Underneath
what you see of me,
what you think you see
but can’t imagine, really:
the Big Anger, much of that drawn
from what you don’t see. 

Underneath 
what you see:
hard to describe, really; let’s
manifest it this way — 
I’m a chain smoking demon
sitting out a rain delay
in a ballpark where
I can’t light up.

Underneath 
what you see,
what you can’t see but
maybe you can hear:  let’s go,
batter up, America’s Game,
batter up.  Let me take 
a swing if you’re not ready — 
and man, are you not ready.

If your wind starts rustling
through trees —
end it.  Cut the wind off.

If at any time you feel compelled to speak
of your soul, if you feel it stirring, joining, seeking
its mate — end it.  Cut the soul free. It’s damn tired
of doing those things and it will embrace you for this.

What else?  Skip dusk, skip dawn.
If you can’t get down with
two in the afternoon, or three fifty-six AM —

please, end it.  Stop.  Cut the clock free.
Nothing wants to do this same old same old
forever, except for your genitals

and even they get bored occasionally…
so, workshop it all right out.  Bash
a cliche in the head till it blooms.  Skip
eyes, crystalline, waves, skin, moist — 

give us instead conveyor belt, chatter,
soapy, saw blade, match heads,
horse tooth, chipper, mess, orchestral.

Listen: we need you.  Be you. 
Only you are standing where you are. 
What’s it look like,
sound like there? 

You can start by realizing
that none of the above
is about how to write a poem.

Went to borrow
skin from Johnny —
back soon. Call if you need
anything — will be going by
the Louvre on the way home so…

~~~~~~~~

Have the kids the dog and dragon
Back by 3
Left something black in the fridge for you
Better than it looks! 
love

~~~~~~~~~

Did you pay the ferryman?
He called twice

~~~~~~~~~

Had to run to the ice pack
Forgot the reason why —
hope to remember
before I get there
Don’t wait up

~~~~~~~~~

Don’t open the cellar door!
Will explain when I get home
Remember I love ya

~~~~~~~~~

Peaches
We needed peaches
That’s right, peaches

~~~~~~~~~

I left 40,000 dollars for you
under the eaves of the old shed

I spoke kindly of you to Them
I hope it is enough

We aren’t likely to see each other again
for a long time

You would be best served by
forgetting me

as I shall forget you
I promise

It is morning, someone says,
though I could tell that by myself.

My first thought is of the landscape
near the closest football stadium.

My second is of a scrap of paper.
Upon it these words: “your prime

is seven.” My next thought is of
an esoteric cabal of crushingly

huge men chanting prime numbers
as they thunder across the world,

because this early I’m primarily an engine
for cobbling together random things.

It is morning, someone says,
though it’s obvious to me.

My next thought is that I ought
to sit up in bed and see how I feel.

My first action is to sit up in bed
and see how I feel.  I’m still lightly

furred and a little clammy, drier
in some areas than others,

afraid of social media, angry without
cause, desperately in love.  

It is morning, I am saying it clearly now,
I am the new carrier of the disjointed day,

next up in the relay.  My first true action
upon others is coming soon.  It will be

angry or loving or based in fear — wait:
it will be angry and loving and based in fear.  

Don’t be afraid — it won’t be large.
It will not assume the guise of a linebacker.

It is morning, my leaping little thoughts cry.
Count to seven, push aside the covers.  Get up.

The world needs me.  People like me
are the sand grains outside the oyster:

we are many, we all have pearl potential,
some become random irritants, but most likely

we’ll just be the bed upon which
beauty happens, mostly without us.

It is morning, someone says. 
Get up, dreamer. Make yourself useful

or at least practical. Useful
will be a stretch at best.

Early
and hardly up
with the light and
the clatter of the  
cat beating on the blind
to try and see outside.
Birds, squirrels, then someone
starting a loud car — must be
the red van two doors down,
know that rattle and growl
by heart by now, it has taken
all spring to get this loud
and now it’s distinctive as
any robin’s liquid call.
I don’t blame the cat
for being a cat when it’s
this busy this early.
She’s trying to tell me
some creature surely
ought to care
about the bustle,
it’s too much for dawn
to contain, and 
who can say
what will fall apart
if such vibrancy
goes on unnoticed?
She has a point, 
so I feed her.  
As she eats,
collar clinking
on the plate,
I sit by the window —
she’s right, oh
how right.
 
 

Start by giving until
you are hollow.
Hollow is the given
here, the expectation.
You’ll soon be empty
if there’s any good 
in you to give.

Speak as spoken to
and be heard as well;
love it as you are loved,
or oppose it and be
ignored, despised,
or shunned.

(If you are already
the Other,
a role will be
chosen for you.)

As for full membership
and its privileges: of course
it’s open to all
and not hard to achieve —
the hurdles are few and low.
Start anytime.
We will let you know
when you’re finished.

We will let you know.

We’ll let you know.

I promise, we’ll let you know.

“Every angel is terrifying,” said 
Rilke, and I love those words, 
and I long have agreed.

I have them tattooed, you see,
across my back
right where wings would be. 

I thought a long while
about the language I should use
for this — English, or original German —

and settled for English, so that no one
at the beach or gym
with All American monolingual ignorance

will ever assume
that based on the look of the words,
I must be a Nazi — instead,

they’ll maybe think I’m a lapsed Catholic
or troubled Christian of another sort,
with a blue-black charm across my skin

to fend off the possibility
that I might be terrible too, someday.
I’m certain most will still not understand.

How is it possible, most will say,
that what God created for His comfort
and support could scare anyone?

Isn’t it supposed to be lovely in Heaven, isn’t it
peace beyond understanding
expressed as real estate?

And I’ll laugh, and say that
it’s ‘personal,’ and at any rate
I’ve only ever seen the words on me

backwards in a mirror, so maybe
that way it means something else?
And they will move away from me,

which is all I’ve ever wanted.
Every angel is terrifying, even one
without wings, even one waiting

to return home.  I must keep the people
away from me, I cannot be responsible
if they discern the truth and begin to scream.

It’s not polite to say this
Why don’t you go away
We want you to die
or to not have ever existed 
would have been better

It’s not right to say this
Why aren’t you a memory
or not even a memory
We want to not know you
We want you to be fictional

but who would
have written you
Whose idea could you
have been
Where would you have
percolated up from
What oily bed would
have given you birth

It’s not possible to understand
why are you what you are
Why aren’t you extinct
We’d love you more were you fossilized
We’d love to ponder if you were real

The hot wars, acid suspicions
and other pleasantries
of our families both blood and chosen

keep boiling into the fabric
of our robes and threaten
to scald the threads,

stripping them bare
of any color and half or more
of their strength.  

We are soggy and scared,
burned, either afraid to stand up
or defiant and ready to scream.

What are we going to be —
the same cloth as always,
or something new

that drapes us naturally
and shows us off with deep color
and soft hand?