May, 2018

you always loved, despite the art
the impetuous
the impoverished
loved the submissive, smaller, quieter version

made regular retreats to holy landings
awash with dolls, records, bad dinners, and holocaust
replete with sanitizer, blood, spinal fluid, and remorse

we couldn’t find that signal
looking, days, mornings, fire, from behind
in crevasses, tantrums, fantasies and heroic feats
of cosplay she-roes, of mystical magical beasts.

You went down slow, imperceptible.
Carrying the porous bones through sand
wishing them lighter, but more important
wanting a simpler story
for us, you said.

catcalls and dance halls,
you took me in ecstatic arms
and showed me what forbidden was
in the mist of the midst of
that ocean sadness, that Mack truck of

fuck, I can’t.
I need to fly, you know?
I won’t endure the thumb
or the girl boy her they him madness

love me, and see my dark rooms
all I ask, is twenty seconds of this
thirty or more, and I’m done
whisper your prophecy so only I will hear.

And say my name, sweet, sweet one.
Sing it like a howling Memphis

July heat.

Basil in the window

Shifting in molar, sliding shove ways
I see the day for what it is
What song are you?
How is it, world dwellers, that we human so well
And still eat the night so that it will in turn swallow us?

The dark, a cheval glass, spoke the volumes we needed
For intimate solitude and a resounding hand check
The silence made us stone deaf with want
The emergence of our renaissance
catechizing our throats in the heat

The trees burst like overripe oranges
Each breeze a torpedo, a lesson for the contented, rested, untroubled.

Metallic crunch no lunch close your door it’s dark and they are coming for your television.

Sigh in amorous eve, close to what we need
Pestle the tight spots, bruise the tradition
Take only the most tasteless of pictures

In the mind’s eye of the storm
There is a quiet, quiet clue
A hushed doctrine, spoken in some ancient tongue
It whispers of secrecy, nectarines, and the wind.

I closed my eyes so tight I saw stars.
Got so naked I felt the inside of the womb
Sweated so endearingly, I became a pillar of salt
Danced so hard I was ecstasy, Holy Ghost!
A lover zealot, a rain shaked parodist, a libidinous priest, torpid, hot, pious.

The score was populated with strings, crickets
sand castles
and the oldest religions.

I thought how nice it would be to kiss your eyes.

I would love to, OR, how we might behold.

III
a guitar pick and a romp for the black cat
3 bands later it was still moving and
I could feel the calm start to seep in
We can rest here

(and the drummer’s mouth is open because he’s pounding, the guitar player broke his third string, the microphone is just receiving screams because after so many songs what is there to do but scream)

I can’t hear anything
and planets surge forward
in this two-horse town of trees
and all those barren bodies look in frenzy for the tonight in the ones next to them, across from them, upstairs from them, down the bar…
but the pounding is still ferocious
and how can they ignore
oh the best
part
when all the drinks bought make the guys on stage a little reckless and
shit gets louder, even
and each word is a prayer said over
sinewy arms, ringed fingers, nicotine lips…

And that fateful moment
“Thank you, Goodnight”
the white light blast our eyes
making women wish waterproof was for real
making stagger a zip code
making cabs chariots
making the cold night a question mark for the leftover
the lonely
the lascivious

the cold slaps me
and on nights like last night
I start running fast into the black
into the cold
splitting it in two
with The Queen is Dead across my chest
just to feel the blood pound into my face

I know it’ll come again because
the Pour house is there, the Lincoln there
and so many to see
and so many nights to
welcome
this breakneck, lovely cold splitting Midnight.

(when we replace the thought of us with birds, and release us into clouds that eat us whole, spitting out the seeds)
There’s a novelty to breathing
Held fast tight fat pockets grasping inside hand reaching
Angelwhere.
I wished you would hold me
Just for seconds of course
I can’t stay the course
I gotta bang-bang all over my psyche and talk future like
Wanting for ambition to take hold
Waiting for the wings to melt
I gotta slam into dem bones I see
In my dreams, vain, glorious
Wanting for a darker knight, a darker fight
A false fevering fleshed out soldier
Wanting more of that light, six shooters bright
But it just gets colder
Those sheets just get colder,
that sunbeam where you were gets colder.
That hotel room, that coffee those moments
Like smoke, get colder
A double A
double offering, the sky,  sucked us right in.
Changeling children and
Madly doting lovers reminded me that I could laugh.
For extra comfort I held my own hand.
And the blue up high had a circling bird
Tethered to Jehovah and the angels it flew circle wise into darker
Tree ridden areas for rest.
And I got a letter from Jehovah today.
Those chain letters that
piece together all of the unknowns

II
Whether I be chicken, deviant, cartoon mug or frost
I am shrouded in hair, black
guarded by feet, convex
healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same summer and wisher
I can’t help but think that those rocks in
Virginia’s pockets each had a weight of their own
One, four pounds, one twenty
Each girded in express melancholy

I
Feel ten degrees warmer thinking of you
Gentility in approach
Fingers on the underside of my chin
Hands grasping lower back for fear of slipping
Perspiration lining the runway of spine and hip
Each freckle accounted for
Triple Decker sunshine candy girl has five feet
Of surging words for apathetic ears
I miss that room where boys dance on heads,
girls shake words from a stone
Jesus freaks with crayons pattern stigmatic guitar rifts
And Queen of nightlife moves through the room like some silver
Beauty ghost with eyes that stop trains
And hands that can hold a child with no fear
So yeah, I’ll spout them, three and with heart
I’ve run out of what calms the race, so we’ll see if
Grass will grow on faster ground
On hands made of war, and breath composed of brown eyes, wandering
Consumption just doesn’t work, but I keep it up despite
Monster premonitions and tighter belts

Angel come, come and fit fever on your wing
Angel run your hand through my eyes and pull out the softer girl
With hair of silk
thighs of green

thoughts of pounding hooves.

