things I might learn

To live trivia needs my attention.
Things I give to myself I'll take,
hang them safely next to my shirts and sweaters,
the ones in my closet,
beneath the stairs,
covered in cream colored carpet,
that lead to a small loft of owls and children
and oranges with sweat 
and two people who won't ever leave.


This all means,
maybe,
that my repressed has turned conscious
by a new bright avenue of my heart,
an avenue that made real my fake mouth,
made fake my sin,
and filling me with interrogations of a
small weak boy of eleven,
not knowing what to know
not knowing the speed of time--
All that I spent in the hay-barn jungle,
name the significance of that experience.


I hope to dream the significance
in a dream where I am the soil, tilled by Natives,
and corn tall upon me
feeding the universe and God
not inside me but just me,
and know how I beat my heart,
and how I shine the sun,
the moon though will be
a good and better friend,
and when I feel the orgasm
of dancing piano and flute feet upon my chest,
the carbon and nitrogen will turn to clouds
and follow the deer who run free of ticks
and guns and train tracks to the ocean.

you don't stir (old poem)

the key is yours
you gave it to me.

i felt it in my pocket
climbing the stairs
to the back of your
apartment.

you're probably asleep,
but i couldn't--
mind edgy
and single tracked
staring days into dark.

so i walked
through path
of leaf and shadow,
doubtful rehearsing
of confidence and might,
nervous hands
warming your single key.

i would say to you,
lady, that you are felt
more than in a mouth
      or at a fingers ends
             a slightly swollen lip
             a wetted eye
             a tiny cut
but like
             the leaves in the trees
             the wind that pushed them to detach
             the years they took
    to return to mother,
ill feel you every night
float away with me
on distant paths
of white blankets,
of white teeth--

but you don't stir,
nothing does,
you aren't home.

weak i walk home
with cold thoughts
and brief sentiment
of the fibrous and chemical smells
        where you exist.

my morning machine

I am a morning machine

that wakes in method.

Protocol running through me

calling to my pants and shirts

and socks to assemble,

to cover up my perversity.

I am a morning machine

complete with a subroutine

to walk downstairs

to drink coffee

to tie up boots

to take a vitamin.

I am a morning machine

but I am not without run-time errors,

miscalculations and bugs.

They can turn me into a lackey

that fakes sickness,

writes bad stories, drinks coffee all day

until beers at lunch time.

But I am searching in the code

for rogue algorithmic prose

that inherently prioritizes its own

foreboding zeros and ones—although

it is difficult to tell

because they blend so well

with the code I want to keep.

winter ate summer

Winter ate summer
and made a mess, now
i look for spiders
in every glove
and every coat-arm.

winter ate summer
and I look amiss
because I can't grow
a beard.

winter ate summer
and the sun watched
from its plumb point in the sky,
then it frowned south.

winter ate summer
and now I wake in the dark,
feeling the pulse of mystery
as I slip my arm out
from under her head,
breathing words
that send her back to her dream.

winter ate summer
and the sky is never clear
but something about it;
something about
the slow grey clouds
confuses my sensuality,
and I bloom
in the black black black.

winter ate summer.

this morning is the morning

This morning is the morning
that comes while I'm asleep
dreaming my inexcusable dreams.

This morning is the morning
of the day when I will finally
not let my habits
orchestrate and direct.

This morning is the morning
of my twenty fifth year (some days in)
and the steel train tracks
of my mind are being lifted
and pointed north.

This morning is the morning
when the human mind
witnesses how it spends time--
cyclical pattern, magnetic suggestion,
gain and rewards sufferings.

How many ignore the insanity
and try to make sense of the constant
and keep going? Perhaps this is how
we separate and redeem ourselves.
Maybe it is choice and suffering
that when they end, the mouth to the river
will be found and followed inland, to find
the steel tracks and move them a little.

allen ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg wrote so many filthy poems,
                                       Jesus Christ...
You could tell he wasn't afraid, wasn't waiting (couldn't wait).

There is always somebody needing to be shown something,
and if you write long and strangely enough
you can find yourself finding yourself
and never once worry about going to hell. (Hell is where
people wait to be shown
without any room in their hearts
to show others)

my lady is a project

My lady is a project,
such sweet progress to be made,
who when layeth down at night
dreams of lying in a grave.

So at night I'll tinker with her,
sharpen her body like a glaive,
and in the day perturb her mind,
to begin the leaving of the grey.