tiny poems

WIFE (for Eileen)

2012-02-14T16:29:00.000-08:00

say love
softly, it sounds
like "life."

live life
fully it feels
like love.

together,
in life,
in love,
it's more than
enough.

TENSION

2012-01-17T20:51:00.000-08:00

"we have up-
graded you
to a suite,

complete with a soaking
tub and a dramatic
balcony." "sweet,"

you say, accidentally
cute, and the girl behind
the desk shoots you

an eye-roll, over-
laid with feigned amuse-
ment, but really feeling

every bit of the surface derision
that cannot be hidden
beneath her expression.

LOSS

2012-01-09T22:17:00.000-08:00

you wonder what
could be worse
than fever

dreams that appear
as flaming ghost heads

spinning
neck-defying
circles above your bed.

until an answer like
death itself arrives
in the form of an absence
of relief: you will never again be

fully asleep. it’s time to start
praying for keeps.

THROUGH AGING I BEGIN

2012-01-03T09:55:00.000-08:00

through aging i begin
to resemble myself
wearing a costume of myself --

skin one size
too big despite

the exercise --

and even if the man inside

stays fit, the suit is worn smooth
and losing its shape,

or maybe just can’t
remember it.

IMMORTALITY

2011-12-20T15:19:00.000-08:00

we are all increasingly
surrounded by our own
latency: nothing recedes

once expressed
virtually. we are left
to our own devices,

literally; bereft of
reality, yet hemmed
in by echos

of our own creativity,
our concentric
cults of personality.

BORN ANXIOUS

2011-12-19T10:47:00.000-08:00

the initial descent always

begins with aiming the plane

more towards ground than sky,

acknowledging we can't

stay forever

way up high.

millions of flight

miles later

I still find myself

thinking each time, “this is it,

we’re all going to die.”

INDUSTRY

2011-12-13T15:05:00.000-08:00

wordsare for me

buildings full of work

best kept

clear of nature:

no rivers

or deer

encroaching --

just the steel under-

girding of hardened

punctuation, placed

to enforce safety.

i need to be sure how

you'll take me.

MY FRIEND YOUR DEATH (for Jeffrey Nelson)

2011-12-12T17:56:00.000-08:00

my friend
your death
makes no sense --
world without

an end to suffering.
let me rest
in your memory

until you become
part of me;
i pray

someone
someday:

please do
the same for me.

BANANA

2011-11-28T20:54:00.001-08:00

it’s no good to think

too much about the act

of eating, or who,

how, or what you are

fucking. try not to

fix your attention

on where they come from

and what happens next

after lunch or sex.

EMPTY

2011-11-14T08:15:00.001-08:00

the empty poet

sits and waits

for what?

the music

that visits

his tilted head,

for words to appear

as sounds instead

of symbols, suited

for delivery,embalmed

as poetry, alive only

from a distance

but close up:

quite dead.

NEW MATH

2011-11-02T09:44:00.000-07:00

we have chosen to give up

equity and other forms

of measuring. we simply are,

more than we are not.

as if we know: the sum

total of what

we've got will not

be all

that defines us.

our net worth will

be calculated

using debits for lack

of kindness, credits

for relieving sadness.

OWNED

2011-10-25T21:14:00.000-07:00

i wear dogs

like blankets, human-
spooningcanines soothing
their addled puppy soul
by climbing inside mine.

JUST FOR THE MOMENT

2011-10-18T15:47:00.000-07:00

you joked: there ought to be

a record, "what's it all about,alkie?"

that would be funny, if only

records still existed

and your liver could take a joke.

and if only you weren't

still wishing for the burn and tickle

of cheap whiskey, some memory offumbling

at brand new bra clasps,

removing whatever got in

your way, without thinking

what comes next or needing

to feel blessed.

VISITATION

2011-10-13T12:36:00.001-07:00

death and funerals
break down

the illusion
we might live
forever.

crying arises from
saying goodbye

and also because
we fear

we haven't been
fully here.

