STAY LOW

you rush
into suffering, hell-bent
on saving
the burning
remains
of whatever terror

you once
lived in,
you rest
under blankets
of injustice
you find comfort

in feeling
helpless against
imaginary forces
conspiring to keep you wrapped
in familiar
misery

you're in need
of a radical self-
ectomy

until then
please stay
low to the ground
crawling towards
suffocation or less
likely, safety.

CONDITIONAL

there's not so much
to poetry; like life
it's mostly pageantry,
a way to make the time go

by. a word placed
here quite carefully
followed by a drunken slew
of accidental phrases
tossed off recklessly --
for which we'll later
make more than a few

apologies, unless of course
these words draw praises.

HISTORY OF WONDER

i've never been much good
with tools or history.
their usefulness was lost,
or at least it was on me.

i never learned how to build
anything save for
poems, nor
could i remember any
stone hard facts
about Ancient Rome or
how things were supposed to be
made with metal or wood.

thank god my father
had no idea how
to hammer or screw or what
it was that allen
wrenches were supposed to do,

i don't think
i was the right son
to pass these things on to.
i read ginsberg and wieners
instead, my head sunk
low in the back of bookstores
and physics classes, not wanting
to be mistaken for a boy-
lover or a word-fluffer,
unable to construct
any facade of usefulness
i could hide under.

meanwhile inside i built
my own useless
history of wonder.

BENEDICTION

did you know
some of us are dying
down here? and so
this is a missive

written in fear
for all that we are
losing and what has yet to be
set free.

and why do we have to
ask for what is obvious: that
you would pay attention to us?

no. we didn't ask to be
here but we like it
just the same; is there
a refuge from this pain
or will we live it all again? no

one seems to know --
but if you're there you do;
we could use some answers, and
we don't have anyone to ask

but you.

THE ROOF, THE ROOF

first i wanted to be

a philosopher
then a poet.

skipped fire-
man altogether;

now i commit
arson with letters.

i burn down houses
of comfort by kindling

discontent, magnifying
questions of origin and intent.

i burn holes of self-
conscious inquiry
into what are we doing
here, and why
were we sent?