Seduced By A Shadow In Midafternoon





Come comfort me, Shadow.


Break my heart again.


Temper my soul.


Suduce me, my friend.


Whisper the truth


That concedes to be lies.


Bring me to rapture


By depriving my cries.


Deaden emotions,


Killing the pain.


Take me from my plight


And leave me with my claims.


Crush my resistence


Though I plead to be free.


Fight me.  Pin me.  Tie me down


And send conducing dreams.


Come and save me, Shadow.


Mend my sanity.


Love me.  Hold me, Shadow.


Bring me to my knees.











align="center">All I'm asking is a mention in the footnotes...





and I'm afraid that when it comes 


it will be less than defining


and inspirational


I have never inspired


anything to anything


though it may have been implied


that I am admired


there have been no dedications


or accredations


merely the slightest nods


and a battle cry


hung from the corners of the world


we know these words must hail from


and I only say the things I do


in that order and pacing


less in homage


more in awe


not of the man


but his biographer


And I'm afraid that when he comes


I won't be worthy











Chance Encounters with Fate





Tonight I type meaningless things


to a machine.


My fingers dance lightly over keys


tapping out a new symphony.


They long to tell a story,


dance again the new ballet


in the dark, cold center of the stage.


I call this life.


And it must truly be a gift


to wish so much,


but be happy with so little.


Yet I would that you knew me


for more than my words,


and that those who've seen me


could have also heard...





Poetry is a choice, you know.











Half Strength





if we all knew what we needed 


then we might not feel so bad 


when we find we aren't 


what we thought we had to offer


and that our words mean little to a few


and not the volumes they were 


at the time we wrote them 


these things we never 


mustered the strength to have spoken 


when silence was costly in our eyes 


and our ears knew too little of emotion


to convey meaning to the heart 


and that in part is why I feel at all 


like a failure 


when these words don't serve 


to label feeling as best they ought 


and completely exclude half of one thought 


if we could live in the mind 


and leave words behind 


we'd trully communicate 


all of what feeling leaves too late 


an impression of in speech 


so verbalize as if I really know 


what you mean 


and I'll make promises 


in that language we know 


as incomplete











Asked the Poet





What has Shakespeare left us,


and what did Spencer prove?


What of John Keats and Robert Burns


and all their thoughts on 'luve'?


What legacy was left behind


by Sandburg and Whitman?


And what remains of Dickenson?


Am I to know it, then?














Asked the Poet





When asked of me to define prose:


"It's all that is not poetry."


And always this query follows:


"Then, Poetry, explain to me."


But who on this earth knows?











One of Another





He went on talking, and I thought he would do by what I saw.


I looked at his hands and at his calloused fingers,


raw and pink from some late-night session,


and saw it too in the dark circles under his eyes--


	A Kindred Spirit


But out came his jargon and industry buzz;


and, for just one moment, I envied him and smiled.


He smiles back, and I wonder if he's gay.


	He has his high hopes and connections,


	and he thinks he has a cause;


	but does he even know what he's lost sight of?


Well, leave him with his record deals


and with his bills to pay.


I'll keep my rustic abandon


and wash the layers of smoke from my hair


every night forever...if I can.











Love Poem for a Room with No Walls





Whether God or Fate has brought me here,


put me before these people


and beyond all hopes,


not in judgement


but in truth


to be an equal,


I care little 


but for the possibilities now.


And if repayment for these gifts


of shared spirit,


common cause,


and appreciation


means a frivolous trek


across the nation,


indulging madnesses,


seeking rare liberation,


it seems a microcosmic sacrifice.


We need only have the courage


to face what might be greatness.











for myself to conquer





I feel like I whould write.


Like I should come up with some opus,


earth-shattering and life-altering


to make us all think for a bit,


that will have repercussions


and critics and be examined by the young


and written about in the years after my death.


I feel this often,


make myself sick with it


and lose sleep over it


and hardly pay attention when I drive


too fast, mumbling to myself


narrowly avoiding certain catastrophe.


And I feel this will be with me always.


Because no matter what words


lay themselves onto the page before me


and what order my fingers create


out of language and image


and no matter what praise I garner,


peers I impress, and works I inspire


it will never be enough.


I will never be enough


from this perspective.











Thus Far





Into the wee hours of the night


with my pen lodged in my hand


I scribble down all manner of things


into notebooks that'll likely be burned when I die


becuase they make no sense to anyone else.


Do I dare call myself a poet, then, 


when it seems the only thing I've accomplished thus far


is running up the electric bill?














Hello.  Can I hear me?











Sept. 12, 2001





1 am:





I didn't cry, or light candles, pray


or hang flags on overpasses and salute passing cars...


not today, for I have given more.


Yes, I have loved this place.


And that is everything.





2:14 am:





This may be a surprise to this copy and paste world,


but Ctrl+Z doesn't work in life.


I've tried.


And any effort made by these hands,


though they hide,


must be distinctive.





2:57 am:





I dream of a life with no seasons,


but winters weren't made for falling in love,


so next year maybe, next summer...


my heart may thaw...





3:21 am:





taking a loose drag off my cigarette,


that un-familiar rush


close enough to excitement


I don't question the means anymore.





4:11 am:





But I don't have favorites.


I don't know why I buy white ones anyways,


they all just get ruined.


Surely black would be more practical


(perhaps bear more meaning)


no one sees


but me


and I have not the will to be appreciative.


They are much smaller in life anyways.





4:32 am:





What will my kisses taste like?


And will you always sound so distant?


"Sometimes a warm body just isn't enough,"


you tell me.


Sometimes I think you're right,


but keep you close despite it.





4:55 am:





A semblance of normalcy is all I've ever managed anyways...





5:01 am:





We don't ask each other to recite,


or rhyme when we speak.


So why then do these words mean more


than their meanings between us?











Recreational Pshychosis





Lying is a lyfestyle


we live in what we tell ourselves


which is the lie in life


But the truth is not tamed


and though I keep a rather tenuous hold on things


we're better than our hormones


and take it all back


to where we need to feel


and in being find truth


in what matters


I find half of my time 


in consumption


and possession


being 9/10s of the world


I only seem to find myself


in what I can acquire


not what I may create


even out of myself


And who are these that I want


I not only devour their company


but also who I need


to make my existence


seem again like a life


Never the time


to fill the silence


with what words may mean


I want 


I need


and if I knew


maybe I'd stop


dining on emotion


But dear I love a show


it takes intoxication 


for me 


to be honest with myself


But put it away


put me in my place


or suffer the sequiture


of the mess I'll make of things


(mind you that mess


not always means


dirty)


maybe I should put myself away


  








The Mistake of Yes





What's left of me sits starring


(like stone)


like some tragic Greek hero


roped off in some odd museum


a thousand miles away


at your desk


filtered through dusk, half-expectancy,


tears and about a fifth of gin.





There's a marriage certificate


in the top drawer


atop the only copy of my manuscript


left (like me).


The priority of things


keep it there.  (Keep me here.)


