The guy on stage says
that poems are always
about beginnings and endings. If
you want middles, write a novel, he says.

Some in the audience nod,
but my first thought is that
he obviously can’t think
outside the box.

Later, I decide
that you should not write a poem
about your drug experiences
unless you know for certain that you are
the reincarnation of William S. Burroughs.

(If you are unsure,
you should be able to answer ‘yes’ to the following questions:

Do you know better?
Do you have a birthmark that looks like a bullet piercing a shotglass?

Note: it is a requirement that
both criteria must be present
to confirm the incarnation.)

Later still, I realize
I want to hear someone say,
“Y’know, I used to cut/drink/drug/fuck inordinately
and insanely, I once had a broken heart
and a vampire fixation, I’m broken beyond repair —
but doesn’t the revelatory taste of this coffee
just CRUSH that precious little pyre to embers?”

And then I get it,
understand that the first poet was right.
I realize suddenly I’m the very personification
of the middle and I am indeed
useless here.

The young here
share their heart’s content,
seeing that as
a means to an end. The logic goes
that once you’ve got

the easy stuff knocked, once you’ve
picked all the low apples
from the smart tree,
it’s gonna be a sweet glide
to closure.

Let them angels like them apples. Let the young
imagine Eden sprouting from their trials.
Me, I’m gonna keep worrying this old bone I found
buried at the base of that tree
before the sword and the fire drove me away…

it must fit somewhere, probably between other things
I haven’t found yet, but if I have to get burned
hunting for them I will, if I have to lose a limb getting close enough
I will, and if I have to keep barking
about the things in the middle…well, woof.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOTE: that first line refers to a poem by Dean Young that Chris Fortin read at his excellent feature at the Asylum last night. I used it as a starting point, and my poem should in no way be construed as a comment on Chris’ fine work and/or his superb set.

I’m safer
when I’m still,
sleeping or comatose
from something or other —

I don’t hurt myself
when I’m unconscious
because my mind
is my worst punishment — in there

there’s a whipman on a merry go round
and what passes over and over
leaves marks — so when I am
not using it, not allowing

the inquisition to roll
on and on,
I am snug
within —

let me sleep now,
my dreamless heart
blue from lack of oxygen
but otherwise unbruised; please,

let me sleep. Let me
go into the night.
Let me go the way anyone
goes who doesn’t know this —

and bless me that I will be
unfamiliar, one day,
with how it feels to prefer
dead calm to the whirl of day.

I’m not sure how I used to stop the world,
but there were times when everything
slowed and each of my moves was perfect,
no wasted effort,
arms synched perfectly swinging
as I turned toward the yard
away from the screen door closing behind me,
and then I discovered that my vision
had sharpened at the edges
and deepened at the center of the field of view
so that a jonquil stood out dead still from the lawn, its petals
honed against the green behind it so it seemed
cut from life and yellow as piss, as sunshine,
and no stigma came with either definition of that glow —
there was a time I could stop the world
but I didn’t understand how useful that could be,
so I have forgotten how.
I have learned how to think instead.

Instead of making the world stop
I stop myself
and sit ass-heavy on the couch thinking of
good times. When I leave the house
I close the door behind me carefully now, never
letting it slam, afraid of the consequences;
I don’t know how good times
happen anymore and I don’t want to scare them off.

I step out of the door and
I don’t see much color
out there, so I tend to stay in more,
getting excited now only over monochromes:
marathon television viewing, the relief
when the cigarette is finished and I can breathe
something that’s not grey fire in my throat, the relief of
the fire that lights the next one, the ice cubes in
the Canadian Club, the longing for a good night’s sleep
because the only time the world stops now
is when I am not thinking of it, when I cannot see it at all,
when the dark eats my dreams and I live quietly for a moment,

living dead for an hour or two at a time,
at last not regretting the poisonous hope
that one day I’ll remember how to stop the world,
recall how I used to see
the razor beauty of things
that grow without the curse of thoughts.

Alone in the dim living room
I approve of some thought that passes
through me, and out of my mouth
once again comes

that unexplainable awkward “hmmmm…”
in a satisfied tone
that I can never explain adequately
to anyone who hears it: how can I be
agreeing out loud
with a half formed idea that
I can’t even explain? I am glad I am
alone, until I realize
there is one being here beside me,
the only one that
ever understands why sometimes
I speak before I think, even before I understand it —

the guitar in the corner
responds to my ecstatic grunt
with a low chuff, a resonance just below
the level of music — close enough that I know
I will wrestle it later
and try to have it tell me
what it was that I meant
when I made that sound.

I wrote this for Mike McGee to use during his 24 hour feature which started tonight, and was honored that he chose to open with it.

Go hit his blog at mikemcgee and you can connect to a live stream from San Jose…

He sent me one to debut tonight at the Hut. I will try to do it the justice it deserves for the great premiere he gave mine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poetry Shoes

It was an ordinary day
( by which I mean to say
it was as beautiful
as every other day)
when I walked up to the edge
of the roof
of the twenty story
Bank Of America building
and stepped off.

Since I had my poetry shoes on
I wasn’t worried —
in those things I can do anything.

I sauntered along,
high over Tenth Street,
twenty stories above the people below,
sustained by sestinas and clouds of clerihews,
and the wind in my hair and my face
(and even the small gusts that would sneak up
the legs of my pants) felt as cool
as anything you might see in a fashion magazine —

“gonna have to use that line in a poem sometime,” I told myself —

and by chance I looked up and I saw
I wasn’t alone. There were people everywhere!
People stepping out from their offices,
people who’d snuck up to the rooftops on breaks,
people who’d slipped on their poetry shoes
to rise above it all,
just to get through their rotten days —
by which I mean
their ordinary days.

We all need a way to soar.
Everyone needs a new pair of shoes.
Get away from the bank, the school, the office and slip on
your poetry shoes, brothers and sisters,
your sonnet sneakers, slam slippers, brawny
epic boots, haiku ballet point shoes, beat tap sandals,
cowboy flippers — slip ’em on!

Step out into the air
and take a walk with me, or show me where you’re going
and I’ll follow you anywhere,
high above Tenth Street,
away from the banks and the dangerous pavement;

on this ordinary day (by which I mean to say
on this beautiful, magnificent day)
the sky’s gonna be crowded with hikers who know
the best journeys always begin
with one
well-shod step
off the edge.