II

the girl I saw for the very first time
blurry blue eyes that she did encompass
this now shallow heart stepping out of rhyme
golden profile of her that since I miss

fleeting days of summer have such long passed
I knew her not a wink before this glance
turned away emotion that would not last
she leaves my heart without a second chance

to shout would be much too cheap a thing
to turn those eyes and see her face in full
to learn to laugh to love and dance or sing
to bathe to bask in beauty beautiful

it is not wise for one to sit in wait
but nor is it to tempt to tempt one's fate

I

Be I so bold as to love you, my dear?
Is this the end I hoped which would not come?
Are you the one to still my growing fear?
Is this the point to which my life begun?

You are the life upon the base of mine
a broken ring the grandfather refused
the hand by which I care to tell my time
the ticking clock to which my life can move

I am the gear that turns your dark heart so
mechanic tick, cold metal revealed
the pendulum what swings you to and fro
beneath the shallow pane you have sealed

though time may stop and clocks like hearts do break
love lives inside a third dimension's sake

The Greatest Poem

I have written the greatest poem
ever read
or shall I say
I have spoken the greatest poem
ever heard

The one that I wrote in the shower,
alone, if that needed explaining
I laughed and wept at the words
that drifted from my tongue
and mingled with the steam

The subject was one that
would inspire world peace,
end all dispute
concerning class and race and god

I invented a new pattern
by which other poets will write
a new -ameter
one that magically, spiritually
soothed the soul
and caused enlightenment
in any mind of any ear
near enough to hear

but when I found myself clean
and the hot knob turned
as far as it could go
but the water still cold

I stepped out but did not dry off
as I am accustomed to do
instead I went for my pen
but alas by then
my mind lay as blank
as the paper page...

just know, though you will never know,
that I am, though I will never be,
the greatest poet
of the 21st century

Ideal

O damn thee, Plato!
You have ruined me
instilled me with
apathetic fear

never wanting to ruin
never wishing to taint
the thought that I had
whichever it is

unwilling to leave
unwilling to go
I don't want to find out
I don't want to know

and damn this interweb
a spiraling face inside my head
but one quick type
will set it right

and smooth the ripples
of purest thought
reflecting harsh ugly
blinding underminding Truth

no longer any leeway,
no chance, no room
no opportunity to feel

O praise and curse
the death of this ideal!

I'm less the Romantic

I'm less the romantic
with each passing day
the draining heart
has so little left to say

It's not for lack of trying
(well maybe it is)
but work is my love
as well as my mistress

When it comes to women
I have no standards
but unfortunately for me
they sure do have theirs

a cartoonist, a painter, a poet, an actor,
a writer, a reader, a lover, an athlete...

we could watch football
or hockey
or the evening news
or romantic comedy

we could go to a film or a show
or a poetry reading
or a museum opening
or an art expo

we could garden or decorate
or jog or bike or ice skate

we could take the train to the ballgame
and drink twelve beers between us
or we could stay in and fuck
or make love
or read on opposite sides of the couch
fireplace going or not
tea or soda in hand

we could visit her parents
or avoid them if they're cruel
we could go hiding in Europe
we could travel or take a class
at the local community school

we could go out or stay in
we could talk or sleep
we could cook or take-in
or go out to eat

we could have a dog or a cat or a kid
we could have a house or a cottage or a loft
a yard or a radiator
a city at our feet
or no one for miles

we could go to a bar or a ball
or some business banquet

we could help each other dress

she could tie my tie
and show me her dress

and I will actually have an opinion

Intellectual

Drinking red-box-or-bottle wine
Reading Camus' Stranger or Beckett's Godot
Appreciating the Art of Mime
Does not make you intellectual

Writing broken-heart-ed poems
Frequenting the theater show
Wearing sweaters you yourself have sown
I'm sorry you are not intellectual

You may memorize your Shakespeare
You may quote an obscure 80's TV show
You may be from Seattle, New York, or San Francisco
You are still not intellectual

You can support independent film
You can write your existential novel
You can collect Morrissey albums on vinyl
You are still not intellectual

You can shop at thrift stores
You can protest commerce and the wars
You can philoso-phize over what is actual
You are still not intellectual

You can refuse your parents triple-figs
You can refill your green pipe bowl
You can smoke a thousand stupid cigs
You are still, still not intellectual

Old friends

Old friends will sadly remain so

they will only remember
the times that they already know

they will meet for coffee and laugh
but the humor will always be of the past

they will share a dinner a week
commenting on the one before
before retelling the same sad stories

they will laugh and cry as hard each time
for the Truth will never change

Old friends will sadly remain so
they will never
once again
be friends.