I couldn't get in if I tried


to tear it apart


(like this did me)


to bury it under my manuscript


or deeper, among the rejection letters 


I'd started keeping


after making the mistake of yes.





You have the (only) key.





Only you...


I couldn't get in if I tried.


To tear you apart


(like you did me)


and now to bury you,


deeper than the rejection


I kept you in for years.





Years from now,


at your desk,


filtered through longing, self-expectancy,


tears and an age of alcoholism,


the priority of things


(Only you...)


keep me here.


I couldn't get out if I tried.


You were the key.





There's a marriage certificate 


(rotting) in the top drawer


like some decaying mummification


of the most sacred scrolls


of dead religions


atop a forsaken


(not forgotten)


manuscript,


90-odd yellowing pages 


about you.





(Two lives ended with one death.)











The Infamy of Being





In its time (to be too willing,


too silent, to care too much,


and feel so full, longing)


it will spill over, transcend


and realize that it was much needed


after all, then empty itself (a purging)


be found without again


and take its time refilling


to try again to love.














write damn you





sposed to be writing 


always sposed to be writing


but today especially


where did today go?


oh that's good!


let that flow


but it falls through


tangled up


in the music


well, actually it's just 


the cord that connects


my headphones to my d drive


I feel connected today


in everything but thought


"I think I cannot write today"


far from my words


my thoughts


abhor my fingers


sposed to be


comparing glasses


to contacts


for tomorrow


that class that I could pass


with both thumbs


shoved up the teacher's ass


the one I've taken 3 different times


in 3 different states


the one I loved twice


but now I hate


composition


and not to be a bitch


but yeah I could 


teach it better than you


but only if I wear my glasses











Tendency To Be Me





I want to live with the memory of dying.


I want to be what I want to believe.


I can't quite the lie, but God help me for trying.


I want only to give what can't be recieved.


I have this terrible need to be me.


I have this tendency to make myself bleed.











An Ends in Itself





We spend our lives searching


for a Resolution that can never be.


If it ever came to us,


it would shatter all our Dreams.


For it's the Resolution of these Dreams


that we vainly seek.


Thank God that what we strive to find


is Forever out of reach.














This is It?





The future is not real to me.


The past is but a dream.


Life's a strange coincidence,


Complicated though it seems.





Never occurs constantly,


While always never does.


Light and dark divide the days


Yet shades of grey are life.














Under the Sun





Somewhere south of heaven where we've waited all our lives


and still I'm at a loss for words and ignorant inside


And the sun keeps sliding to the west somehow


and I keep thinking of the dawn


Someday soon I'll find the way to speak to everyone


Under the sun


The endless possibilities of language and of love


toss me to the curb of life


and render all hard won














This Fatal Capitolist





The brightest flames 


that consume most brilliantly


what this world has to offer,


tremble at their own thoughts,


curse their tired eyes, 


their replete minds


and pretend not to see 


its freekish manifestations in the dark.


So burning, so retire, 


so they spend their lives,


and so expire.














The Misconception of an Hour





A friend spoke once of liquid fire,


And I thought of napalm as she thought of tears.


But both being the lesser masters of art


Couldn't have known for our denatured hearts


Bathed in the brine of the prospect of years


That each other's fears to betray had conspired.














In April (how fitting)





	Often when I understand anything at all


It's you.


	Your esoteric rants


	talking yourself in cirlces


	in so many words,


	so many expressions,


	they're sometimes not needed.


	Only your eyes.


	In their lucidity I can see,


	sometimes myself reflected in their brilliance.


	Always your brilliance.


Understood.











Mrs. Meyer





One that we love, that loves us


	and wants us to know.


One that has been and seen,


	and wants us not to make the same sad mistakes.


One who's to leave us to wonder for ourselves.


Just One.  Who's to know her motives?


Interpreter.  Our beacon, confessor, mother.


But who will save us from ourselves when she is gone?


So self-righteous, so blinded, so impervious, nearly gone;


	but so idealized.  Our teacher.  Our beloved teacher.














I still can't call you Jim





I can't imagine him in combat.


Young, strong, and scared shitless--


maybe--


but not fighting,


hiding,


riding it out


with Heinlein at his side


for his comfort


and reprieve.





But maybe I have witnessed 


what I can't believe.


On the battle fields of my own mind


I've seen him brandish the weaponry


of his own choosing,


heard his battle cry 


a thousand times


at midnight


ringing in my head


to the faltering accompaniment


of my dancing fingers.





And is it not true?


Did he not teach us


that creation is the slaughter of chaos?

















what we make ourselves





we are all what we make ourselves.


if we let ourselves


be,


we might make ourselves


free.


we are what we make of ourselves.


when we let ourselves


go


we make what we've made


show.


we are all what we've made ourselves


be.


we are what we make ourselves


do.


make what we've made


see


that we can make ourselves


new.














In Defense of a Fool's Nation





I'm the girl who speaks her mind


and always speaks too soon,


So they've run the noose tight 'round my neck


and publicized my ruin.


But I am numb to all their threats


and I don't suffocate


For I've already drowned myself


in their hypocrisy and hate.














Not Mine


(All BS to me)





Dull eyes stared back


over the ramparts we saw


As the rockets red glare


illuminated a thousand outstretched hands


pleading "Oh, can't you see?"...Yet waving.


While all through the perilous fight


blood flowed, gallantly streaming


over the land of the free.


And from the homes of the brave


comes the query:


"Whose Broad Stripes and Bright Stars?"














A Pearl for Reform





Undenied...


the education of the masses 


goes unresolved


in the houses of our leaders


elected


like a lone man


standing on the western lip


of the known world


yelling his blood thin


to hear only a weakened


imitation of himself


as his only answer.


The parody of the American Dream


dying of asphyxiation


in the wooden heart of the legal world


while daily our young bleed


from their suburbs


into the convolutions of The System


pulsing out a numb rapport


with the minds of those dead before us


in a language as incomplete to them


as the Human Genome Project.


To the artists of South Hennepin


if the Brave New World in question


worked half as fast 


on the collected minds of our youth


as these 64-bit manifestations


of those that never lived


then surely the hoarse verbiage of our envoy


in his precarious post


would not ring through the ears of his peers


unnattatched,


unincumbered by meaning


but instead be held in the popular conscience


as an oyster welcomes an irritant--


by immortalizing it.


Change,


as they say,


truly comes from within.











My Country Finds a Voice





You wrote me sonnets


	when you wouldn't speak.


You praised my beauty


	though you'd never seen.


You gave me credit


	without belief.


You sang my praises,


	but forgot about me.














Liberty


(Duality)





Sometimes I feel like the Statue of Liberty.


(give me your poor, your weak, your huddled masses...)


And I'm only half joking when I say I love you.


(poor, weak, huddled...)


They call me clever for being right


and callouse for my apathy.


(give me yours...)


A solitary gift gone rusting,


frozen and on display,


(you're poor, you're weak...)


falling apart at my gilded seams.