YOU WERE THE LATTER (for Jack Erwin)

2011-10-11T20:55:00.000-07:00

there are people
you will know
your whole life
and never truly
meet. and then
there are people
you meet
one time
and know forever.

WHY NOT

2011-10-07T11:03:00.001-07:00

loosen up everything:
your clothes
your pose
that face
you froze.

let life's wonder
wander across
every feeling,
every place
inside and outside
your personal
space.

feel the slack as you
take your life back.

OH TO GIVE UP (for Steve Jobs)

2011-10-06T14:57:00.000-07:00

oh to give up
selling anything --
to live without

being possessed
by pretense,
driven by processes,

acting for reasons
less than wonder
and reverence: oh

to let this life fit me fully
like a favorite t-shirt,
soft and holy.

2011-09-29T15:27:00.000-07:00

you are not complex:
some day you will be

rotting in a box. unless
they burn your body first.

in which case you'll simply
become a pile of dust.

so what
should you do
next?

ALBATROSS

2011-09-28T10:23:00.001-07:00

artists are keen
on justice not to mention
high on drugs and mighty
full of their own surmise.

poets and
other malcontents
are always pointing
at unpleasant

events: the inequity
of bombs and wealth,
and how big

companies operate in stealth
mode the better
to evade the public distrust
and stoke the fires of consumer

lust. it was
ever thus.

IN POETRY

2011-09-26T16:30:00.000-07:00

it’s tempting to crowd
words together cleverly,
like too many empty people

rushing japanese subway cars,
each line hand-packed
with metaphors, yet
signifying nothing.

on the other hand
it’s difficult to manipulate
the fewest words needed to create
work through which an artist might
pass unheeded -- in control but not
commanding, heard but never seen --

the hand of god invisibly
doing its accidental thing.

SPACE BETWEEN

2011-08-15T22:05:00.000-07:00

the poem is
a pause from the active,
a moment to take

inventory, rearrange, try
to explain the entropy
that masquerades as life's
momentum. the poem is

a slow place,
a space between
cities like a plane
stretched out in
the sky, passing by.

WHAT HAPPENS TO US

2011-08-15T21:58:00.000-07:00

lives are lived by someone
on the path to becoming
no one. and yet this is
not evidence of nothingness

any more than the snake's
leftover skin is meant to
suggest he never was.

we all leave
behind used up
stuff; we're not from nothing
to nothing, but from dust
to dust.

GET USED TO IT

2011-08-10T19:45:00.001-07:00

so this is the summer
of people dropping dead.

some are given months,
only make it a week.
others wither and never
come back from what
seemed a good night's

sleep. hearts
blow up,
and tumors
grow all over
and people

disappear.
where

the fuck
did they go?

BIG PLANS

2011-06-30T20:00:00.000-07:00

every fourth we
roll to the motor
city; my whole family

crowds around
fireworks and food,
pool parties full

of blown-up bodies,
the rafts slick with suntan
oil left behind
by old bloated flesh.

as detroit explodes
in the background, we glisten
and float as if death
were afraid of water
and good times.

JUST THIS

2011-06-15T07:10:00.000-07:00

move through this
world in pursuit
of justice and you

can expect to find
the opposite:
the randomness of this

reality resists
rules evenly applied
across all acts and types.

so try
as you might,
it's hard not to

arrive at this:
life is

not fair,
and justice is

neither here
nor there.

TAKE ME

2011-06-06T22:25:00.000-07:00

there are nights when dying
first occurs to me -- as in pre-
deceasing -- as one

possible
viable
solution to others'
suffering.

there is nothing worse than feeling

helpless. and you know words
are worthless.

and so you rehearse
being willing to
go first.

STAY LOW

2011-05-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-26T10:36:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-26T09:40:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-23T22:26:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-17T08:01:00.000-07:00

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?

