in an irresponsible wonder i sat
staring at the debt i created
wishing it away but not pushing it
just taking it in
negative for negative
stamping my future with finality and grace
chains and torture
stale and bitter
beautiful in its stability

lie. go on do it some more. it's refreshing. it's not been like this in so long i have forgotten how it tastes.

like a strong perfume. bitter.

hate it in my mouth

especially when you put it in there
with your
mouth.

sliding it in
sometimes
unnoticed
til i wake

feel like im choking

undigested

matter

tell me again these things that are not true
defend it
viciously
until i see it
and say it
and then beg me
viciously
blame me for having to do it
of course
it's me

and who of my friends
loyal to know the number
is in jail tonight

if there was a king
to him
id pay him homage
with incense and murals
in oiled acrylic blood matter
profess my darkest love
for all things savior and political
save me from myself
o reign over me
the wildest plebeian you ever saw
torn tights turned black from the sky drip tar
keep it all together
to overthrow
at the most unexpected time

loving him
is like standing in traffic
during rush hour

a chest of secret and a heart of lie
build it up to break it in two
watch it all
fly

away to the gorges
to the avenues paved in purpose
flitting, fighting, breathing,
biting

a piece of hard round pulse
echoing in a valley
reminder of the alive
cry

reading macbeth
to myself in a chair torn
watching trains
on an empty stage
go in circles
clicking
on wooden tracks
splintered from age
and little boy hands

30
thirty
years

wasted?
dreamt in?
dreamt out of?
worth it?
unworthy?

how did i get here?

why did i want to seek soulful things?

its painful and it hurts
and im suddenly allowed to complain
and i dont have anyone to complain to

how can i confront that which has hurt me
if it's gone already
i waited too long

im sorry your sick
she said to her father
sweetly
apologetic
genuine
beautiful
kind
mine

"you've been," my psychologist said staring into her legal paid, "passed around like a cigarette."

she didnt make eye contact

i nodded in unison with the bird outside the window at the feeder gobbling up the white and black speckled seeds

if i knew what anger was
i'd be filled with it
to the brim
boiling over
like lava
dripping
to rivers
flowing
in pools toward him

i dream in gray and red... loving and ready

they say i sung him into my island to keep him
however
this is untrue
i was lonely
and god told me
he was out there
lonely too

a siren sweltering
beneath a sun bright moon
shadowed by solitude
and an inability to differentiate love from wanting

never wanted to keep him
just know him
for the hours he was near

damn it
he said
realizing he wasn't the first one to break my heart

submitted 4 pieces in 2 days.
excited.
happy to have a folder to pull from.
sad to have not sent anything earlier.
afraid of rejection.
more afraid of dust.

set myself apart
against a wall
fingers
i imagine digging in
as not to fall
over or in
waiting
breath held tight in my ribs
for the pulse to resign

i stole something of my therapists from her waiting room. there, i said it.

revisiting 1492
without illusion
with reflection
with bourbon
and shrug

girls in courtyards
holding their dresses to their knees
balancing acts they have written
on napkins in diners
coffee stained
and burnt with glances
never taken
but given

im tempted to tell you that i am going to burn your house down
preferably with you
in it
wearing your mothers robe
and your fathers slippers
sipping white wine
and talking on the phone to a new lover
from amsterdam
who calls you
ricardo
it's richard
and ill remind you of this while you burn

to give myself
in heightened states
of unselfishness
causing a creation of purpose
without doubt
drowning in the relevance
of beauty
keeping touch with manifestations
referred to as
love

the
leven
taken sweetly smile
bed hold sheet
he
turns against the grain
of seam
in
to me
loving me
madly

someday somebodys gonna ask you
a question that you should say yes to

watching flower petals wilt
uninspired by boring desks

he's drinking a beer
free
out there
in a
readytosnow world
while i sit here
at a desk
working
one-fourth heartedly
wishing
i were there

beat
drink
love

i wrote him a poem
in spanish
he said
he felt like he was on fire

fueg . . . something
os... es... as...

signed his journal

fuegos....