But my poor heart beating at my frame


tells me I still must be flesh and bone.


Sometimes I feel like I'm poor, I'm weak, like the masses.


But my poor heart reminds me.


She exists.  


I live.














Loss





We keep on missing each other, God and I.


Though his house has lovely accoustics


if I didn't feel so silly and small


and intimidated by the echoes.


I always used to fancy that the echoes were God's reply


only sweeter, more resonant and sonorous.


But that fancy died away just as the echoes always do,


and I sing to myself, not for God.


And the only reply is my own.

















All That I Am





I see a lot of myself in him--that face on the screen.


Is that why I cry so violently, so earnestly?


I want to, though.  I want to hear my own voice,


strange in my ears, sob in agony.


I want to be lonely, to be alone--


hear my own quavering voice above all others.


I want to be selfish, self-absorbed and self-content.


I want to dream, be inundated by them, drowned.





Leave me alone with my face on the screen


and I'll cry and be what I want to be


because I don't like who I am.

















Merely a Word





Ten great men fell before me


in my dream last night,


and they were all you in parts.


But there was no battle to see you fall,


to make you open your eyes and see in me


what you've imagined love to be.


That's what made it a dream to me


and not a dream reality.














My Right Arm





All my notebooks, all my dreams...


I once thought I was rebellious;


I once knew myself, or thought I did.


Twice I wanted someone,


but someone was ill-formed


and he fell away.


Once, as he fell,


he took my heart with him.


I learned my lesson,


and the next time around


I kept my right arm.














By a Man





You learn by default.


Sometimes you don't hear what I say


till it's echoed by a man


just because I haven't


been there or done that


because I already know better than to try.


But I love you anyways,


and you always let me cry 


on your shoulders for awhile


before tending to yourself.














My Best





I only know what's wrong anymore


'cause it's cold down here


on the basement floor


with no clothes on,


out of mind,


short on time


to live


to let be,


but most of all


to give


all I can of me.


You see...


for free


we show a little more skin,


to help along this madness


when it begins.


'Cause we all know 


that holding hands


leads to sex.


Give your hand;


I'll give my best.














To Every Church Boy





you're asking me to be something


that I myself don't even need


and I don't think that works


me with all my quirks


laughing just to hear myself


sound alive


in the absense of sanity


and sex drive


you who have listened more carefully


than I have cared to speak


and I think now that says something


about us


but most of all about me


and what I don't need


and that's a shoulder to cry on


'cause if I did cry


I'd know why...


and it wouldn't be about you.














Later





Why 


        ask my pardon


          for the lies


            once given


                               her?


You know an apology,


even its acceptance,


is not forgiveness.


But I will forgive,


and you'll live


                   again


                 the lies


               that made me


             in your eyes


           your pretty prize.





I forgave         you 


               once.





And I'll forgive


                        myself


         for that...


later.














Past Beauty





Sometimes it's comforting not to have to blame yourself


she thinks


                 when it's easier


                                            to be alone


belonging to feeling alone


                                            and everything


                                            going back again


                                            in time to what


she's good at being-----strong


without a different kind of rest


                                                  in mind


                                               in her mother's bed


                                            so far behind


and she wonders where we'd be without opposable thumbs


                   or opposition


                      and she thinks


                         of her friends


                            in their lives


                               in their beds


and their struggles


   and convictions


      and their comfort in meds


and if that's consolation


   what more could she need


but a body and belly to bear what she must


and eyes that can see through the tears


                                                                  and past beauty














Lost to Virtue





Sitting here, bent and young


all my books just packed away


just like my thoughts,


like my dreams, my life


all put on hold for 


                             maybe someday


         I'll just drift


away                   without them.


I'll just languish


in the mire, the pursuit,


in conivance with the fire


that consumes


whatever's left after desire


                         after rain


the greatest fall


that leaves just smoke and ash


to be turned up some years from now


                                ...still smoldering...

















Mistral





Warming, she laid herself into the memory of the night


                 -not her own-


groping out a feeling in the hollow dark


feeling wholly, exhaustively in the moment


                  -an eclipse-


living uniformly in the feeling that was the moment


yet somehow seeing herself blossom


               -technicolor bravura-


out on the edge of space somewhere


where a horizon waited


a spectrum of sensation


to swallow the tenebrous cavity


consisting only of bliss


                       and bravada


          flourish                      fantasia


                      -Denoument-


the consequence and substance of euphoria


the weight of her rapture


settling over the memory of hands and heavy breathfall


And a chilled wind blew to cool her

















Menomonie





Even before I feel, I smell him coming





That old smell of stale Canadian beer and sweat,


a hint of smoke deposited by what the bars exhaled


an hour ago...


taking yourself to me, too seriously


taking your music too far.


And now I can't even imagine you dancing


as you say              you can


                  you say               this


                                you say


a lot of things.


                        I mean that


you mean a lot of things,


but never what you say.


You say you mean things


                                          to me.


To me it feels hazy


like the bars you inhabit,


like your hazy eyes


pretending to be blue,


pretending to understand.





Understanding this, I feel...


a lot of things.


                                 I feel...


                       -you-


a lot of things


                       for you.














Plan B





Plan B, you come back to me,


find me scultpting,


but like a wire bent too far, too often,


you'll one day snap...


and be severed.


And I can only create so much


in my mind


and still deprive these hands of mine.


They want to run along the lines of your body.


As for me, I just want to run.


And I don't let you in 'for fun'!


I feel I fly far too near the sun


to find comfort here 


in what would be my own bed.


So honesty becomes my last fortress


under your persitent and versed caresses.


I don't know why I held together so well


while I held you.


I felt I could tell you


I have no need for my insanity,


but I'll give you fair warning


'cause come morning,


I'll be wrong again


and I think I'm right when I predict


you'll be gone...


again.














Call My Bluff





If there's one thing to cure Joe on the mind


it's having Unattainable Erik in my bed tonight


and lots of talk of controlling issues.


Sometimes on the downbeats,


I can hear your heart


and wonder just how strong it must be


to bear my rough handling and yet persist.


Sorry about your shirt, by the way,


(the one you had to go to Nordstrom's to buy


because Bloomingdale's didn't have your size).


but I couldn't resist.


Besides, it felt very good at the time.


And I still carry the memory of that sound


and where your hands were all the while.


I think that maybe that shirt means more to you 


than I do, or at least this act,


and that in the morning when I'm torn


and regretting this, 


you'll only care that it got torn


and start forgetting this.


But I have on several and good authorities


that I don't fade with that much ease,


my kiss on your memeory 


like these stains I awake in


and, hopefully, there'll be bite marks to explain


at Easter brunch.


And I can't be sure,


it's just a hunch,


but you won't call.











Maybe Now, Maybe Not





Maybe now


after so many experiences


I can write again.


After all these crazy coupla days,


maybe now I can.


