I knew could never grow on me.
And even now I’m thinking
if I could go back to those
black-and-white times, would I
be the lazy strokes of a dull
pencil, grayer than even my best friend’s
face as she trembled the vase
of her last breaths in buttery hands?
Or, if I could go back, would I
be the sting of a sharpened
pencil, scratching initials
into trees, digging into
the bark the shorthand
for you and me?
I think, though, if I fell back
in time, I wouldn’t hit the ground
as some lampshade of twilight –
I would fall as a dripping black of midnight –
a surface that glass
could never scratch, even if it tried.
The Night Brought Rain
I imagine it must get lonely
behind those sunglasses sometimes.
I see them and I think
of a crowd of alleyways that
see my way home in the evenings
as I’m leaving work or school
or any of the other hurts that pest
at my heels.
If I’m lucky, I sometimes
see you peering over the
sunglasses, your blue eyes
water lapping over like some
thirsty dog at the bowl’s rim.
Sure, you may still be
the smiles I knew last year
but not even sunglasses
can cover up the rogue
tear running your cheek,
looking for the nearest
ocean to dive in.
The Night Wears Black to the Morning
I will, I will
guide you by the arm
and walk you
through this darkness
drawn from a pitch sky
alive with snuffed
stars frowning through
death masks for faces.
I will blindfold my notes
in half and pass them to
you as we sit through this
crumbling lectern of a class –
with the blinds pulled
closed as shadow puppets
grow wings and float at the
mere change of the
puppeteer’s hands.
I know the room’s too dry
of light and that my writing
is hard enough to read at
times – especially in this
dark room of frozen tears
and frostbit lips splashed
across negatives. So
I strain my hand and spray
the paper with a pen until
each word sloshes with ink,
until each word is a Black Sea.
Let your fingers swim through
the inky waters, learn to read
the calm songs I sing
as sticky words like love
dry against your palm,
as black drips down
and stains your sleeve.
North Wind
“Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I
but when the trees bow down their heads,
the wind is passing by.”
-Christina Rossetti
I’m growing old,
I’m growing old,
as the day wilts petals –
as the night’s might
revels – while the moon
rises up to say it’s bold.
I have begun learning
to pronounce the lines on
my forehead. I have begun
learning to read between
those lines, waiting for my
life sentence’s period to rush by –
although I hope it’s a comma instead.
As the days drag on,
the clock-face sags down.
We can tell from its frown
that it’s 7:25 in the evening,
leaving us to find candles
to handle the load that
the sun pulls. And still
this north wind rolls as
the world freezes and folds.
But although I know my heart
I know that the clock’s pendulum
still rocks to a 1 o’clock,
a 2 o’clock,
a 3 o’clock,
4….
The Rubicon Through London (Eliot)
“We had this rather lugubrious man in a suit, and he read a poem…I think it was called The Desert. And first the girls got the giggles and then I did and then even the King.”
-The Queen Mother, describing a reading T. S. Eliot gave to the Royal Family
Pendulums knock the hours between the
orchestra sections – all those different
tongues, all greeting the same morning.
They’re all earthy voices, rising as Babel fell,
like sunflowers that rose as the moon fell in mourning.
The sun is wrapped in her sooty blanket of midnight –
it has suited her rather well in her frostier years.
Meanwhile, Ben counts down the hours, his face
atlantic blue as he trumpets from atop his tower.
All any of us ever wanted was more time and time
and that was what we got as the day dragged on,
clinking the minutes behind it like chain links.
I remember being younger, how we would jump
around on the smoky stairs of the city,
the chimney tops laughing ink for steps
that we stepped like the kings and queens
we pretended to be. The kings and queens
we were supposed to grow up to be.
We would push our toy trains through those
underground rails, flicking miniature boats
beneath those bridges, all before Ben called
us to dinner deep in the Abbey’s shadows.
As we grew older, the city grew older,
as we grew, the city grew,
as we grew older, the city grew.
Little did we know our homespun city would lose itself in its ambitions –
to the point that when we looked back at the paths we carved in the streets,
we asked ourselves, “Are these still the streets that we remember?”
The Sun Rose from Our Sinking Boat
The sun rose from our sinking boat,
the light rising like candles tossed up at the sky
as if Grandpa wanted to catch
the moon on fire. But Grandpa’s sun
fell quicker than lumber at
the lumberjack’s hands. We
watched our sun dive down and drown
in the night waters that chopped our
balsa boat down to wars and peaces.
“Get another flare ready,” said Grandpa,
“and be ready to fire.”
Another morning came
a few moments later.
The Whales Sung
It’s a modern world we live in –
I can dance my eyes
across this universe,
seeing stars that burnt
out years ago yet
I’m still learning to
wash the day away
as I stand out at sea,
wreathing my legs in barnacles.
I always wanted to hear
the whales sing their
whale songs and I always
wanted a violin so that
I could hum my fingers
on the strings and play
along
and I always wanted
to run away from my office
mind that I’ve divided into
little cubicles, each
of which never seem to mind
their own
business.
I have
a wish list of loves I want
to hold like music on
the phone – yet all
I have is a want to run
the shores of some island
or world that we’ve never
seen before.
So I cried wolf
and grew blankets over my
head and slept in the river
bed for the evening.
Their Deaths Held Roses
Their deaths held roses which
winged their hands with blushing feathers –
each feather rusted – each feather
a phoenix climbing the steps
of embers the
setting sun drenched
this world – our world – with.