BREAKFAST (for Steven Bauer)

2011-04-15T14:43:00.000-07:00

we sit literally
over our own orders
of eggs and coffee discussing
character disorders like poetry
and philandering and whether
cancer is always a bad thing --

you wolfing through
all that gravy and me
feeling too queasy to take
in that greasy remedy;

hung over? allegedly.
you quit
drinking a dozen
years ago, while i lit
the old school town
on fire the night
before. you've forgotten
more than I've yet
learned about writing,
which makes me want to
keep trying.

THAT'S ENOUGH

2011-03-31T15:16:00.000-07:00

so what if

you date me
validate me
appreciate me?

i still die, maybe
a little bit happier
along the way.

but why is it so
important to
create happy

moments, pain-free
increments to divide up
this temporary something

seemingly stuck between
volumes of
nothingness?
(with apologies
to alan watts.)

it’s because we are
suspicious
there might be something
more than this.

UNTIL YOU MAKE IT

2011-03-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

what is the source of your luminous
confidence? it's not beauty.
you are too numb.

is it wisdom? you are
too young. your dazzle is
likely bravado, just dumb
attitude wrapped tightly over fear,
as the fire that burns behind

your eyes
eats

everyone
alive.

DONUTS

2011-03-29T07:47:00.000-07:00

we used to write
real letters,
make mix tapes,
spend hours drinking
bad coffee and loving

donuts. we were artists
because we couldn't
keep secrets from ourselves.

our smoking was the truth
to your dare; we didn't care
what you thought of us just
as long as you did, and we didn't
question what was taught to us,
we wrapped ourselves
in books and hid.

and not a day went by
we didn't try to write
our way out of pain
before suffering had us
making mix tapes and eating
donuts again.

LIVE A LITTLE

2011-03-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

premise: you are
drowning but not

quickly. settle in.
it might be days

before you go under.
you can anticipate

suffering if you want,
but for now you are

merely afloat, treading
water, with plenty of energy

to last; you can take
occasional rests, imagining

you are wrapped in a warm salty
wet blanket. you are not dead
yet. you are just as safe
and as doomed as you will ever get.

OUTSTRETCHED

2011-03-24T15:58:00.000-07:00

when i write you
i want you

to hear all the hoping
energy in between words.

i am teasing
death, a trapeze
artist without a net, hell-
bent on flying
to meet outstretched hands
or sudden death.

THE DOWNSIDE OF MEDITATION

2011-03-24T08:45:00.000-07:00

once you learn to really sit
still, your mind not

wrapped around phrases
and failures, there's temptation

to just sit
more and more, idling

electric-car style --
going nowhere

for quite a while.

THOROUGHLY MODERN POETS

2011-03-22T20:15:00.000-07:00

these thoroughly modern
poets are prideful --
too many words
too smirkingly assembled,

their dumbstruck images
plucked wholesale
from various field guides
and the scariest dead

languages.
can't they find better
hiding places?

WHAT IS NEEDED IS RECKLESS

2011-03-22T20:09:00.000-07:00

what words
to choose or do

words choose us?
how many mute

stupefied artists
sit petrified
waiting for some divine
intervention, a literal
voice from heaven when

what is needed is reckless
abandon. action
is all the inspiration
we can count on.

SIR, WITH VIGILANCE

2011-03-22T10:32:00.000-07:00

can we have no more
talk of cancer,

no mention of hearts
unless metaphorical --

a slim reprieve
from concerns anatomical?

the smell of spring should
mean allergies and whimsy;
might we be spared momentarily
these intimations of mortality
so we can focus on seasonal
frivolity? dear god i'll gladly

huff albuterol if you'll agree
to pause the fall of
everyone i've ever loved, allow
them to remain below while you,
sir, with vigilance,
keep watch above.

PARTNERS

2011-03-19T13:54:00.000-07:00

no one can
save you least
of all your lovers;
you won't find
a savior hiding behind

that escape door.
your mortal fear is
welcome here.
your adrenal
sweat dampens
my lonely fear.

together: why
not disappear?