Maybe


after calling the wrong Joe,


waiting around all that beautiful Saturday, looking my best,


for the ex that never shows,


after your going to your 


"you only graduate from a crappy tech school once" 


party with no expectations,


fraternizing with our teachers, department heads,


meeting your fashion victim friends


and still having no clue...


After drinking myself audacious,


figuring out where I'm gonna live in 3 months,


finding out that my personality type fits best


with older, balding gay men


and not with you and those tanned girls with piercings,


maybe now I'll find the words.


And maybe after last night


and your persistence


(you incorrigible bastard--thanks, by the way)


I can finally write erotica 


and know what the hell I mean


when my own words belie my experiences.





And then again,


maybe you'll call...














Your Taste So Far Lingers





It's never quite right when the first taste is the best.





I dined on Florentine quiche


and Godiva ice cream tonight.


Sometimes I just have to do that


after weeks of tomato soup and Ramen.


And I would have dined on you, too,


had you not been so far.





You, so far, the only one to idealize


that mole on my stomache, 


honor it with kisses,


project it onto the dozen women since me.


(neither confirmed nor rejected)


You weren't the only one permitted there,


but the first.


And the only one so far appreciative


of the gift of it.





All I ever needed was one to notice my hands


to manumit all those hands can do.


I know for they've done me great justices, so far.





You were my ostentatious quiche


before droughts of soups and noodles.


Given time, you would have idealized my hands.





It's never quite right when the first taste is the best.


But it is the way of things.


And the manumission of hands so far waits











Venetian Blinds





How I remember the first thing you'd do


when you came to me


was close those blinds.


I'd just as soon left them open,


let the neighbors bear witness


to the spectacle of it.


But that was your idea 


of foreplay,


and I could abide by your kisses


for as long as you kept me in verse.


I daresay it only got better,


the sex I mean,


as things got worse.


My respect for you lost in my libido.











"Here Kitty, Kitty..."





"It's much too cold to sleep naked tonight," I explain


while pulling on my tank.


You follow with some shit-eating remark


about keeping me warm


when you know damn well I hate it


when you talk like that.


When you're vocabualry consists of three words 


and an invective


that hardly warrant mentioning here


and you use the same voice 


you use when calling the cat.


The cat hates you.


She never comes.


And times like these, I think I sympathize.














making up





because I was bored one night


with the cadence of your breathing, 


I became decisive


made up your mind for you,


made up your bed, too,


when it was all over











Not Like it has Been





I can't write naughty things


with you here beside me.


I can't think of what I'd like to do to you


when you look at me this way.


I feel closer to you sometimes with pen in hand


than right now holding you close,


and braver somehow over the phone.


And when my fingers follow down the curve of your hips,


my tongue taking the words from your lips,


my mind is everywhere but in bed here.


I think only of all the bright tomorrows


while we make love in the dark,


all my dismal fantasies


banished by the arch in your back


and strain in your laugh.


And somehow this is enough,


and even better than being taken in my usual way.














Canonization





Upon discovery, I made myself


reborn in the truth of you,


accepting your words as my gospel,


myself as your sin,


made the only part of you that I could take in


the rock of my salvation,


the miracle of your body


using mine as your confessional.


I painted you like a naked saint 


on the domed ceiling of my mind,


my tongue lapping up the scriptures


buried in your skin;


and I have no word for this


except perhaps religion.


	Can I start with faith in you


	and work my way up to Him?











Long Time Coming





Being true to myself


not always involves truth at all.


But there are rare moments


when evaluation spawns realization


and I choose my words graceless and inept,


addressing myself in real-time


and sometimes aloud...


"So the truth is I do want love,


the real, felt kind


(should-I-say 'realistic' kind?)


I'm talking about a love that


wrecks your perception of the world,


on a very local level,


the kind that takes sentiment


and tosses it to the ravages of memory


and wears romance and situation


in its hair


while weaving tender advances


through its tattooed knuckles


in preparation for the fall.


Yes, on a very real level,


I want to get low down into love,


feel the very pulse of it


quicken and fade under my thumb


and do very small things


in testament to my state


like remembering a smell,


a pet peave,


giving up my keys,


and hooking my pinky finger


into a belt loop and tugging.


To hell with flowers, french kisses,


holding hands and hugging.


I'm a realist, godamnit!


And fucking emotive.


What I want now is what I dream,


and mostly I dream feasible


and incomplete.


I want the world after love


to taste like blood in my mouth,


every experience to be like drinking


from a dirty glass


and seeing my own sickened self


over the rim.


I'm saying I want to feel loss


for something (anything?)


that I have been inside,


labeled mine,


felt inclined to answer to


and cried over,


someone I have writtten


to/for/about...


And I want to feel lost,


as I do now,


without you."














In Circles





And I see you before me...


Sitting on the concrete floor amid a neat half-circle


	of notebooks and songs


And I laugh even as you lift your eyes to catch me.





Then I'm running again...


And all the pages of my thought aren't quite as easy


	to accomodate as in your neat half-circles.


So I shove them into the corners of my mind and run.


Run till I can stand once more on a concrete floor.


Run till you catch me...or I fall.














Laundry Day





I think we were happiest on laundry day.


You laugh, but when you think about it...


we were always like that,


like trying to fold the fitted sheets


into perfect squares,


like your red shirt in the far dryer


waving its goodbye in turn


amongst the greens and greys 


of my workday casuals


tumbling blindly along...


tumbling blindly in and out of--


I wouldn't say love, really--


but fascination.


Now the memory of you


hangs wet on me


like jeans pulled from the dryer too soon...


too soon...











Blame it on the Rain





Storms like these fail to phase me,


when deprivation of so much


render even a deluge futile.


And tonight, while it pours out there,


I am full enough without you...


Merely waiting for the sun to break through.


I have been saturated from the inside out,


inundated by ruin


(a damned shame too,


she was such a pretty girl


while I knew her)


And I can't tell now


wether the rain has taught me to cry


or if it was you all along.


These days, I long for love


like I long for laughter,


yet pursue neither


of such torrential matters.


"Not the time," I lied


"No time"


"Still time..."


But time wasn't my enemy,


just my scapegoat.


You, it seems, were both.











What the Thunder Said





When I was young and idealistic


I said I wanted love to be like thunder.


I didn't quite know what storm I was sailing into...


I never quite knew...





But as promised, lightning came first


and quickly passed


taking warmth with it


leaving me to blink away the remnants


and fill the holes left in my vision


and life...





Life continues...


Thunder bobbing along after lightning


as an afterthought


an exemption


stooping to recover me,


pull me along the lengths


of that great crescendo


and wilt,


boiling over into the night,


charging along my body,


throwing itself around 


to expose its soft underbelly,


then folding in on itself,


unrolling on the desert air


leaving nothing


but the faintest echoes


and a constant ringing in my ears...





Lastly, most poignantly...


thunder wasn't much to look at.