What shall we do, my love?

What shall we do, my love?
In this now late afternoon

Shall we take a walk around the block
or stay inside this small tight room

Shall we go see a show
and catch the matinee
or start off the hour happy
and drink the night away

Shall we stay in...

never leave each others eyes
and make love until the evening
when we find ourselves past
time for dinner and end up
making a modest meal at home
flirting half-naked in the kitchen
laughing at newly made jokes,
critiquing our bodies kindly

Shall we have our friends come over
the ones we already don't see
too often or often enough
Shall we play games and drink box wine
and forget about work in the morning

Shall we make it a night we will
remember ourselves by
a night our friends will mark up as
that's them, as usual

Shall we attempt to do the opposite,
and run away from nothing
just board the train until it stops
just board the plane that we first see
on the checker board departures.


If we do, do we do it because it is fun?
Or because we are otherwise done?


But yay, they say
we fit like a hand to a glove


O whatever shall we do, my love?

I sure was lonely (short)

I sure was lonely
living alone

but even when they asked me
I said I was not home

Drinking in his gin

Drinking in his gin
you are none the wiser
proving yet again
the genius of the guiser

He holds your hand in his
at the trough of this abyss
He denotes how you despise her
the composure of the miser

The senseless shape
of his shadowed cape
clouds the cluttered thoughts
you cry to make

Begin again, void a friend
Searching hopeless for the end
He'll give you no news
nor the faintest of clues

Just the dread of those
deepening blues
The clearer it grows,
the more obfuse

The slackening of his hangman's nouse

Cold and curled
Marble fingers unfurled
around your slickening throat

A scuffled scream
straight from the dream
sounding still that sickening emote

His horrible laugh
straight from the past
or present, future still

the lowering of your will...

She took the train

She took the train
down the tracks
and she never once looked back

and I never went to look again

I just stayed with my boy
who just plays with his toys

but he used to smile more often

Vincent Van Gogh

Vincent Van Gogh
tends bar at my local pub

He diligently fills glasses
checks tables
flirts with women

And plays with his beard when he gets
a moment to himself
His eyes lost past the dark mahogany
Pastel paint dripping through his thoughts

He laughs with my mates
sharing stories and scoffing at love

He nods his head in welcome
when you thank him for your
fish and chips

He cleans each glass with care
And pours a perfect finish every time

He hears poorly even though
the place is never terribly crowded
You still must shout as he tips his head
to one side and squints his brow

His eyes never seem to listen
even if he may hear you

He says he lives nearby,
in passing conversation,
but I cannot imagine him
existing outside these
dark and framing walls

Except that once when
I saw him in San Francisco
He seems to confirm that he was there
but shows no memory of having been
Whenever talk leaves the
warm atmosphere of the pub
He brings his shoulders together as he shuffles his feet
He busies himself with anything
often dropping a pint or two
He changes topic maliciously
and always mentions he will be closing shop soon
even if we are already well past that time
We leave curtly and I tell myself
not to refer to such subjects
when next I see him

But in a drunken daydream,
a twisted inebriated curiosity
a pissed passion of knowing more
Always strikes me

and next I see him,
Jolly and Jovial,
as if I never angered him

never struck a chord
that painted him the wrong color

I've seen my days and plenty more

I've seen my days and plenty more
and if I watch my daughter die
I'll have seen too many

I beg of You,
not for god's sake,
but for mine

Spare her life
even if it means
the expense of mine
for it isn't any expense at all
without the value of her in it

Music

As Music rounds the corner
She gives a soft and kind hello
Music invites you into the next room with her
She lays you down and makes love to you

Music touches your whole body
tingling even your blonde hairs
as they raise from your neck
in ecstasy