REJOICE

2011-03-02T07:39:00.000-08:00

rejoice though you are

on a path which leads

to your death.

(excuse me?

not likely.)

rejoice because you are

surely on the path

which leads to your death.

no fork ahead

or behind, and so

your mind is what is

left. rejoice on the path

that is your life

and worry not

what comes next.

be simple and reside

on the path that flows forth

on the in and out

of your effortless

breath.

OPEN

2011-03-01T19:05:00.000-08:00

every poem is a beating
heart, a sawed-through surgical

invasion of your innermost

parts, an act of brutal

mercy that brings suffering

and a fresh start.

THE DOCTOR IS IN

2011-02-24T06:57:00.000-08:00

something magnetic or dyspeptic

attracts me to psychiatric

types, or the sons and daughters

of these head doctors. i have friends

born into the mirrored self-

contemplation of being the scion

of a parent you can rely on

to dissect more than protect.

let he who is without

sin cast the first aspersion.

like lucy in her five-cent booth

the doctor is in.

and oddly they are often

pulled into the profession

themselves, broken

parts hell

bent on breaking

the pieces back

together again.

WONDER

2011-02-21T22:16:00.000-08:00

reading favorite guys

like judd and creeley

writing how they build

architecture and poetry and nothing

they say makes

any sense to me.

it's not in theory

but in practice

they get to me.

maybe when minimalists try

to get expansive and shit

their hearts aren't in it.

it's only in the open

question, the middle-

ground of wonder where

the addled, searching mind

can for once recline that

these men and their ideas reside:

in words struck stationary and statues

set solidly on solitary expanses of land

where no one was ever

intended to stand.

PEDIGREE

2011-02-15T21:01:00.000-08:00

from within my familial

fear of tardy and doing it

wrong i failed somehow

to foresee a future full

of mistake latency

disguised as social currency.

i am in a constant state

of high anxiety and addled

perplexity.

CLUTCH (for Eileen Hess)

2011-02-08T20:25:00.000-08:00

i am not a world
traveler by choice;
my entire universe
could be contained

within my wife's
purse. i wouldn't venture
anywhere if i could
just curl up and live
in there.

there's gum and make-up,
mints and money, a museum
devoted to my honey. if only
there was room enough

i'd happily remain inside her clutch.

POOPEREL (for Laurel Hess)

2011-02-08T19:50:00.000-08:00

my nephews can't say fart or crap;
they toot and poop instead.
their mother has it in her head

there's something cruder
about a farter than a tooter,
and a crapper than a pooper.

as an uncle i submit

(while crying bullshit

on her limits!)
but it scarcely matters

what i think.

everyone knows

poops and farts
by any other name

still carry the same

awesome stink.

CARDINAL (for Karen Lafer Haithcock)

2011-02-08T19:43:00.000-08:00

i’ll be honest:
i don't notice

birds sitting around
in the sky or in trees

or think about why
(as you do) they sing
or what enables them to
swim across a breeze. i have

scarcely grey memories of this
or that bird backgrounding some scene or other
with an incidental tweet or flutter.

but there is something memorable,
i can’t lie, about cardinals
flying low over new snow,
as if the air were alive and full

of blood and fear maybe,
and too purposeful to dry,
my dear, and too beautiful
to die, baby.

OF PORN AND POETRY

2011-02-08T19:33:00.000-08:00

take off your clothes
and capture your body
exposed and before long
everybody will go and care
there, wherever. but erect

your thoughts instead
to some blog, taut
with intent to reveal
how naked you
feel about truly bare
areas like your soul
and where it goes...

and nobody comes.

poetry rhymes
with futility and pandering
is strategy.

BUSTED

2011-02-07T22:22:00.001-08:00

oh arrogant
ghost of social
nights blindly spent --

how it went:

entwined, the holy echoes
of girls, imagined
moans of misspent

youth. egos together
like gelatin, nerves
quivering, flesh left

exposed to the search-
lights. police, action, "i only
pried her top off

moments before
you arrived."

