Hollow End

They tell me it's Halloween tonight,

the streets are nulled with shivering kids

while crumbs stupidly fall off our lips.

I should have dressed like a fairy,

but instead I ache like a fallen

pear, dropped for an impossibly subtle

purpose. We're handing out my bruises

to all the spiders and cowboys, tonight.

Shudder.

The window's still open

from when I

aired out all the summer dust, hoping

that you would stop by for a holiday:
It is a holiday, isn't it? Or is it the

summoning of a gracious omen,

using the tossed aluminum and

rejected pocket-poems as a sigil...

What a sight!

What a night!

A lascivious prayer answered

when the rain has at last stopped,

A paragon of sunlight

floating before me, commenting on

how clean the bed smells.

Yes I know, I spent all day in here.

And then rummage through all

of my picture-books with a smile.

That's my dad on the beach, having a beer.

Then somehow find me,

once so far trembling

and now so far near.

And the torches of the kids

keep the room so well lit!

Cauldrons, barricading doorways

to keep jealousies at bay!

No one is going to call you anything

so long as the night carries on,

full empty nests and puppetry.

I'm summoning my omens.

But soon I'll close up the floor

knowing full well you won't make

an illuminated visit.

I've spent a year chewing through

your shifting lore.

And I doubt I'll miss it.

Nearly November

I admit that I think strongly of you

when I go traipsing

through street-side leaves.

I kick them until they fill my shoes,

because of something like you.

And already the leaves kissed

with crystal, I am saying goodbye

to the beginning for the last time.

Now is when thigh muscles freeze

like locker meat and jeans really suck.

I can't afford much more standing

around waiting for people to put

their coats on,

coats warm

coats cozy

coats closer than I thought possible.

All I have is this scarf,

it's orange and smiles a lot like your shoes do.

A Poem That Could Go Either Which Way

You must cause a lot of accidents.

A lot of bird calls coming your way:

Tweet tweet. Wow I expected more.

No matter, the bells are ringing now

and there seems to be some confusion.

Children tripping across the street,

Bridesmaids streaming across the street.

All for some big event I should probably

be at, unless of course nobody is there.

You must tell me your name.

No, not the name on your application

but the one that I should use when

calling out to you in the spooky corn maze.

Surely someone must be out there.

Someone has got to be out there.

A Vicious Rain

I will be upset if I get an A on that paper.

I would be upset even if everyone ceases to appear,

or if all my syllables produced laughter,

or if every letter plucked out of my shrink-wrapped

skull made you blush.

I would be upset if you ever wanted to talk to me.

(yesterday was a bad day)

This morning was slightly darker than some.

Mucky ponds reflect softened bricks.

Hidden staircase reveals itself unwillingly,

Chain-

Link Gate

C | l | o | s | i | n | g.

(so today must be a good day)

Corners of highway signs bent in,

the pissed-off wind inverting umbrellas.

Intelligent men smoke drooping cigarettes

under the silver belly of sky

stuffed with nutrients and razor blades.

(but mom, i say, i'm not pregnant and i don't have cancer,)

All of my fragile gifts have gone to waste,

and I can't even begin to taste

this hot chocolate for another twenty minutes.

By then I will have moved on

probably to a better drink that won't

scathe me for freezing.

(i'm just a boy)

My fingers are blinking back tears.

I'm looking for someone to blame

for all these hideous days of rain.

You fucking suck.

Hiding From The Day

The blinds were shut when I

woke up, so it was dark,

then I opened them up and

it was dark again. Thirsty lips

and quenched leaves. Drowning

wheels sliding in the street. A bird

flying out there but you can't see it,

and she can't see the ground, she could

be minutes from the moon and

she wouldn't see it.

The window's a droplet spiderweb.

The chimney's shaking, in fear, or cold,

it never really said. Turned off every alarm.

Rolled over.

Rolled over.

Rolled over.

Bit into the pillow.

Rolled over.

Then the coffee got cold and the oatmeal stuck

together like there was nothing else for them in

the world, but there's a microwave in this room.

Yeah, there's a microwave in this room.

Went shirtless until I had to pee.

Went smileless until I had to read.

Run down the stairs to ask when mom got divorced.

Try to remember how old I was in 1999. Give up,

Continue begging for praise via e-mail format.

Wonder if I'm missed. Then type "who gives".

Backspace Backspace, then a few times more.

Burn a hole into the bed, "I see you're putting

that new memory foam to good use."

Contemplate the properties of memory foam.

Will it remember me in the trash heap?

Who else, if not memory foam.

