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.

Resignation

First hearing the news
of the captain's reassignment,
I felt brushed by the ever-nearby
ghoul of the future,
before I could even stop working
to consider the implications
of such a transfer in angry seas.

Vines of seaweed
have made their way up the hull.
I cross the deck, pretending
that the wood struck with sunlight
is magma, and skip across shadows.
The captain is loud and livid,
an angry sheep out to get the wool
back, having been shorn enough.
The captain expects
another star in the sky each night
he lays his head to rest on deck.

Without falling out of line,
I've looked farther ahead than I'd like.
There the waves of faces grew taller
than the mast's shadow,
and the captain was captive and quiet,
and I crossed the deck feeling
a splintering warmth in my feet,
shrugging as the water rises.

Familiar Poem

Pull of my orbiting life,
though I've had my doubts,
you sometimes pull through.
My heart has a critical debt.

The rippling fabric of embrace,
more abiding than the fans
that have long cooled me.
The hesitation of hands

as they are told not to do
what they wish to do.
My defect burns brightly,
my blood in full monsoon.

I could make it to anywhere,
my feet will have to suffice.
To be looked on again
I would riddle any sacrifice.

Orbit, you are as you are.
Pull me further for any number
of years. I will pay so many debts
while our murmuring vows slumber.

Mickey Drama's

I saddle myself with thoughts
of not thinking about it,
before I bundle in last season's
uniform, take a few last swigs
of the dawn's dense aroma,
and absently use the back stairs,
forgetting my destination.

My palms part the air
as I depart down the avenue,
beckoning purpose out of graffiti,
conditioning the sidewalk
to carry the weight of my shame.
I check over my shoulder
to make sure I was just there.

I bound along with haste
until I arrive at the cathedral
of the morning, before the floors
have been scuffed and muddied,
and the lobby holds silence dear,
except those at the judicial counter,
listing off the articles of the feast.
I limp home on nail-board feet,

reconvening with my darling thoughts.
They flock to me, watching with
pearly eyes as steam ascends
from a paper bag, seeing what
I am too thoughtless to see,
which is that once again my treasure,
where I would go anywhere for,
by morning will have turned to shit.

The Good Old Flight

The ninth night is nigh,

panting at the doorway

with the tongue of a mammoth.

The bearer of bad news

lives in a hole in the wall.

His aura erodes.

The thrill of things melting

is melting into a paste

with no decipherable purpose.

The living room looks so empty

in daylight. I have been living

on an edible rubber-band.

Man, to think I am out there,

learning to spell my name

across the redwood pages

of whatever's silent, 

of whatever's ancient.

The rough new prizes

handed to me, I keep

losing them among

glass and receipts.

If you asked me 

for a mid-year review,

I would hold firm

to the rippling dream

that is progress:

I ache, I falter,

I am a poet,

hear me groan

and roll over.

Filter

Thrice-used filter,

I think I am abusing you.

You have tried your best,

but this coffee sucks.

I find it productive,

placing the blame.

The streaks of red

resentment overhead

are settling on my shoulders.

Failure is unstoppable.

Even though you are battered,

soaked to the paper-bone,

and sick of these mornings,

you strain to fill my cup.

Thrice-forced fulfillment,

when will you up and collapse?

Caravel

Today is a good day
to tie a mast to my spine.
A distant light clears the fog.
I promise to make it mine.