COLD COMFORT

2011-02-02T12:20:00.000-08:00

dearest snow-
storm: did you know

someday it will be
warm again? or so
the weatherman said.

and when that day comes
you'll be dead.

so paralyze us
and freeze our toes --
someday we'll drink
you from a hose.

NO MIND

2011-01-28T15:23:00.000-08:00

whatever feverish delusions
you dress up as reality
have little
hold over
me, lover.

i don't believe in anything
except believing less
and being kind,
having more faith
in behavior and paying
no mind
to what anyone is
saying.

IMMEDIATELY

2011-01-25T16:54:00.000-08:00

think of one thing
more urgent than finding

the center of your soul or your reason

for being right now and go
do that; otherwise:

sit down
shut up

and do some
poetry.

HEARD (for Morgan Worth)

2011-01-21T06:17:00.000-08:00

what the pompous
poet said:

i want my words
to make you feel worse
in your head; i'm no masseuse,
i chose verse
to kick your ass. take a number
before you get any
dumber. followers!

you want happiness?
try wanting less.

and don't invite me
to read. i don't
need validation from your poetry
nation. i'm a one-man
occupation force, and
these slams distort
word art. hyperbole
and beer farts? i'd rather not
take part.

but goddamn
would this one work
shouted before a crowd
of poetry jerks.

THE TRYING

2011-01-19T20:21:00.000-08:00

i am halfway through
every great book
on spirituality.

to summarize:

be kind.
and breathe.

take refuge.
now release.

have faith.
and endure.

you will never
be sure.

say prayers and
don't lie.

find peace be-
fore you die.

these platitudes drown
out the persistence
of this dying; i may

never finish these books,
but i'll settle
down to the trying.

WHY WRITE?

2011-01-18T22:20:00.000-08:00

writers wring hands and throats
over how very little
the market dotes on

what is literary.
but there's no money

in revealing
the truth behind
death and decline --

it's distraction
that's preferred --

and so reality remains
obscured and the writer
soldiers on. but why?

to be seen and heard
is to feel less
blurred: to be focused on
être d'raison!

THE OBVIOUS

2011-01-13T18:47:00.000-08:00

resolved: we are all
born dying but that demise
intensifies when

we try to become
artists. we fall
faster when we chase

after what

money can never buy.
we fly too
close to the sun, thinking,

"i'm finally seeing
clearly," but we are not. our eyes
are on fire, and we are not

enlightened but blind.

beloved: there is nothing
to find, nowhere
more true than here,
and no one any more
illuminated than you.

NO GOOD (for Kathy Blake Aabram)

2011-01-12T22:05:00.001-08:00

her husband had me
over for drinks, said don't leave
these glasses in the
sink my wife
won't know what
to think.

his wife, she taught dale carnegie,
and she knew just
what we were
up to.

R.I.P. GOATEE (for Han Delin)

2011-01-07T13:58:00.000-08:00

"wiss zee beard,"
she said,
"you look like rock star!
but wissout you are
just regular."

she cuts
my hair. what
do i care?

"you hide,"
he said,
"behind the beard."

you are looking,
i fear,
in the mirror.

"the beard,"
she said,
"makes you look
older."

thanks, mother.

"i like,"
he said,
"the beard. but then
i'm weird."

don't speak,
freak.

"daddy," he said,
"you did
look like a rocker,
but now you are
more like a man model."

my son, i thought,
what you are selling
i just bought.

ELEGY FOR RICH RODRIGUEZ (for Brian Grieve)

2011-01-07T10:37:00.000-08:00

the only thing worse than caring
too much about imaginary
priorities like football teams
and stock markets --

"much ado
about nothing"
rings true --

is caring too
little. magnficent
dust, each of us seems,
but caught by the sun,
just so, we sometimes glow
and hang there
in the air before
falling like dancing and ending
up somewhere
below.