Dreaming big, and dainty, winsome, poet-honey.

Sometimes its the sound of it. The way it drags across skin, sand and other deterrents
Sometimes its the perfect way it slides into spots, unaware
Sometimes its the way it shoves down into the horizon, plowing day into inky black
Sometimes its the way it slows me as a walk out Midtown door in morning time

Last night I dreamt of someone next to me
In t-shirt sheets whispering instructions
On how to get to Mexico. It wasn’t so very far.
Completely unlit we only shared territory and exhalation
Wilting blue covering head neck chin and so forth
We vaulted the window with unseen pinions,
Alighted in some desert place.
I could see who it was then.

I was surprised you followed me here.
My compromise for Mexico was justified and
the scorpion dancing the jig, told me
we didn’t have far to go
You picked a far off orange tree for rest
And my palm was traced by your forefinger, unique
“-comer de mi boca, comerme mi peligro.”

It was a subtle kiss when it landed. Thirty seconds or more
We were less than an inch lip to lip.
Then the distance closed,proximity was everything
It tasted of three things:
ice, lime and sweet honey.
You whispered a small prayer, there, over my eyes
some Latin ditty meant to seduce
( Your hands rested in chastity on my sunburned knees)
(My hands, aching, did not rest, but remain good at heart).
When my lids lifted back over my eyes, of course, you were gone.
Gone to some other dream, I suppose.
Ginger, freckled, Sandman.
And again I was in some foreign place filled with wet trees
And fog like fingers, alone.
The sun was makin his descent, and I heard some creature moan for moon

Call me back. I ‘m gonna be baptized
By that rain, hold it holy, like the Grotto, in my hands
and pray for economic mercy, digging in the dirt mercy,
medicinal mercy, theatrical mercy
I’m gonna burrow my black head into those metabolic fantasy trees
I’m gonna have to be sucked
sucked into that river again
where I have to swim for light
where I have to find my feet, lashes, breasts
again.
skin brown, freckles ablaze, muscles sore, time snarled
and tree after tree after mountain after hipster after hippie after sea to shining sea after California, Oregon, Mount Saint Helen’s, Memphis, Portland, Chicago oh

Oh, oh.
I’m with you
I’m with you
I’m with you in charred remains of great lands
I’m with you in bunk beds
campfires, estranged houses
under those crazy stars with the bugs that light in symphony for us
splash me in that rain, get me wet up to my hazel eyes in it
drown me in what is right in front of me,
teach me angel ways
Cataclysmic lovers, poets, carnal midnight madmen
I love you
(And god’s fingers are here
lipsticked in drag-queen red,
howling a sticky ballad
every celestial vein)
(And those crazy Thracians!
Philomel in her hut,
having those things done that he did
and then  all becoming those crazy birds)

Maybe we can do that
become those birds– when we get the nights back,
When the explosions stop.

Just so you know,
the house in our dream was made of glass,
each several window blown sugar,
each strand of sugar spider webs,
each web the finest dew line,
each dew line the stuff of dreams
I have the smell of it by my bedside,
It produced tributary tears in the getting of it,

To report an outage, call quickly.
And wait. Wait.
It will assemble. And things will be free of bands of paper, case, and cage.

But I knew it was you, Velour bottomed and cat cradled
vehicular comrade and cloud kissed
Street sweeper of The brave new world!
You spoke in tongues and the bribes were left unanswered
And the bush burned and tomorrow came
And I tasted hope metallic on Soft palette
It swam with so many other sweet things
The treble of your solitude suicide in my ear, your eager million dollar hands on my face, the halo of pursuit in the covers, the dim light of morning and
Beethoven only a whisper and a promise away.
This was the stuff that the cinema can’t even catch
It housed too much paint and long fire to be funnelled into in any dark room
It canvassed a field somewhere in some land sans gravity, eloquence, and
Free of heat and cold where rivers run pure plasma attacks and fish leap to the sky

And
Just
Keep
Going going was the night in the way of the bells and the grand ball
Where ladies dance and Gatsby he watches and documents from a balcony somewhere
And you and I took our time
We took it and woke up alone with possibility in our beds
hope on our porch
light, that blue light, los latidos del corazón,

the light of what you touch is what we have,
air we heave,
world we grab: mashed in dirty fingers, stuck in beards, lost in sheets
The here and the danger,the four days,the sound of a whisper
Etched here
in blues

on the palm

of my hand.