The Wake of my Wit





Last night's ration of liner and shadow


still seen clinging to drooping eyelids,


trying to wipe sleep and too much alcohol


from a tired face...


trying to dispell images of flight and sunrise


from the hung-jury memory of the night,


evidence of neither and both 


feeding on manifestations 


of many made-up nights about town,


tumbling in on myself


from the corners of my being


and often descending on greatness


on still greater silver wings,


just always missing my flights of fancy


after all the wasted miles


and chance encounters with fate


on a serving tray


I would have left myself soiled


on the banks of the Missohio


trying to chart imaginary lands


in a sea of the incomprehensible


simply because we need


something to believe in.


To think that only hours ago,


I wore the impossible dream


more or less on the defensive,


finding my wit somewhere


between a double shot and 2am


and stewing in the wake of it


on the hour of my ascension.

















Wishing on Planets





thinking that if I stop counting down the minutes


they'll stop sliding by


and maybe I might find power


in what lies in truth


after being cauterized by the facts


not once but twice removed


in memory and in fantasy


I pay homage to undue influence


ignorant of the fraternity


that even now burns through us


so when my paramour bleeds metaphores


we think in chorus


that if we all rode to work every day 


singing in our cars


we'd have already landed a human on Mars


and maybe just in time to


blink out an invitation to all stars


to burn as tangible as these dreams 


that might come


if only my handle on consciousness


would slip into something more comfortable,


slip under the horizon of posession


like that big red one I call mine


on which I sometimes wish














Modern Catastrophes





All nerves on the air


and like always, liking it,


letting the flow


of information


sift through my veins


like the living tissues


of the earthbound.





Pulled the earthquake off the wire


and my heart ceazed


and palpitated


once for the tragedy,


twice for want of your strength,


my read gone dry,


voice gone without me.


When I wrapped,


they called it 'emotive'.


They called me...


in my apathy.





What I learned about myself


from the AP that day


was news to even me:


That I still want you


and I don't care.











Rude


(I don't miss you.)





I don't see how it matters...


    if I leave the toaster plugged in,


    if a power surge did spark the thing,


    and if the whole place went up in flames.


I don't see how it matters...


    that you don't get it,


    that I could spend hours spoon-feeding


    that pretty face of yours to make you understand.


I don't see how it matters...


    your empty, stupid soap operas,


    your hour-long make-up sessions,


    your tan-till-you-look-Spanish membership.


I don't see


what you seem to see...


    in yourself,


    in meaning,


    in the world,


    in me.


I don't see how you matter...














Loose Spun





3 am.  My time.


Yes, I was up.


You know it's bad


when a call at 3am


fails to alarm you.


Now you have to go there--


my mother was a dike and a whore.


For the last time,


my mother was a lesbian and a prostitute.


At least we loved her for who she was.


For the most part.


But if you're willing


to rant


for hours


long distance


to jupiter,


I guess I'll oblige


and try not to antagonize.


Yet you insist on me.


You should know better,


'cause I'm fresh off a new batch


of poems and Cisneros essays


and I feel loose


and aciduous.


And being neither Spanish nor poetic,


you know I'll spin it all around.


That's right,


I spoke with your mother


not a month ago yesterday.


She sends her regards


to her bastard son.


dial tone.


smile.














Let's Just Be Friends (Round 2)





Yeah, my heart skipped a beat


when the caller ID spit up your name.


Skipped a bigger one


when you finally got up the balls


to spit out what you'd called to say.


Shoulda seen it coming a mile away.


What kinda guy dates a girl for a month


and not once lays a hand on her anyways?


Not a kiss, not an advance...


not any notice of THIS!


I got holding hands in a movie


once.


(Rationalizing)


Let's just be friends, he says.


Let's just be


I think


when I need to be alone


After all I've tried


so hard to be normal for you,


not to take it so seriously,


not to scare you off with my psychotics.


Thank God you cut me off


before I cut my hair.


I would have, you know.


Feeling mildly sick now.


Don't think.


Don't think that 4 simple weeks


quite warrants anything but 


a snivle and an invective.


But you get a stunned sit-down in the hall


and a night of furried typing...


clickclikityclackclakk...


You went with me Uptown to buy Bukowski.


You've tainted Bukowski!


You fucking saintdefilingrapist!


(rationalizing)


Don't you mean really that


I'm too much of a mess


That I'm hopeless,


and I confess.


But didn't you really just say


that you don't have the time


or the money or the patience


or the mental capacity


to deal with me?


You know my hearing


so well.


So?


Well?











What I Can Say For Love





Cracking, and not entirely from the static,


the voice on the other line feels urgent...


	"I-I'm not Ok, Ok?"


	"I know..."


	"So,...what?"


	"I don't know."


	"That's,...Well, that's great! (sigh)--


	It's just that...I'm...


	Not Ok." (Silence)


	"I don't know what to say."


	"I know."


	"What can I say?"


	"I don't know...


	Maybe, just that-"


	"It'll be Ok?"


	"Yeah.  It'll be Ok...


	I won't be Ok, but..."


	"It's alright...I...(pause)"


	"What?!"


	"(sigh) Nothing...I was just


	going to say that-"


	"I'm going to be Ok?!"


	"No...That I understand."


	(Nothing)"I know."











The First Remove





They met for only the second time in his dim office.


He glances up at her over the rim of his glasses


	as she sits on her hands, uncomfortable,


	but afraid to shift weight in the large leather chair.


He tilts his head back toward the ceiling and closes his eyes,


	exhales, and tosses the stack of papers 


	he'd been reading onto the desk between them--


There was always something between them--


He smiled...condescendingly...and she released the breath


	she'd been holding and slumped without regard.


"It was good," he manages, knowing how transparent he sounds


	and only half caring.


She looks up at him without need to object.


"You know as well as I do that 'good' isn't good enough in this world,"


	her voice is flat and lingers.


"No.  Now don't...I mean it-" -- "I know you do.  That's what's upset me."


	He cocks his head at this and smirks at her reason.


Hesitantly, "Listen, it's not like I can't help.  I am, after all, your friend."


	Over his mild confusion he offers a friendly smile.


It disgusts her.


"I don't need help with my writting, friend;  I need help


	with my reality..."














Too Much of a Good Thing





Too perfect,


the two of us sitting to lunch,


a well-lit table,


view of the street,


laughing, bouyant,


recounting our follies


with mirth even,


picking at our all-too-sweet 


créme broullé,


both recognizing the symbolism there,


forcing ourselves to eat it anyways,


as punishment,


as closure.





It was really all-too-funny,


the way we met,


the only two in the whole stadium 


to laugh at Dennis Miller,


some arcane reference to Auden and Yeats...





Yes, and all-too-compelling a proposal,


a fool on his knees,


a near heart attack,


the half-expectation for someone


to fade up the dramatic underscore


and yell cut at the end of the scene...





Oh, but the worst was the engagement,


a year-long Valentine's Day,


flowers, verses, flowers again,


china patterns even.


I didn't think people did that anymore...





It really was a fairy-tale wedding,


string quartet,


more flowers,


our very own stained-glass promises.


White dresses can be blinding...