UNLOCKED (for Loreen Strasser)

2011-01-06T07:17:00.000-08:00

admit it:
when as a vagrant

wayward
unshowered
neighbor

i climbed through
your window, i broke
your heart.

(it was unlocked.)

later i loaned you
my wife for a while --
let's leave
out that part.

i met cold confident
you but found
the way through
to something more human --
the broken parts heal
and the girl becomes
a real woman.

oh the moods and places
we have been dear,
sweet loreen.

BLESSED (for Roma Hess)

2011-01-05T06:33:00.000-08:00

“you get
what you get and you don’t
get upset.”

it’s kindergarten
wisdom, a lie
disguised in rhyme.

true happiness rests
in the difference between
accept and except

and never thinking
you are exempt.

(image borrowed from here.)

TO EXCESS (for Sherry Brewer Homrich)

2011-01-04T17:44:00.000-08:00

it was poverty
drove us to drink
piss-poor beer
for hours before
going anywhere.

it was desperation
(camouflaged as variety)
compelled us to pick
whatever chick we could
to do anything she would.

back then i thought i was
a poet, and i drank far
more than i wrote. these days
i write quite a lot
more than i drink. i'm a poet

although i wonder
if anybody knows it.

BROTHERS IN ARMS (for Pete Karr)

2011-01-04T17:22:00.000-08:00

guys don't say
"i love you" to
other guys. (unless,
of course, they're gays.)

we straights find it
hard to say. we try
to joke and punch it away.
as if a tackle could take
the place of saying hey,
"i feel this way."

there's irony
in our policy
towards intimacy:

don't ask,
don't tell.

I THINK SHE KNEW (for Tom Hess)

2011-01-04T16:39:00.000-08:00

girls raced first then
boys; same swimmers, different
summers, each May
just a little bit

older. i waited
behind her --

we were the best
breaststrokers.

seriously
how did we keep
a straight face?

before every race
she would lock
her fingers reaching
for some perfect
nothing and then
tug her suit loose
in the back --

a nervous tic
or a canny gift?

every redhead since
gives me a lift.

WASN'T ME

2011-01-03T21:45:00.000-08:00

as each untimely
death marinates

we become attuned
to doom

and its callow misdirection,
the old masked shoulder-tap
and then the look
away, as in "who me?"

when friends fall
ill or die too
soon we might try
to deny how

close we were,
as if to achieve
immortality we need
only to demur.

GENTLY

2010-12-08T19:19:00.000-08:00

i would like
some reassurances: really
great headphones in the beyond,
and draft beer
that never runs out. i won't

go into the ground easy --
i want unlimited
downloads and klonopin for when
eternity comes crashing in.

FOR THE DEAD

2010-12-04T08:58:00.001-08:00

when we think of all
we've lost --

our recklessly perfect dogs
and our favorite faded
ballplayers gone --

not to mention friends dead too
young, and relatives who
never live long

enough...

what is it then keeps us
going blindly ahead
to our own unknown
end? is it more

fear or reverence,
are we defined by wonder
or just trying to keep from going
under? i ache there-

fore i am. it hurts to
give a damn.

ESSENTIAL

2010-11-30T09:39:00.000-08:00

this preference we have for inventing
boxes like adolescence
doesn't serve us.

we are always works in
progress no good at anything
that has to do with meaning.

we are never kids or adults,
these are labels and insults,
and they don't resemble

this
simple
presence

which is our essence.

INSTRUCTIONS

2010-11-17T00:46:00.000-08:00

starting a poem think
of what matters most
or of something inconsequential
worth staring at or ideally both.

take out proper
nouns and long-

limbed descriptors and
just use words

that fit like old
sweatshirts.

don't let clever
images damage

clear prose; use line
breaks and deliberately juxta-
pose in order to engage.

be not afraid of rhyme but try not to
be too obvious and
know when

to stop.