Hollow snacks. Cheap walks around the kitchen

to blow off some steam, harden some blood, find

the right state of mind required to compose

a social symphony. Thumb through a T.S Eliot

poem I tried to read, once.

What if the Internet hit an iceberg.

Broken branches backlash.

It's been raining for a day now and

it's painfully weak. It comes in buckets,

little small ones used by my sister to scoop

up nothing on the living room floor.

It ought to come in waves,

actual ones that sound like they're going

to crush the roof in. But never do.

Just some more rain food.

Just another busted gut.

Papers thrown about, marked

with the kiss of calamity.

And I just sent you a text

that was meant for myself

while you were sitting in

a theater watching what I

wanted us to watch ourselves.

Pour, Pour, Pour, Baby.

I spent the day hiding from the things you never say,

and I only wish it could stay this way.

Don't We All Hate Poetry

Your outbursts are stained glass,
and I know you mean no offense.
But you tore up all my works,
sprinkled them on the grass,
and haven’t bothered with
any of them since.

If you can't stand poetry,
how long will it be
until you can't stand me?

I wander home,
I wonder alone,
what it would take to break your rule.
After all, this is me, who you've known,
and not some pith spat from school.

How would you feel about poems
if they were written solely for you?
If they were dripped in honey,
something borrowed and tested and true?

I wish I could give it up.
I wish I could write a song
or dance along
with all you consider to be cute.
Hell, I wish I was mute.
Then I'd sit outside
on the bitter ground
and flail my arms around
to show how much you mean to me.
Maybe then you'd drop a coin into my cup.

In spite of the sting of your words,
I don't really blame you.
Because if I were to suddenly be you,
I'd hate my poems, too.

Spectacular

Is there an opposite of a vortex

because I think you are one

and every time you walk

my lips move and every time

you smile you make nimbus

waves which purr after every

exit and whisper into my ear

after every entrance which

should show you by now that

I mean playfulness

but until I make obvious the

line I crossed on April the

twenty-fourth I guess for

now we'll just stand around

in a daze until one of us

motions for a hug,

and it was absolutely the best thing, ever.

Something Bright To Burn

The garden was full of something else

that wasn't toilet paper or granite:

something like crisped potatoes.

Or McIntosh apples.

Their eyes went all spooky

turning into massive windows,

and when I walked through them

I could only hear weak groaning;

Probably just a pumpkin.

Probably just a lost puppy.

I sat on that Probably for a

few hours, until the sun fell

(a pathetic orange crisp),

then fumbled around in the

dark looking for something.

I swear it was your hair

that I felt.

Just A Drop Of Your Exhilaration

You have an idea?

Good, then use it.

You have regrets,

you'll need them too.

I bet you make

the prettiest lies.

They smell like a

greenhouse.

Worm-like fingers

scrape the dirt in

search of words,

effervescent in their

emerald cocoons.

You have pretty teeth?

Well you'll need them

to gnaw the gems off

their stems, and don't

mind me, sitting here,

hoping for just a crumb.

Wear Purple

Six years ago, I imagined myself lying dead on the bathroom floor.

That image passed from me long ago.

I don't know much anything at all,

but this I do know:

"When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case

And you're dreaming of a better place,"

Think of the purple lilies,

think of the rich, golden-honey sunsets,

think of the overnight metamorphosis,

think of the expensive gourmet coffee,

think of the people you smile at in line,

think of the tender touch soon to come,

think of the ornate skeleton of snow,

think of the love made for your name,

think of those vivid dreams just before waking,

think of those who look up love in the dictionary,

think of how lost they must be,

think of the treasures you call yours,

think of moonlit walks on white shores,

think of golden talks in the midnight,

think of the twin you've never met before,

think of all the grandchildren yet to hold,

think of cold, soft hands,

think of laughter falling like leaves,

think of where your genie could be hidden,

think of the stars, and the way they wink at you,

think of summertime, when time is yours,

think of the places you yourself will choose to go,

think of the exotic animals and plants you'll eat,

think of the docks you'll walk at dusk,

think of all the secret places you'll discover,

think of who you purposely won't tell,

think of the family you'll hide in there,

think of their faces grinning at your wisdom,

think of their heads nodding at your hardships,

think of how they'll drink your salty tears,

think of the morning after the darkest night,

think of the way your cereal tastes damn sweet,

think of how brushing your teeth feels worthwhile,

think of how you look in the mirror,

think of how no one will ever be able to hurt you,

think of how that was then and, ultimately,

this is now, and now can never be forever,

and think of how, somewhere down the line,

It Gets Better.