All the sleeping hearts lap
up the sun to keep warm
through these blindcane nights.
But while we crawl
and thirst on a fickle trickle,
their deaths become
a phoenix and climb the water of
the sun falls.
There’s No Reckless You
I always thought that you were
even three steps at a time –
far from a careful Icarus. They
called you reckless, but I should
have called you humble. Why?
Well, the Father always called
heaven a home for the meek.
But the Father never
said there was anything
that heaven looked up to –
there is no modest heaven, just like
there is no reckless you.
September 9, 2011
Third Rail
A railroad is like a lie; you have to keep building it to make it stand.
–Mark Twain
Our spirit was laid before us like train tracks
that stitched steel into the bleeding cracks.
Those tracks will carry us on its back over
the valleys and gorges, speeding up to
show us the gorgeous tomorrow for
just the price of today.
When night falls and bruises her palms,
we lay our heads on the
open windows and gaze upwards,
pretending up is down and down is up
and that we’re bouncing between the stars –
this time, the tracks follow our lead
as we trace out the constellations,
our fingertips for pencils.
We fill the stencil in with a shine,
the spilt ink dripping up
and pooling in the overhead lights
of the train car.
And sure, you’re the third rail –
although you make me run,
you could kill me simply
with a little hug.
February 3, 2010
This Denmark Still Smells like a Barnyard
Pushed against these spine-tingled masses,
I see defeat seed its way into the
chipped lookingglass, which ripples with
cries and gasps. I see the mentor’s slap
give way to the banker’s greed; I see
the bullwhip lapped up while the
chained world gets catscratched up in
the acid rainfalls.
The tide is turned,
the fire’s burned,
yet this Denmark still smells like a barnyard.
This Green is Golden Now
This Green is golden leaves now –
each of them fallen like crimson saints
or fainted Victorians – rotting
their way into the soil
while the oily maple air flames its way
through the grasses. Those
snakes beckon us towards
the syrup bleeding from the trees.
The creaking of the branches
mention the bench we’re
sitting on, the legs cackling
as we lean forwards and backwards.
Our words mute the
brittle old man legs as they
count down into splinters –
the dreams of being matches
is somewhat gone but not forgotten in its
lingers.
This Is The World
This is the world that confused you.
Here’s the me
that loves the world that confused you.
That’s the too-short life
of the me
that loves the world that confused you.
Here’s to the simmered winters
of the too-short life
of the me
that loves the world that confused you.
This is the point where all makes sense.
This is the picture in the hole in the fence
of all the simmered winters
of this too-short life
that splinters the me
that loves the world that confused you.
I write with erasers smudged with ink
to point where all these things make sense.
I draw out the picture in the hole in the fence
that simmers in winters, trying to stretch
this too-short life
that sheds off the me
that loves the world that confused you.
And with other hollow followers beginning to think,
I spill world into words with erasers of ink
to point out the word that makes all sense.
Can’t you picture the hole in the fence
of the winters that shiver and all makes sense?
True, this too-short life
flower petals off me
but still I love the world that confused you.
This World Is Too Large to Contain Me
This world is too large to contain me –
these vast plains fenced in as
backyards – the picket fence
bending in the wind –
these seas called lakes
I only wish that I could
swim– all this I get
lost and caught up in,
a massive empty that
I cannot measure myself
against.
Thunder Through the Valley
Sound waves whip and trip
through the sounds of time,
filling empty hands
with a five and six of spades
to give us a full house
to sing our hearts
to.
We whirl and wind
the microphone cord
in a whirlwind
about our finger’s spine
as we try
as we try
to find the best way
to stray from common minds set
to stone.
The tears we’ve wept are stone-
cold, swept across our cheeks
like storms that thunder,
like worms that wander
through the center of an apple
grown from the earth,
an apple that is the Earth
for a lack of better word.
Everything is tempting –
even this microphone looks
like a slice of heaven
mentioned only to those
who know how to flip the switch
and turn it on.
We are poets, drawn to the words
we spawn from muses that have
long since died or moved on.
We are what we build upon.
And when – or if – you applaud,
your flick of wrists can make
my house of cards
fall down harder
than any crisp glare
or fist can.
So when I hear you clap,
I know I must b
uild my house again,
but this time, I know I will build it stronger.
So please, I beg of you,
please clap harder and longer.
Tonight as the Beginning of Always
Remember tonight as the beginning of always,
the end to wilted flowers,
the trickling ticktickticking of
that clock of ours – the one that
was beginning to forget the order
in the hours – the end to green
Mays that gave way
to crackled summers –
the sonnets that ended
a line too soon – the bread
that fell as it grew in swells –
the days that drifted as clouds
between us and the loud stars of space –
remember tonight as the beginning of always.
Too Short To Play Your God
You’re too short to play your god,
even with your trembling.
Still, you try so hard in rehearsal.
Although your words can only
dream up some deity – they’re still
too wild with forgotten commas
and rushed speech that seems
as if you want the troubles
to end as soon as they begin.
They’re human in all the wrong
ways – the mistakes
fated to be too deep
a stain for your rugs to cover up.
They aren’t human with the
love that, in theory, the
centuries have drummed into us.
They aren’t human
with the heartbeat sympathy –
not the swollen cheese that
sweats in the greeting cards –
but the sympathy that we
are we. This is something
you’ve forgotten – that you’ve
wanted to forget – and so
you are just you now,
dripping alien to the rest of us.
November 14, 2010
Trading Postcards
She painted my mail with postcards
and put the whole world in