swayed like weeds in the sea,
There was one thing on which they all agreed.
“Today seems the day,” they sweat storms as they proclaimed:
“A baby born some years ago is born again today!
And so it would seem she’s now turned eighteen,
A flower, but oh how the hours pass by!
Have we no gift to lower on silk spindled from the sky?”
And they harbored the thought, and danced at the thought
Of the gift they would send to the world,
All in the name of one beautiful girl.
And that gift, as we know, was as simple as a word,
One worthy of decorating this flower-skinned girl.
So the word they did form out of cloud-like clay,
Using an elegant hammer of kindness,
Touched down to the earth on the morn of today:
The word that arrived was Yes.


IV.
No other word to imagine.
Nothing else comes to mind.
None of the cheap distractions
That otherwise take over in time.
The word is yours.
I am giving it to you,
Even if that leaves me with nothing
But a bucket full of paint, dark blue.
And because I trust you to be
Nothing short of incredible,
I know I have done something right.
Your life is yours.
Seed turns into bud, bud into leaf,
And with Yes comes believe, believe, believe.
Because I still care to dream.
And this summer, it’s nothing but ice cream.
The stars will be like pearls.
My Yes is yours.
Do with it as you please, birthday girl.

The War Is Not Over Still

Morning planes breathe a smoky chill.

The war is not over still.

Gardeners set fires, and surgeons kill.

The war is not over still.

The color's been drained from Capitol Hill.

The war is not over still.

Whales of sand have not had their fill.

The war is not over still.

Students, mothers, bloodied babies foot the bill.

The war is not over still.

We turn to royal weddings and a handful of pills.

The war is not over still.

There's no cleaning up our blanket of spills.

The war is not over still.

Mountains of men disappear as if they were krill.

The war is not over still.

Water with blood and greed is distilled.

The war is not over still.

Fireworks and flags leave echoes shrill.

The war is not over still.

I lie in the flames and wonder if we're ill.

The war is not over still.

Send a letter, I beg you, this is not a drill.

The war is not over still.

I won't believe a word he says until

The war is over,

But the war is not over still.

Progress

PROGRESS

Hello. I am Progress. I would first like to thank you for coming.

I would also like to ask you to call me Prog, but since that sounds rather like a guest character on Star Trek, I’ll spare the confusion. You can instead call me Train.

This city is so much more pitiful from ground level, I’ll tell you what. From up there, and I don’t mean the sky, I just mean up, you miss out on the details. Vast expanses of green look like manicured grass, box-like buildings look absolutely manufactured, and the people… well the people all move at the same speed, which is nice because if one speeds up, the rest speed up and if one stops to tie their shoe or set down their moccachino to answer the phone, nobody knows, you can’t tell from up here. Everyone’s always moving.

Which is what I’m all about. I’m here to keep you all moving.

All of you are here today for no prophetic reason. There is nothing in your blood that you’ll be able to trace that makes you any more prepared or programmed to understand what I am about to say. Know that anyone else could be standing where you are at this moment. Know that, and count yourselves lucky.

I greet you at the start of your lives. I apologize for having chosen such a precarious meeting site: You see I needed a proper metaphor to illustrate my point. Behind me, the city limits end, and the rest of the continent begins, where there are oceans, rivers, mountains, cliffs, basins, plateaus, deserts, and corn. There are highways, freeways, skyways and railways. There are also snakes. But very few of them are poisonous.

Some of you have been in one location all of your lives: You have seen the stars rise and fall in the same sky every night since you were born. This makes me oh so sad…

Right, the point! That is not the point, your life is your own! Go only where you feel pulled to. Just like today, when for some reason or another, you have all come to this bluff, this very spot, to answer to this calling…

As I’ve said before, your lives are just beginning. You all have plans, I assume. If you don’t make them, they will make you. But I arrive before you today, not to advise you, not to lecture on the failures of the past: I have come to beg. I have come to beg you to do something you might not do so willingly.

I am begging you to create.

You have spent the majority of your lives consuming, food that you yourself did not grow, entertainment that yourself have not expended any energy in receiving. You cannot go on being a sponge. In fact the whole world is a giant sponge, soaking up more and more that the few have to offer, and now it has grown heavy.

The time has come for you to wring it out.

This is your calling, and if you should fail, all the world will know. All the children will be unable to learn, all the parents will be unable to move. We will be locked in stasis, in darkness, until you are able to relieve us, and move forward.

I am not an angel. I am not a savior, I am inevitable:

I am Electricity, Enlightenment, Train.

Go now. Create.