But, really, it was an amicable divorce,


only the lease to pay out of,


then helping each other move


and move on...


I mean, look at us.


Look at us...





And the people passing on the street


felt compelled to oblige.














Enter Sandburg





As I step to the cadence of a thousand pureed conversations,


my eyes rake the throng of monochromatic faces


searching out a beacon of color, of difference, of originality.


Movement, rather than hue is what attracts my gaze


(or, perhaps, it was the absence of movement--save for the darting eyes)


as a strand of hair leaps from its place behind an ear and over a face


where I discover a smile just a shade darker than my own.














Somewhere Between 5th and Muhamed Ali





Standing on a tram being jostled by the crowd,


she took a stance by a post and clutched it for support.


A very stricking man stands close beside her


leaning his head on the post, his eyes closed.


Something painful about his expression startled her,


but soon forgetting, she went on dreaming...


	of a house on a pond and a seat by the fire


	and a man with his head in her lap


But something unnerved her and brought her back


and she blinked her eyes to a focus on her hand


where a warm drop glistened in the halogen lights.


A lonely tear shed for unkown reason, and her heart hurt for him.


Sensing something beyond his reason, he opened his eyes to meet hers.


He smiled, eyes first, at her concern.


But soon forgetting, he went on dreaming...


	of a house on a pond with a dog by the fire


	and a woman to take care of him.














The Traveling Actress





She likes the shadow that glitters the best.


That's almost all I can remember now


	that she's gone.


Still, somewhere I know she'll sit down about 7pm


	before her vanity


And with the most precise motions


	apply herself.


Sometimes I see her,


Always in that patterned dress


in shades that match her movement.














Vargas Girl





I knew it'd never fly with them--


	with any of them--


trying to trick me out like a Vargas girl,


	all smiles and situations.


But I guess that's a start,


	listening to how I talk.


I must come off like some Audrey Meadows type,


	never pushed around, but tread on all the same.


And I guess I like it, them trying to think deep thoughts;


	and it beats the Disney-fied version hundred to one.


Then there's Hollywood to deal with...


	and we're back to the pin-ups.

















Come Back





I feel it now, but I'm still standing.


And I reflect on what'd been said


and I laugh at my own idiocy.


It'll all be forgotten soon and I'll sleep;


but, for now, I occupy myself conversing with my shadow.


And we both laugh at what I don't remember.


And we shared the most unattractive sunrise


until the world began to wake


and my shadow evaporated into the glaring sun.


I slept then to commit it all to dreams.














Dream It All at Bay





In life we borrow small respite


From dreams we dream within the night.


Yet waking, fantasies take flight.


And we return to days of fright.














Flatware Philosophy





Why did the dish run away with the spoon?


Could it have been love at first sight?


I once knew a couple mismatched like that, too--


Different as day is from night.





How do you think it ever turned out?


Could their love have lasted for long?


If it's like that couple I told you about,


Love at first sight never proves very strong.














Curious Boy





You're not my Prince Charming,


but I guess that you'll do.


And you think all the time


yet still don't have a clue.


But you've got ambition;


I'll say that for you.


You love----I suppose I should too.





He's a curious boy with infinite dreams


and fervelous hopes that I cannot see.


He has integrity and bravery 


and all the honor he could need.


He has so much love in his heart,


perhaps he'll spare some for me.











Ron


*to a hastened recovery





	And though it is a tragedy


We still all smile and share stories.


And only when the lights go out


Do we dare cry and think about 


What life'd be like without the sun


Or how it's be if we'd lost Ron.


	And we can thank our lucky stars 


That we're together where we are


And can still show how much we care


And cherish all the love we share.


So here's to all there is to come


And all for us our Ron has done.











Surgical Inscissions to the Soul


(To Justin Dohoney and Piper)





Remember back to our school days


when we reveled in the rhetoric of biology


and that one gray day we spent 


dissecting a fetal pig?


I wanted to name it Carly,


imagine it her perfect frame


pinned out against the dissecting tray.


And taking scapel in hand,


like some nauseated sophomore,


gut her navel to neck.


And though I know--


in terms of physiology--


that the human heart


has little to do with emotion,


I'd still like to see,


just to see...














Filter 3





Don't rock the boat.


You left me standing,


and I quote,


"like a fool."





Yeah, but what you don't know...


I'm only wet


because I've fallen again


in hot water.














Technicalities





You only remembered my name


because word got out that I was still a virgin.


You looked at me as a challenge


you told your blond-haired friend.


(I'm a very good lip reader, you see.)


But I already know


that your girl there's not a real blonde.


And if my experience with your kind


has taught me anything, 


it's to hold my skirt up when I run.


And if I didn't know any better,


you'd call it a tease.


So many technicalities, you see.


But Blondie knows what a real challenge can be.


Like keeping a straight face


when you smile at me from across the room.














Thinking with Various Anatomical Features





She drives me crazy


in that bad way


that we never like 


to admit.


But her subtle ways


of expression


are not lost on me


as on most men.


And I lust after


the way her trademark


curly black hair


falls around her


in that way I know so well...





I know her


as she knows herself...


incompletely.


Yet I cannot disguise


the contempt I harbor


for that cantakerous bitch


that shares my body


and on most occasions


my mood. 


And I hate her for being 


more photogenic


and writing better poetry


than I.


She'll be the one to win 


recognition


where the rest of me fails


because of her _(insert)_,


because of her marketability.


And I hate her for it


and myself for buying into it.


And most of all


I hate all the men in the world


for not moving me


quite like she can.





But between me and you,


we'll pretend this isn't


an ode to my vagina.

















The Beast (Seventeen)





She drove a 1980 Citation


	in the year of '99


played second fiddle to the man


	felt more than enough deprived.


She says, "I just can't helped myself


	I'm only Seventeen.


It's a likely excuse, honey,


	if you know just what I mean."


She knows she doesn't need this;


She don't give a damn.


She knows that one of these days


She'll blow this popsickle stand.





Well, he doesn't know he needs her yet,


	but when she's gone he'll see.


If he wanted her mind not her body,


	he woudn't pull that shit so easily.


She screams, "So what?!  I got it!


	So I'm only Seventeen!


At least I've got my mind made up


	and I've still got my dreams."


His friends call her a hippy chick,


But she don't believe in peace.


She knows that one of these days


She'll unleash that beast to feast.














 Contemplation of a Gaze





A quiet beauty rests beneath her eyes--


Eyes that look past me, that reflect the skies.


These eyes that so challenge the minds of our times


With their elegant rage and silencing guise.


In them the stifled rebellion still burns.


Behind smoldering graces her patient eyes yearn.


For it's here that the dream is still pulsing alive--


The dream of the conquered of undead desires.


This dream brings the light of a hope to her eyes,


And it lies there near hidden preserving her pride.














I Should Have Been a Mermaid





Because 6 miles out I didn't expect to see another soul,


I abandoned my usual form 


and opted for an inconstant pace


giving myself time and nudity and fantasy and grace


so as to forget to think and leave my face


behind me in my wake.