 

Μου λείπεις

There is an art to missing people, I believe. It is quiet, it is active, and it is slow. The layering effect of it is staggering; the amount of energy a human has to love, and the expansive room humans have to invite more and more people into that space of nostalgia. Just when we believe we can’t do it again, we fall in love with people, we dote on moments, we make heroic even the most tempestuous of friendships in their absence. We expand and romanticize the briefest of possible flirtations. Each time we engage in hatred or discrimination we fight our most basic desire: to be home. To find resonance. To dwell in the familiar, whether it be tangible or no.

Two toddlers on a swing-set in a park don’t give a shit about Donald Trump. Or a hijab. Or a prayer. Or whiter teeth. Or even what they are named. They want to together feel that sensation in their bellies when they are suspended by the swing, inexplicably in the air, caught  by physics in a moment of shared ecstasy. That’s as real as it gets. Distilled. While all of these other things come into play later, this one moment is the fodder for remembrance.

So, I’ve been remembering. And doting. And breathing through it: the painful birth process of change. It’s baffling, swollen, pulsing, and pushing, and it’s going to happen whether I like it or not.

I’m happy to say, my life has been full of swing-sets.

Sundays, you know

 

During the seventh day dawn

I aim, crave, I fancy–

During listless smudgy Sunday mornings

For your hands to

languidly, with some olympic purpose

let the riostat run high and sling some heart fodder

(petulant, posey, tigers and frost)

on my softer shoulder,

but only a little- as Sundays you know, go more slow

 

I have no big words for the want.

It’s a warmth somewhere between the lower back and the cliff

Sleepy boy clothes

Some ray, some sun-shot, some record scratch and a bottle top promise

to hold the ribs, teeth, and thighs with certainty

on Sundays

to with patience observe

the way we become

the way we are

(for historical and scientific purposes)

as we observe the learning of

the unfurling of

the dots we connect as

hands grasp the meatier parts

books slide in shelves

and gasps become language

in the watchful aurora glare.

 

Smart Plum

triple beats

grasping stolen stillness

in quiet, I study your hand:

considerable, grand- with spacious reach

seizing language like lunch

curly, coltish, sublime and saporous,

in quiet, I study your jaw

the sideways eye that follows

the forehead forward, fallen,

quenched, and satisfied

by a subtle sonnet.

In quiet, I study your spirit.

Gordian and elaborate, made of sea water and a daughter’s nose

a balance over a tall height,

a mosaic motley of ambrosial sentiments

you, a modern Daedalus,

me, a smart Plum,

smattered with freckles, replete with

elemental fascination, soft pining

wishing for some touch,

wanting more time, or just

another day to write you a poem

another like this

a simple message

from a smart plum.

 

Pearls and All

It was thirty days

and the bludgeoning tide took them

soldiers of all heights, weights

varying degrees of manhood

some completely buried

some with gentle wives

Some with ghosts walking door to door

talking of love, light, gentler things

 

It was all strange

 

The way they decayed in the bare light stripped them of all humor, memory

those mouths in frozen fear forever

thinking the thoughts that would

categorize them for all days.

 

I knew one, one day.

He listened to Joy Division and talked

of how Morrissey was a depressed fuck.

How he probably never enjoyed a thing. Even touching a girl in privat-er parts.

We watched a fiber optic flower for the night,

 

sneaking in

stolen corridors of forlorn

Florida Houses, not yet sold.

(This would determine our juvenile record, you see)

We would forever be remembered by these rebellious acts.

By this fire,

and that theft. We fucking loved

being us.

 

But now sweet- we remember you by the heat and decay

the way you smelled after three days

mouth wider than the Joker,

showing teeth for the enemy

as you both stare into the dark rooms.

The dark rooms We never arrived at simultaneously-

The ones that called your name on any Winter day.

You shouted, dear one.

You shouted without audience.

Funny that,

we dressed for the occasion, you and I.

 

Pearls and all.

 

Summer’s End or Chicken Shit 101

It is really so simple, she said

Light down the spine,

name and number each bone

make a fantastic inventory.

Use descriptive language when searching for skin, hair

wrap each finger carefully in curls

(the slightest tug will do for now)

Ask short questions pertaining to the weight of winks

Itemize the sighs, bottle, and preserve.

Linger in the kisses a moment too long,

paying close attention to the way the eyes look while closed- just after.

Document.

Rest on the slight curve of the hip, apply pressure with fingertips. Make the slightest mark.

Index all of the whispers, separating night from day whispers.

Backlog each moment we speak of love.

Season is fickle.

Words and wild remain un-categorized,

lovely, longing and without requite.

I will paint this, sing it. And forget.

See you each day, (And your graceful peasant eyes)

referring to the record

of our almost (surrender) affair.

NOPOMO 13 or God, I want my lobster

Miles to Go

Each patch of skin
Is inventoried
All the stories that arrive with a touch

Tell all the nasty natal secrets
The preternatural longings, naïve mistakes, wild worldly wisdom
Anomalous wantings

Every inch has a history
They are all named and numbered and filed away
Shoved into memory
Without exception, forever locked
In my bare bones

Most steps I take sing a song of you
And I don’t even know your name.