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?

BREAKFAST (for Steven Bauer)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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)

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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?

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

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)

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)

"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)

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)

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)

“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)

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)

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?