VERTIGO

2010-11-15T07:48:00.000-08:00

you can label this feeling
of nearly unbearable
straining an "invention,"
and yet, it doesn't lessen.

this ache, this
visceral pain
isn't located
in the brain.

and blaming others
for seeming better
at keeping things together
doesn't matter.

if you are lucky,
and you are, folks
keep telling you --

you wake up
alone
even if someone is beside you.

and you have to
face it, the day, just
as you lie there at night

eyes wide open hoping
something or someone might take you
away.

FALLING

2010-11-09T19:49:00.000-08:00

why is it only
at breaking points
you start to wonder if
all ultimatums come true
too late

and you feel so-called
burning ends against
the middle is no deal
with the devil but
(an) awkward and too real
expression of fate?

you remember nights
when you could only lie
down to shake;

but older now, evening time
it feels natural to fade

with no hesitation
or negotiation --

until you are simply no longer
awake.

MINIFESTO

2010-11-08T16:02:00.000-08:00

critics and cynics project
derision at what they see
as a lack of ambition.

but it is not wanting to
make a mess that inspires me
to write less.

(small verse is best
suited to what i'm trying
to express.)

FASTEN YOUR SEATBELT

2010-10-28T15:26:00.000-07:00

why do i search so hard
for meaning
when i'm somewhere
up in the air?

why do i feel
the most self-aware
when i am neither
here nor there?

why is it the spaces between
places with nothing
underneath me

that seem to inspire
poetic reverie?

WINTER AS A VERB (for Tom Hess)

2010-10-26T11:24:00.000-07:00

he's only in love
with winter as a verb;
he finds snow "absurd."

to be wet and cold
and on top of that
old is "for the birds."

and when he reads this
he'll say, "that son of a gun
really got me."

SERIOUSLY (for Kevin Eves)

2010-10-26T07:14:00.000-07:00

we yearn
to be

free of earthly
conventions like gravity
and humility

and yet
we submit

to aggravations
like punctuation

willingly.

BURNING

2010-10-25T08:19:00.000-07:00

these days the blank page always
begs questions. for me these

revolve around existence
and meaning: why this?

and in light of that
now what is to be

done?

and answers never
seem to arrive

just as planets
keep safe distance
from the sun.

MATURITY

2010-10-20T19:01:00.000-07:00

as the day of our life moves
past noon, and then the light
begins fading into

night -- the time for chasing
what we hoped might
sustain us gives way
to embracing

what remains.

DON'T BANK ON IT

2010-09-21T21:04:00.001-07:00

you assume
it will happen

organically --
"discovery."

all those veins laid wide
open, blood poured and shaped
into lines, fixed to dry;

you donate poetry, why
don't you get a cookie?

PERSISTENCE

2010-07-31T11:32:00.001-07:00

the trouble with life
after enlightenment is
it is all
that it is
and nothing
more.

IT HAS BEEN SAID

2010-07-31T11:03:00.000-07:00

you want to start
with the most important

words, like love
and faith and hope,

words which have nothing
to do with this moment;

and you understand you
ought to let go:

the harder you squeeze
the sands of meaning

the more significance
escapes your hands.

ENLIGHTENMENT

2010-07-31T08:30:00.000-07:00

and
for
what?

HELPLESS

2010-07-25T17:05:00.000-07:00

i stay in
out of shame;
too many drinks
on the brain.

i'm too old
for this shit, trading
nights for days, wisdom
for dumbstruck malaise.

bargaining with god
over giving up
once and for all what is
too frequent and selfish,

i find myself left
with no one to tell this:

i'm afraid
i am helpless.

TO LIFE

2010-06-24T07:45:00.000-07:00

we don't get older;
older gets us.

by the time
we are any good

at living, our days
have melted away.
we forget our lives are

like trick candles, always
blown out and reignited
and still the wax

wanes and sooner
or even later they won't

come back
to life again.

I MADE IT

2010-06-24T07:39:00.000-07:00

i have written yet another
beautiful airplane poem;
pray god this flight gets me

home.

nothing more tragic than art
that never escapes
the artist's heart.