After so long, the burning fades


and every breath comes


without the weight of those that precede it.


With more distance, remembrance comes slow like rescue


and limits are reduced to nothing more


than my affections for you.


No more embracing as the ocean.


Not more abrassive than the wind.


No more eminent as the setting sun


or more accomodating than this swollen skin...


No more...


no more...


No more madness of this lustfull earth


yawning to reclaim a body 


it has no more use for than I have love.


Here, as the darkness calls me child,


I can nearly feel the moon


tugging me up with the tides.


I know she only wants her oceans back


from the greedy earth,


but it still feels nice to feel wanted.














Waiting for a Queen


(Lake Nokomis Park, April 30th)





I don't think I was trying to get away,


just somewhere...


And as it was gorgeous


but too windy to read outside


without getting annoyed at the flapping pages,


I watched the sun go down on my city


and used the books I carry


as a headrest.


And as I am young, 


and revelation still frequents me,


I realized that while we are young


revelation frequents us.


And it is revealed to me


that I want to hear the sun


speak her molten promises,


watch her reach for me


and find me in recovery.


And the willow fronds were


blown down around me,


so out of need


I wove a little crown of them


for myself presumably.


It turned out too small,


but I was more interested


in the act of creation


than in my coronation.


Maybe I'll find 


a little wide-eyed girl 


around the lake


and crown her


while her mother looks on


with horror.


There are always little wide-eyed girls


waiting to be queens.

















Salvation:  A Screen Play


(With appologies to Baz Luhrman)





Something about the night


and the weight of the city


and the way my new black pumps 


clicked authoratively on the pavement


brought out the romance of the moment.


It called out of the night...


hope...


and sent me spiraling into the 


abyss of another man's dreams.


So, dutifully, I followed


in search...


into a theater...


that could have been any theater


anywhere in the world...


the same patterned carpet,


the same brass fixtures,


the same sullen ticket taker...


and the same laden dreamer


going alone to a love story


that would never be her own.


I feigned a Brittish accent


at the ticket counter


to confirm the lie...


and marched deliberatley,


like a sacrificial victim,


into the dark


where a great white villainous smile


that was the screen waited...


as all my life I have been in waiting...


and dimness grows dimmer


and all the darkest moments in time


give way to light


as the mouth of the beast spits fire


and roars till I can feel it in my very core...


and my captor no longer feels like an enemy


but a savior of sorts...


driving away the demons of my mind


and replacing them


with the brilliance of one man...


a laden dreamer


who could have been any man...


but just simply was not...


and even thinking of him now


could not break the magic


of his rapturous reprieve...


his gift to me...


a glimpse of his brilliance...





And when darkness, silence


and numbness...


reality...


have won their war against him...


and the film has spent itself


against the folds of my imagination,


I step out into a parking lot,


that could have been any parking lot,


and the moon seems to hang


a little more perfectly


as just a sliver of gold


above the treeline...


and the sky clears its throat


in a distant rumble


as if on cue...


and when the heavy worries of this place


begin to press the wind around me


to coerce me once more


into despair...


his faces are tossed up behind my eyes...


never his face,


but those he chose to speak for him,


and my thoughts are cast once more


at his mercy...


and I realize that however romantic


and hopeful the night may be,


I am that much in return...











My New Friend


(an ode to nicotine)





You've been good to me


these last few days.


Make me nervous


in your way.


The scent of you lingers,


makes me think


maybe this is a bad thing.


I'll consume you.


Use you as my fuel


till I feel full.


Standing at the start of addiction,


the juncture of death.


I can't help this feeling


like I'm falling


and can't catch my breath.


My hands start to shake.


My body feels either nothing


or it aches.


This could be the start of something.


Put me at ease.


Snuff out the embers of the old me.


This is the end, my new friend,


of someone I used to be.


This is the time, in life,


to draw the line.


Time to go...


(I want to have you)


Time to go...


(just one more drag)


Time to go...


My mother's coming.


And time may be all I have.











Next of Kin


(Uncle Terry's Cadence)





Just one more bite.


There, that wasn't so hard, now was it?


'Course it wouldn't have been so hard


to wear a helmet that day either,


or to sign your name


under mine


on the living will.


Sit back, now.


Your mother will be here this afternoon.


You can take it up with her then.





The tomato soup tastes like blood today.


Just the sight of it...


But you remember.


Thank you, mother.


Let me, mother.


Fuck you, mother.


Love you...














To My Father...





A lot can change in a week,


and indeed a day.


And years and years of not searching


when you weren't there.


What, did you think I've changed?


That much?


I don't care...


anymore.


not more than you did.





There's a wound in me


you thought you could heal.


A hole so deep, 


you could never fill.


But I feel it always,


in all ways,


and there's little you can do now


but step aside and let me grow.





To think that I have come this far


without you


hurts your pride.


Yet, you claim your pride in me unwavering.


I tell you, it's more that what I can be,


more than what I've become,


more than just a little girl


without a father,


or the means to become what I am.





So you know me now, you think.


But how?


When I don't know myself.


Only well enough to discern a few wants.


You're not one of them.


But I'll still be content


to let you love me


with no more than that in return.


You'll be my football buddy,


help me build that car 


I've always dreamt of


though you have so little bearing


on my dreams


on the present me


or the past


from which you are absent


save for a few unsavory memories.





I'll let you be my father,


only if you let me be.














Knowing the Score





small things 


to small minds 


mean much


just a whisper 


just a touch


while I am young


stars in eyes


wishing on planets 


in disguise


the farthest ones I see


they shine for me


just out of reach


and in my dreams


convene to teach


of sins,


inclusions,


small intrusions...


angels wings


can't lift the things


I find that spring


to mind...


water falling,


pantomime,


poolside shadows,


wedding rings,


ballet slippers,


what rains bring...


all heavy and complete


and wonderful


and pure


and sweet...


not at all,


my mother hums,


like me














I'll Not Forget





I dislike writing in pen.


There's something so unapealling about it--so permament--


as if, if I wrote in pen, it would freeze my thoughts...





Unyielding ink, Unforgiving ink, Undeniable--


Unable to begin again, to start anew, to forget.


Immovable ink and Immortal.


It is there for all time for all to see.


(But what if what is there is not what is wanted to be seen?)


Ink, then, is like a face.


Like your face as you read this.














9 Boxes and a Dufflebag


[or the mean(der)ing of life]





Do you think it's just slightly pathetic


that my entire life fits neatly into 9 boxes


and a duffelbag?


But I remind myself that living


is not the aquisition of possessions.


Yet since I have no one to possess,


to augment my life,


bear witness to my proceedings,


or to tell these things to,


I write.


And since no one 


can't be packed snuggly away 


in so many Rubbermaid containers,


I could more accurately say 


that my life stores easily 


in a single file cabinet


where roughly 2 and three quarters pin oak


lie lifeless as yellowing pages


for the ages to ignore.