Music intoxicates you
You drink her passion in
until you are quite tipple and tuned

Music taps your chest in tempo
as she tells you fondly of her childhood
or vehemently of her first love

Music breathes loudly into your ear
Her volume increasing with each breath
She tightens the muscle in your leg
causing your foot to curl

Music bites your lobe
and kisses your eyelids sweetly
Music raps her legs around your body
and brings you in close

Music infatuates your heart
increasing its speed to her rhythm
while your eyes grow oddly tired
closing off everything that is not her

that is not rapture
that is not Music

as she envelopes you inside of her

I'm free until they cut me down

I'm free until they cut me down
I'm silent until I make a sound
Alive until I'm in the ground
But I'm always running from
that bastard hound

He comes knocking up my door
doesn't say what he's knocking for

In fifty years

In fifty years
when we have miniature horses and shit
that you can hold in the palm of your hand,
how cute that would be.
But also how fucking sad that would be.
They would break their legs so easily.
You would have to hold their
poor tiny suffering bodies
up to a giant gun barrel and blow them away.
or ....OR....
you would have to manufacture tiny little rifles
and take them out tenderly!

Drunk Poetry

I need to stop writing drunk poetry

sloppy is the writing
and the rhyme
dull is the plot
too long duration-time
weak is the subject
usually myself
the kind of shit
even I'd leave on the shelf

I often repeat one line,
as I really do every time I write,
when I struggle for inspiration
I find one I enjoy and continuously
try to work off of it

I often repeat one line,
too tired to think
to poor a writer to actually write
although I'm sure sometimes
in my drunken state
I've actually forgotten I used it already,
a spark of wonder opens my slit-ed eyes,
my eyebrows crack upwards
shattering the pane of my forehead
as I scribble maliciously
contently recording another
brilliant and original enlightened thought
oh what a silly sloshed Saddartha am I!

I often repeat one line,
under the assumption it gives
poem structure
under the impression it adds
pleasant rhythm
I should have read
less Whitman,
maybe more Yeats or Keats
or Byron
I should have started with
one great line
perhaps the only one you'll remember
and ended in a nice
perhaps thoughtful couplet
something-something sublet

I often repeat one line,
and instead of ending
like the Aristotle
I usually have my last stanza
be the same as the first stanza
so it seems a clever ending
or so at least I end
as strongly as I began
I should realize I am writing a poem
I should come to some sad yet beautiful conclusion
not revert to my best joke
like some sorry stand-up comedian

I suppose the conclusion here is:

I need to stop writing drunk poetry.

Halloween Shalloween

There was a boy
young and curious
he had no toys
his father was very serious

and on Halloween night
his giddiness exponential
He'd set to make it right
dressed in a costume rental
he'd prepare to go out

his dad would shout,
"You're not leaving this house tonight,
by God, this blasphemy simply isn't right
My son shall not be seen,
No sir, not on Halloween!"

He'd stay in
swearin'
loathing the busy street
with sweaty palms and shuffling feet
he'd sit on his cold window-ledge
staring out over a crippled willow-hedge
his eyes would water with wanton delight
and scrutinize the once scary
now weary night
ghosts and knights and ghouls
he watched them caravan by in large car pools
Encompassed in his Christian home
some spirit still some-what shown
on the door: a cross of bone

With his porch light off
and froth from his father's
open jaw he saw
little children sweetly passing
but his father, pacing,
barking raw and shrieking fast,
the old man cried, "Stay off my grass!"

Yes, the kids all hated his old man
and would fight back as best they can
A swear and glare
beneath their sweaty mask
anything above a mumble
was a grueling task

In turn they hated him
O it seems he could not win

Confusion

Blurry-white.

Everything is illuminated, light encompasses
all sides in a narrow tunnel-vision.
A few voices. Pick them up as if
wearing headphones that play their track
of conversation, converting mild to morbid with imagination.
Ignored, not even there,
your brow furrows to spell a scream.
They gesture and judge, arguing articulately.
Focus on their hands, reading only the last page.
It lifts and falls trying to
convince and convey.

It does neither

Death doth strike!

Death doth strike!
Knells do knoll!

Death, I thought,
take me then!
Death, I wonder,
how and when?