i told him about it
he read it
and rolled his eyes

i wanted to set him

on fueg.....something

radiation
radiating
love
loving
bombs
bombing
mass murderers
mass murdering
dreams
dreaming
waiter
waiting
drinker
drinking
fighters
fighting


i am tired
this coffee doesn't help
headache
the size of georgia
sunrise
sinking
in my living room
where i feel
like im dying

i was asked by the bodhi
if the me at
nine
would like the me at
twenty nine
i asked him him if he was hungry

and you can live
in my bomb shelter
when the fall out
falls out
cranking the vinyl
mama cass
shaking around the cement
as we eat pancakes
and rice
remembering blue skies
and grass
you can recreate rome
in a play
with socks
and i can
recite you bob dylan
while you barricade the doors
drinking wine
waiting for the wind to come

woken
but not yet
awake
staring into darkness
wishing
someone
was
awake
having been woken
by my breath

thinking of arbor hill and art exhibits in november emphasizing the differences

there is a midnight
somewhere
as i stand
in my own shadow
here

with children not sleeping
walking
streets til dawn

with fathers not planning
futures
lost on the moment

with mothers not weeping
wandering
effortlessly careless unamused

street lights flicker off on off
nothings changed
just hours moved
hours like seconds
if not
less than
perfect in its imperfection
art gained
on the interpretation
of outsiders
looking in

snapshots
oils
mosaics

sad baby eyes
crumbled buildings
handcuff designs
and
all the white people cry
as they outbid one another to have something
real
so real
so beautiful
so touching
in their living room
so all their white friends
who come to dinner
can cry too
wish they had been there to buy it
wanting one of their own
because they know
they feel it
they
sympathize
empathize
they were told they were so compassionate once in middle school
and well
they are
they dont lock their doors when they drive through - the car does that when you put it in drive
they dont avoid contact - they have to watch the road, they are careful drivers
they dont not stop at gas station - they just have gas and besides the one up on Madison is cheaper
they dont have to prove themselves to anyone - they have plenty of black friends
henry for example
he's from detroit
if that's not a fine example
well, i dont know what is
ol henry he was from what some call the 'ghetto' and he made it out
he went to college
henry's a doctor in boston
he's black
i like him
see i dont have a problem
that's why i want a painting
i bet henry'd like that painting too


there is a midnight
somewhere
as i stand
in my own shadow
here

with children not sleeping
walking
streets til dawn

with fathers not planning
futures
lost on the moment

with mothers not weeping
wandering
effortlessly careless unamused

street lights flicker off on off
nothings changed
just hours moved
hours like seconds
if not
less than
perfect

with anguish
comes art

with art
comes anguish

he pushes his finger into the vodka cranberry between us stirs it around and brings the damp flesh to his mouth. i watch and wait for him to respond to my question. i dig a fingernail into my palm nervous, wanting, afraid that he found my question stupid or immature.

"I'd say i dont have much inspiration left." he laughed. his dark eyes avoided mine and he brought his glass to his mouth. the red swirled against the white of his moustache. he was at least 3 times my age. he was beautiful. and difficult. and elusive.

"well you have to have some to come here and play piano every night."

"as much as a pavlov dog, as much as a circus elephant. they get peanuts, i get vodka. and you say here like it's somewhere special, come on now darling, it's a glorified Days Inn, the only thing special about the joint is that i've yet to ejaculate on a bathroom wall, but i kid you not, my time is coming. no pun intended."

"Doc, you ready for another?" the bartender called from behind the bar.

"no Brady, thank you. you darling?"

"no."

the bartender dropped his head back to his scratch offs and continued to finger his own bottle of beer.

"i think people who play instruments, or sing, or 'do' art, are inspired in some way. I mean, if you arent, why not do something else?"

"Im over 70 darling, what do you suggest i do? work at stewarts? be a roofer?"

he has cut through all of my thoughts. questions. interest. i am a mere drunken patron at the bar, and he is the drunken piano player. i take a drink of my gin and he reaches over the table to grab my wrist. his hand is large, thick, strong, calloused.

"why do you do that?" he turns my arm over revealing the tattoo on my wrist. it is a typewriter key. a letter. J. for my mother. June.

"do what?"

"stink up the flesh with this garbage?"

i pull my hand out of his. he is uninterested. i am drunk. he is a jerk. he is old. i finish my drink and slide to the edge.

"what?" he laughs. condescending. aware of his insults and uncaring.

i walk toward the door.

"wait, what's your name?"

i continue. i slip my fingers beneath the handle.

"you've come here every night for three weeks and you can't tell me your name? you know mine!"

i push the door feeling the heat of august on my face.

"if you ever, change your mind about leaving me ... behind, baby, bring it to me, bring your sweet loving, bring it on home to me..." he begins to sing behind me. and i turn. i am weak.

"you laughed when i left, but you only hurt yourself." I respond. i lean on the door still open. he stands. he walks toward the door.