RESIGNATION

2010-06-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

and you get to
thinking oh

people should be
brought to their knees
with all the dying
going on. and you

wait for the inevitable
gnashing of teeth
and crying out
to God, "why hath..."

and it's only later you
realize how many have
already lost everything or
what they perceived
as such. and you

settle down to suffering
alongside everyone else.

NEVER CRY

2010-06-14T20:38:00.000-07:00

people say it's okay
to cry; says who?
those that never do.

people say go ahead,
let your guard down and
then they stare; they're the ones
who wouldn't
dare.

people say forgiveness
is divine, but if you want
the truth:

it's better to lie
and hide and
never cry.

INSTINCT

2010-05-25T13:39:00.000-07:00

what is there

to write about other than life
and death and why

we’re here?

what is there

to live for other than chasing
our tales and trying

to endure?

and we wonder
after towers fall, how
can we ever return
to poetry? how will we

be compelled to invent
in the face of certain death?

easy: what else is left?

STEALTHY

2010-05-14T08:02:00.000-07:00

you're using google
to ogle your past, making

search strings out of old
friends' names and the cities you

have projected
them into.

meanwhile they're doing the
same to you.

GO AHEAD

2010-02-16T13:56:00.000-08:00

people vie with various claims
to relevance and demands
on your time. they lie

through their beliefs, trying
to get you to surrender
something meaningless
in exchange for same. you

know better, and yet
how boring life is
when we're too wise to

make mistakes.

BY ACCIDENT

2010-01-30T04:42:00.000-08:00

he grew
tired of being

everything. he wept
after reading criticism.

he was divided
alive between
the things he'd seen

and what
his heart heard,
all of which went
forth in verse only
by accident.

(photo swiped from here.)

IS AND YET

2010-01-15T11:44:00.000-08:00

in the moments
you forget

yourself, id invisible
you dissolve, go

stealth, you almost feel
like someone else.

trouble comes when you want
something other than what

is; and yet
the stress

you wear like a weight vest
lets you know you

exist.

(image lifted from Flikr.)

MY MUSE

2010-01-14T11:37:00.000-08:00

my muse she doesn't dress
too nice

she seldom gives me any
advice

and if I could I'd trade her for
an extrovert dressed like a whore.

RUBBLE (for Steven Bauer)

2010-01-14T11:21:00.000-08:00

oh dear
sweet dis-
array, do not visit
this house today.

uninvited chaos
team, things here
are never
as they seem.

unintended
consequence, go
you back from
came you whence.

oh happenstance,
you two-
edged sword, must punish-
ment precede

reward?

POET SPOTLIGHT: KENNETH KOCH

2010-01-05T21:45:00.000-08:00

To be rid of troubles
Of one person by turning into
Someone else, moving and jolting
As if nothing mattered but today
In fact nothing
But this precise moment...

- From "To Kidding Around"

A POST-IT ON THE DOOR OF THE CHURCH OF POETRY

2010-01-05T21:42:00.000-08:00

what makes me feel
so horrible
is when i read your poetry

and i can't find the meaning
past the imagery.

call me simple-
minded but i have never met
a soybean that could sweat

or breathe
or a god-

damn piece of farm-
land that could hold
secrets in her soil

or leaves.

and another thing:
nobody uses the word
'tendrils'
anymore, not to mention Greek
myths or long-lined confessions
lacking calculation.

an admonition:

we are dying, pal,
and it has absolutely nothing
to do with anything

you're writing.

TUNDRA

2010-01-05T21:39:00.000-08:00

she was sated
by promises and poems
written from a high-above,
in-between place --

may as well have been
outer space.

she was kept
even-keel by emails
brow-beaten
out of him. oh!

it's so
cold
down
below.
a white place

bereft of purity
where nobody

ever wants to
go.

WORKSHOP

2010-01-05T21:36:00.000-08:00

write now.
oh right.

write how?
and for whom?

and by the way:
start soon.