No Class Today.i admit to a campus fantasy
with noreasters billowing out above the
autumn gilded canopy . . .
as a beacon on a hill can ever be
caressing thoughts of dead eternity
bright eyed i believe in things
that glint at me gaudily
and effortless i escort myself
through a humble memory of being bled out--
the detriment of everything i've held
closer than mothered babies
is sojourned toward
every moment afforded for
realism, insatiable and fixed to floorboards.
now, i've admitted to my eyesores
if a sort of demeanor i've found once
is used precisely and widely
across all my mutterings and rants . . .
the words form into a step pattern
for a rain dance, and the drizzle of boston
falls like it did on us in our first cobblestones.
babe, i don't know what this posturing is good for
when i'm more comfy slouched against your side
as you sit upright online
and graze my naked forearm . . .
collegiate boys don't have it all
just ambitions to conform.
i, too, admit to wanting
enigma.some strange thing exists
and it is not me. it is not.
it has no face on any side
and it has no place to reflect my face back.
the enigma is in the dawn as it erupts over the sea
some language of stars mouths can't speak
relinquish this body into the marsh of living muck
slopping up around the rest of me.
i can't even tell you what i'm seeing. it is not me.
it is not.
The First Cat's Meow.it pains me to say
the hate in my heart out loud
and the taste in my mouth
seeing it written out leaves
is a manure pile cowled around
a stomach seeping bile;
but i have enough of myself left
to curl around it.
(the first cat's meow.)
oh, there is a whirlpool galaxy
that holds my planet in its long arms
and that planet cannot comprehend
much beyond itself.
the baby planet, waking up just now to having one intention.
birth is a buzz of bees rushing around with no queen yet.
i happened to find my king.
(it is still meowing.)
i hate the planet and i love the planet and i am the planet.
(insistent cat's meow.)
i have found mirrors in his eyes
i don't like what he has to see.
i break myself down, put myself in filing cabinets
sort myself by year and date and emotion
and construct a database, throwing loosened ends
into a safe deposit box.
for him. i have no use for these things.
myself. the planet.
there is something better to mirrors than what they reflect.
there is a mystery world bac
Lakehurst.surfacing sunken leaves
churned about by young bucks
from their peaceful
are going down to crash again on the pebbled riverbed;
the poets sit on hills of grass blades
and whet the edges of
to pointed cathedrals
and women's highheels
crunching down through leaves and snow.
the slush of rainbow antifreeze
ripples over scabbed lots
in front of abandoned
and I run out of time and space
to finish a map of these vast oceans,
(or at least their coastlines),
that churn with traces of us,
I lean down to my reflection
and what's beneath is unnerving
when it ices over much later in the year
I could fall in,
or erupt out of this air
down into the bubbling swirl
of this frigid spring.
I intone no hint of warning
at my post before the oak tree.
arms behind my back are holding
onto grips in the bark-- are the poets even looking?
are the monuments stark
in silhouette on their reflecting poo
The Two.twice mad with two moons
ticking like clock hands
around and around
the whirring steel blades
there weren't any ways
around this roughness
twice kill the twice born
leaving the earth's womb
cold as bad bedsheets
with brackish sweat gleam
it is in the east
that the night rises
and its damn horse, too
then slamming! clapping! thunder-like suddenly!
powerful! immortal machinery! o, oh
terror-filled! stuffed dolls! eviscerate cottony!
in the fields
gun the brakes
kill the kid
cut the nape
now the tens
storm my hut
born to just
bust my nuts
like a damn horse, too
twice mad with two moons
twice mad with blue
the color, you know
four letter word
only you have heard me say so
only you have heard
all the brutal it-
ty bitty tractors
only you have heard
the clamor that's in-
side of memories.
of the past lives spent
Heritage of Weeds.envelope reeds
dopple the inlet
... sorry chamomile
has left the cupboards bare
eyelash begoniasss ss s...
in these chia pet domes
the fluorescent lights come to points like starlets
meadowlark up up up upon the beech branch
in these potted plants
the nutrients of ancestor death
resolve to give up doo-wop for the sake of dubstep
and the kissing blooms and hissing snakes in the garden
breed primordial synergistic gastric bypass anthology
the problem solved, the traitor flayed, the gaseous palm of proclivity
in these bursting seeds and styrofoam beads
there separated honey from the culture queen bee
...we all worship everything we worship any ship worth shipping
off to OTP shores before deforesting our minds to ashen plains
the river runs away from the high
to lower places to be dried away
and twilight echolocates a billion bats
who massacre the fruit flies
who lie decoded
for finger football
Sweet Tear.It is time to write again I am famished
from everything that goes unwritten
It is time to siphon potable nectar
thru the mesh of my mind
and pitch the pulped filter paper
It is not soaked all the way through with words yet,
flutters yes just one and muffles its sound
and the noise of the bustling maple tree
enclosure surrounding it about six or seven
bursting old maples that only grow and never age
and once left alone skip their sound across
my liquid surface like a looped tape,
syndrome flat on my face pressing invisible
tape so i cant tell you how my mouth
twitches for the blue morning flowers
i never can capture for your eyes.
There are two worlds colliding and two gravities
being broken over the table's edge --
the bones must be set with sturdy poles --
it upsets you that we do not easily form
or pitter into a gutter of rhythm
but freedom is pain, is love, is choices made
again and again every day every day
and the millions of miles and mi
Transmission.i only have two speeds frantic bloody nose and
dirge slow maxim with one or two moments of
hand waving at nature's or his beauty.
sometimes when he's silent so long i burst out
brain ejaculate on the black sheets of evening
and feel like an attention grab sophomore album
with mediocre reviews do you ever have one of
those days when you might as well have just met
your favorite artist or musician what have you
and they kept looking at your velcro sandals.
i do and i melt into my own quicksand and my surroundings quiver like heat mirages.
i am happy i cant stop its better than cant go
but quick i feel the need to get out of this person
my tummy is covered in my own stains freckles treasure trails
and is filled with potato chips fingernails residual fiberglass insulation
this demon NEED to always be disappointed compensates for
the perfect lilt of pointless rhymerica.
I DON'T WANT TO SOUND CUTE TO ANYONE BUT HIM, AND
I WILL YELL ABOUT IT WHEN I SO CHOOSE LIBRARY GRANDMA
THE TREES A
Throne Right.love is a minstrel king.
love is each chiming jingle bell sewn onto infant skin.
love is a fabric made of sentimental locks of hair.
love is a greasy shadow on an indented mattress.
love is forgotten keys.
breakfast time with the crusted dog eyes.
i know the way.
the babies coo in the trees.
i know the way, their little toothless mouths claim.
love is in no mood to listen to that.
longer and longer but there's no thought of putting it down.
scan love all the way through dinner.
love is not sorry at all,
love waltzes through the mansion tossing eggs.
i know the way
is carved on the thin edge of the metal teeth.
the tumblers shudder in the locks.
love is fingers that approach his hairline like a submarine fleet.
love is letting the sea get curly.
i knew the day
i saw you, all the film reels decay.
love is not a spark but a single slice of pizza blocks off times square.
you don't know that until love shudders on its way
up the hill of future living.
then love is a spasti