*

hard coded
to keep you
out

dear world...

keep me in your prayers.

love,
jack.

back road
farm house
short dress
cigarette crushed
wait it out
on a crooked porch
leaning on a crocked doorway
sweat steals down sternum
lucinda spinning
jukebox lust
breath slow
headlight shadow
desperate silohuette
nail flesh
hand mouth
tongue throat
a moon filled
a sky turned on
a field blossomed
an hour lost
an hour found
over before
it begins
alone
on a crocked porch

toast for breakfast
irish mist
felt like family
in a strange home
smells i would later recognize
as
love
and acceptance
approval total
complete actuality for my BE
sixteen


midnight baseball games
with a town full of
good ol boys
and booze
bases created of garbage cans
filled with fire
toe safe
giggle flirt
ferris wheel summer romance

lost in a spiral of
who did what for me
when
and no im sorry
but you can't
see them
again

shake my head
close my eyes
burn the memories
stop the cries

..................

and for ani turn:

you cant sell me...on your optimism


it takes a stiff upper lip
just to hold up my face
i got to suck it up and savor
the taste of my own behavior

this is not who i meant to be
this is not how i meant to feel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MRbyE9FVQ-0&feature=related

shocked
through the head
the top
the pale blonde
wheat seep through
the floor
bored with the way he traces his finger down my
fore
armed
with a clarity
and a vengence unmatched
stare at me
with eyes small
black diamond cursing pupil
metamorph into something cautious
creationist
keep my in your black book
list
number
7
on weekends
and tuesdays she doesn't come out
too busy with
words
and
phrases
her aggression
her frigid phases
turn the style beg
you come home
before theh winter begins

and i keep my things in boxes
labeled
safely
for movement
quickly

tiny stemmed women
being dropped by careless
men
wishing they were
placed
in windowsills
with a little bit of light

careful in my brown shoes
ice walk sun rise
thinking of beautiful arms
and legs
and feet
nails painted
in heels
belonging to women
in iceland
wondering if they
notice

i am not my mothers favorite daughter.
i am not my mothers favorite child.
i am not my mothers first thought in the morning.
i am not my mothers last thought in the night.

i am not my fathers daughter.
i am not my fathers child.
i am not my fathers first thought in the morning.
i am not my fathers last thought in the night.

my daughter is my favorite daughter.
my daughter is my favorite child.
my daughter is the first thought in the morning.
my daughter is the last thought in the night.

.

reps. sper.
pers. erps.

i eat rilke
with salt
swallowing his heart whole
without savoring
his pulse
or purpose

the passengers looked at each other
with worry
with curiosity
with
anticipation

they took to holding hands
and praying

they showered their coats with tears
they comforted one another by speaking in short sentences

the bus pulsed ahead
without forgiveness

denver called
wants its heart back
in one piece
please

sweat slip down thigh
toward a tapestry covered earth
glowstick boundary
thousands disappear
there
is
just
two.

last night
first love
awake
wide
shivering
sparkling
swaying
swirling

bass licks moon light
~vision true~
hands twined tongues twirled
~rather be with you~

room. so small. square. hard to breathe. valentines. water in tiny cups. gasping. circumstance weary. blue light. glare. no reassuring. nothingness. cradling stillness.

there is a rende in your vous
a smile within your smirk
a shrug surrounding your careless truth



i'm living in a bird house
that you built

a nest of nail
and sliver

branches of arm and hearts
around my spine
squeezing
tightening

breath short
rapid flight
dalliance of dreamers

a thin vein run through green silk kiss stem
wind blow
blue sky
starry supplication

supplanter
sub
plant
her
supple
planter

bending over stained wrist
dirt ink
maiden sow
reap the boys
spare the hearts
toss the rest to compost

filming a dream

dreaming of filming.

evade my question
and turn the palm
upright
asking for my palm
downward
touch
shock
guilty holy guru
beggar
beg her
this begging has left bruises

martyrs in their aprons
holding their babies heads
arthritic hands
pulling through
hair
knotted with tear
and oil
hushing
rocking

graveyards
and
dementia
invading

no one is home.

cordial
and
hair cuts
wood floors
and
grinning
window plants
and
snow walks

something in the way
she kept her will about her
like a tendril of hair
falling in front of her face
unnoticed in her focus

i feel i own too much.
stuff around me.
drowning me.
i want to get rid of it all.
empty it.
as it
empties me.
distracts me from myself.

inspired by....

bird wallpaper in bathrooms of old farmhouses
dusty chandeliers
candles
two televisions
zombies
brains
z's with $ signs
hair dids
and
my resolutions