And Back Again





So I'm back again, and you say that I've changed.


You say I'm not the same.


You say I don't write the way I used to.


That I don't use as many semicolons;


And, yesterday, you said I forgot to dot an 'i'.


	(Let me assure you that wasn't so.)


So now you say I don't talk the same.


You say I condescend.


So I miss my 'r's and garner 'a's.


It all leads to the same ends.














(don't) Panick





They say 


if you walk alone


at night


through a wood


the god Pan


will make his presense


frightfully known.


When I am alone


at night


a different god 


frequents me,


but I am no less 


fearful.


And he inspires


in me


such feelings,


such words,


so many beautiful hopes


with such ease


that I have no choice


but to wonder


how long it will be


before I find the words


"I love you"


and know 


what they really mean.














I Will Not Be Jocasta





teeth in skin


a reminder


of him


this feeling


all above truth


looms


we might belong here


so near


perfection


in each other


so clear 


a connection


son and mother


never knew


and does that 


frustrate you














'Bout 5' 9"





you asked what I'd been up to


I thought, a tired joke


which is I guessed the answer


tiredjoke


chasing down dreams online


(never online dreams)


out among the constellations


of dotcoms


somewhere


lies


the same dream really


for me


the same reality


and the web and her spyder


both laugh


at me


at my need


and I laugh too


but out of need











Faute D'amore





all of us do bad things


	some more than most


all of us are sinners


	even if it doesn't show


everbody's made mistakes


	we know this to be true


my worst mistake, for all it's worth,


	was ever loving you











AIDA





Slack-faced and empty


but too full


to care


too much


more 


than this


And now I know that I loved you


in my way


I must've


just because


I wanted


to have you


my way


always














Truth





I believe in love,


and even love at first sight,


and true love, 


and unconditional love


and all of that;


but I don't believe in eternal love.


It's a nice idea, though,


but love is fleeting


and takes its leave in the blink of an eye.


That's what makes it so precious to us.


Love is mortal--


Capable of dying


and being killed...


and of killing.


Thus are we martyred.














Ruins





Ruint


        my hands like rivers


with the thirst of rivers


yearning to run over your body


and through your hair


yawning to consume


	And if rivers feel


	I don't want to know


the unlit scene


of my staggered marred little digits


flowing into the grooves of your skin


inconsequential


	And if rivers know


	I don't want to feel











I Knew





When in the morning my mother screams and blanches,


	unable to wake me,


	let her know by my face


that I knew.


And when the calls are made


	and all the world rendered useless to consol even one


	let it be your comfort


that I knew.


Through the orders and transfers and cutting and tears


	through the immediate confusion, the shock, the general disbelief,


I knew.


When the doctors come confounded


	from their explorations and rationalizations,


	And my body is passed from institution to institution--


	second opinion to third to national conundrum...


They wonder, they ask themselves how I went so long not knowing.


I did!


I knew the one that's in my head,


	and the one that rides my blood like the tide.


	From the one that sits so lightly on my shoulder


	to the one that makes my feet unsure


I knew them all and intimately.


I felt them grow.


	I watched me die.


I watched you all ignorant as the day of birth,


	ask me why I wouldn't play.


And I kept silent.


Oh, I knew, Yes.


And I'll have you all know that I did.














On Nearly Running Aground





Green and grey...


Then, staring into the blazing red eyes of taillights,


	brilliant vessels of disaster,


	a promise of fire,


	baring my soul, yet seeing nothing


while the breath of depravity bleeds into my lungs


	suffocating even as I breath


	the noccuous fumes of the belching, oblivious automobiles


giving the lie of the intricate ballet,


	ever choking its dancers,


	twisting their ankles,


	their insubstantial wrists into submission.


It's my way or the highway!


	and the highway's not mine, not yours,


	not the way of the people...


Or maybe so!


Then full speed ahead!


	jet-set to the top.


	Going my way?


Not that we'd spare an ounce of gasoline to save a drop of blood.

















Driving Exclesior





the laws of uncertainty govern me


in my need


in depseration


driving without destination


I am driven


down


beaten by the inexplicable


into corners of doubt


they won't see me cry


in frustration


they won't see me


in their service


lie and lose patience


I need new places


and someone to catch me


because oh I'm falling


or is that failing


hard to distinguish


in hard times


my eyes mist over 


in helpless rage


I find myself caged in


nowhere to begin


I would trade the wind


on a thousand summer nights


for a maybe


and a break


when it comes down to this


how much I can give


and maybe I'm running


out of options














Assigning Faith a Dollar Amount





Just exactly a year ago, 


I graduated high school.


I had funny hair then, 


about 20 pounds more of myself


and a larger vocabulary.


I worked harder, 


bore more sadness ,


and laughed more often.


I was afraid of smaller things, then,


like the roaches on the bathroom floor


and that I was ruining my hands so young.


My fucking car terrified me,


and I just knew my mother 


would die before she reached 50.


I'm hoping now she'll hold out


till I can pay for the funeral...


I bought a car on borrowed money,


went to school on grants and loans


and rented all the while on promissory.


I have a checking account now


and even a credit card


(for emergencies/car maintenance)


My eyes, teeth and therapy


all paid for by the good state of Minnesota.


I have calculated my net worth to be


negative 27 thousand dollars 


and counting.


My whole life in the red


where shades of grey had previously prevailed.


And I realize that quite literally


I am banking on my talent.


I hadn't imagined ever having


that kind of faith in anything,


least of all myself.

















A Graduation Musing





Back when we still knew what we were supposed to feel,


Before we were told what we wanted,


We dreamt up the things we'd do one day.


They almost seemed real.


	But no one can ever dwell there, in that place, for long


Without it becoming a spectacle,


And we abandoned what we now call childhood


For this--a spiraling symbolism tied neatly,


As we are now, to our lives


Reinvented according to the laws of uncertainty.














Zwishenraum: the space between





More lies between us than mere distance,


and expanse if silence, where mokita dwells,


the tacit truth.


And I blame you


for this feeling escapes my command on my language altogether


and quite nearly my command on emotion, too.


So this must ammount to more than my torchluspanik,


my fear of being left here


drowning in the wake of my ambition.


Still I harbor too much hope tonight to push you away,


as is my custom with many,


too much to say for there to be a better way.


(A forced rhyme, double entendre and a missed opportunity)


What would you have had me say,


since we were to speak our minds?


That I want to breathe you in,


let my hands move of their own volition


tracing the little scars on your back with my fingertips,


and henceforth look to you for manumission.


In terms of simple gestalten,


what use can this supple, scented skin


and the softest hair cut to your favored style


be to me if not employed to some greater purpose of appreciation.


I would only that I knew where I stood in your measure,


and that some words of yours were what set me to shivering now


and not this profound fear.


For what will you make of me now?


Though my words have failed me...


The fragile empty beats of things yet left unsaid


shall speak volumes for m,


carry seven states away


so that you may think of me in the space between...


For I have found something I want.