You look like a man 
in need of a punch
in the side of the head
or a piercing
in the side of the body
Something dealt to you
by a Roman or a punk
Something you can add to
your Martyrdom Book
Something as good as any 
suicide attempt
colossal drunk striptease
bad haircut
Something to tell
the LADIES about
over a bottle of tears
You look like a man
in need of a narrative
to put it all into
A man in need
of a rabbit to tear apart for effect
as if the rabbit were an envelope
and the winner’s name was inside
A man in search
of a terrible weakling to be
A man who knows his disease well enough
to call it up for a ride
when he needs
to get somewhere FAST
A man who’s not going to get
his much needed punch in the head
from this guy
because this guy has no desire
to drive you anywhere

If they decide to kill your spirit,
they will begin with flattery.

They will begin
with flattery
and continue into sycophancy.

They will follow you around
on hands and knees as sycophants 
and slowly, slowly begin to suck you dry.

They will say your shit is nectar —
and what, therefore,
must the rest of you be?

You will believe them,
you’ll see yourself as a genius teat
after a while…

and full of shit
or not full of shit at all,
what will be the difference then?

observe this clump
of recalcitrant cells
sitting up in bed refusing
to do what biology insists upon
and die —

what arrogance
that it won’t just roll over into rot
considering all the insult 
it has self-inflicted 
in its lifespan —  

why it’s even
trying to get more sleep
learning to de-stress and rest
seeking better nutirition
it has even stopped smoking —

this looks remarkably 
like a disease called by some
hope —

what we know
of the habits
of such colonies 
is that when hope manifests
it is always
aberrant and short-lived —

still
it produces a glow in the cells —

a phenomenon
that may have some
adaptive advantage
as on rare occasions
it is strong enough to illuminate 
a small enclosed space

we would have learned much earlier
that riding each other
is THE way to get closer to Home

we would have made you wings
that would have lifted
when spread against time

wouldn’t have given you 
so little pocket room
to hold relics for the journey

would not have had you waste time
learning to pray
and would have had you learn more

about singing instead

if we had known
we’d never have left you here
to deal with the night’s sadness

and love’s meteorite scars
we’d have raised you right
we’d have raised you to escape

You don’t want immortality
without permanent youth.

You don’t want permanent youth
without perpetual novelty.

If you stop being surprised
by the world,

being young will get
old.  You will begin praying

for death, and nothing
will be able to console you.

So — be thoughtful
before you ask me

for the wishes.
I can do so much

and little more.  I cannot
make you happy, really.

Blood
on me pants

Me warm in the sun

Me waiting for the sirens

Me saying it’s a good day to die
A good day

May be me die today
Maybe not

but in the sun it’s warm
and me head feels pretty darn
good — a little balloony of course
with me blood all over

Me never saw the car
or may be it was a truck

A good day to die by truck or car

Who knew this — no matter where you die
you end up in San Diego

May be it’s Boston I die in
but this is sure San Diego I see

Me with the blood all over
and warm in the sun

I missed this
all these years
Glad to be back

Half unmanned while young
by a misadventure,

I have shoved my way through —
surly, highly aware, knowing 

that one deft blow
to my remaining grape

might change everything again;
the first blow left me childless,

a second might leave me
with nothing at all.  

Since then I’ve covered up, walked tight,
faked more man than I felt;

packed heat, packed a knife, 
packed it in and away and off to safety.

Come for me knowing you will not get
one whole man.  You’ll end up with half

and a machine, one built to run
on loss and fury;

one built to fight back, posture
and roar like a warrior, a man

with everything in place. (And even as 
I say that, I know how much more

is missing from me
than is missing from my body.)

1.
When people hear I’m a poet

some expect
that French hummingbirds
will fall from my mouth:
flashing
subtleties, gems
suspended
on a red string.

Listen,
I want to say to them,
It’s not going to shimmer like that,
not always.  Sometimes
there are no hummingbirds —
isn’t a Chicago robin
doing its drab and wormy job
wonder enough?

2.
I won’t lie — seems sometimes
that I’ve got
not just birds but
a whole game preserve
inside me.  Being the host
of a whole wilderness,
even the ugly parts —
that’s apparently important enough
that it’s become my vocation.

3.
If you want to know
what poetry I have in me,
three things to recall:

one, among the instantly arresting lovelies
there will always be some
hideous and
some so plain you will not see them
at first;

two, among the plain and ugly
there will be some venomous and
some that heal —
and there will be the same among the beautiful ones,
of course;

third,
whether peacock or slug,
three-legged dog
or most unexpected
unicorn
(yes, unicorn: not at all
precious but terrible,
you’ll see),

recall,
I beg,
that I
have to live with them.

I’m their shell, I am the walls
they loathe.  These aren’t
pets.  They don’t love me.
They growl, claw,
bite.

When people hear
I’m a poet,
they need to be prepared
for all the blood.

Describe the last time
you ate something
you killed yourself.

Use words of three syllables or less.
No more than twenty lines.
No use of the definite article.

If you haven’t yet killed
and then eaten something, 
you’re not off the hook. 

If all your food is killed by someone else,
if you could never and have never,
you are not off the hook;

even If you object on moral grounds,
if you do not believe in killing,
if you are the vegan of all vegans, 

you are not off the hook.
If this poem offends you, if these instructions
offend you, you are still not off the hook. 

Describe, instead,
the last death that helped you
to sit there, hearing this, reading this. 

Who died to bring the rare earths
to your phone?  the oil to your car?
the compassion to your face?

Whose departure left you so wanting
and desperate that you swore a fool’s oath
against the necessity of death?

Use words of three syllables or less.
No more than twenty lines.
No use of the definite article.

Think hard, pure soul,
gentle soul:  who died
to get you here? What hand

did you have in that,
even if it was unconsciously given
by the fact of your birthplace and time? 

No more than twenty lines
on how you have never, ever,
been more than an hour or two away from food. 

There are times
when I want to mash a nose
with my fist.   I don’t ever do it,
but I want to, and I refuse
to say I do not on occasion
want to.

There are times
when the face I am longing to punch
matters, times when it
does not.  Times when I see it clearly,
the whole punch, the spray, the tumble;
other times when I can only see
my wind up, my cocking arm.

There are times when I am righteous
about the target and the choice of blow
before I swing
and times when I just want
to smash a cheekbone, anyone’s really,
and explain it away afterward to a crowd 
who will sympathize and agree and no one
will do a damn thing to me
and untouched I’ll head on back
to the enviable noir lair I call home.

I feel the blows coming up
from my balls to my hands
and I want to mash a face.
I never do it.  I just want to.
I don’t know why this happens.
I keep it to myself, mostly.

But not talking about it at all?
Keeping it under wraps, away from
polite company, my social 
networks, my political discourses?

It feels like a swallowed horse
bucking in panic.  Feels like
the highway rising up and down,
a popular ropes workout.  Feels like
Godzilla’s come a-rolling.  
Feels like I’m going to 
mash a face and not 
stop
there.