good morning
everything’s
quite astonishing outside
and cliches on the radio
are stirring me
for the first time in
i can’t remember
how long

good morning
a grand morning
a stunner of a day ahead
walking around stunned
is on my calendar
which is on my desk
next to the unpaid bills
i’m still in bed
but i’m working on getting up

good morning
a grand day
a worth a grand day
worth a million bucks day
and something tells me
it’ll all be spent

i’m working on getting up
trying to get up
thinking of haze on the meadow
starshine and wood
there’s none of that here
those are some other guy’s
beautiful mornings

that million bucks says
a good morning’s always
followed by afternoon
followed by dusk
and then night
i’m working on getting up
before that happens

good morning
i guess it can’t be helped
it’ll be here and then be gone
my getting up gets it on its way
one leg at a time
my mother used to say
up and at ’em
my father used to say

good morning
i turn the radio off
spread myself across
the whole bed
pull the covers
way up over my closing eyes
get on with
the good morning
the best i hope
to ever have

so much depends on them

the crumpled toyotas and buicks
bearing the kohl’s and tj maxx masses
of women who work for median pay
just to hold families together
and/or pay for saturday nights

so much depends on

the workaday pickups and vans
that shuffle the turnpikes a car length at a time
manned by the men who wear carhartts for function
just to hold families together
and/or pay for saturday nights
to earn their stripes in
the army
of the ignored

you depend on them

you who sneer at large eyeglasses and broad bellies
who swear to never walk the walmart aisles
who do not understand the necessity of shopping
at the only place you can afford any sort of glasses
the only place left in the half-rural towns
you’re buying into
the towns you’re buying out from under them
who put up the mansions on their grandfathers’ lands
who cheerfully toss your cash at the work of their hands
who do not understand how little of your money
goes into those hands
who would sneer at the smell of the dirt on those hands
who would never tolerate it on your own

so much depends

on the world where they live
which you see and sneer at
from the seats of your bluetoothed cars
from the seats of your business class flights
from the seats at the indie rock show
from the floor where you mock the old time rock and roll
that keeps the flame burning for some folks’ saturday nights
from the seats where you look up from professional screens
and imagine the pleasure of loving rap for its image
from the seats where it’s easy to pretend
you could rough it like them
slumming for a week or so

from the seats at the poetry slam
where you manage to muster a pitiable shake of the head
at a poem about class and indifference

so much depends
on not admitting a divide exists
or denying that the divide’s near impossible to bridge
without leaving some piece of you behind

so much depends
on the crumpled toyotas
the not quite late model enough hondas and saturns
the cars that struggle to pass you to get there on time
because there’s no flextime in a retail backroom
because there’s no daycare in a call center’s perks
because a car isn’t a way of life but a workhorse
because a paint job’s a luxury and a dent is a shrug

so much depends on
you not seeing yourself as remotely
a part of that mass on the highway

there’s a hell in every payment
you make on your life
and you’re not the one
who burns in it

happy
to be here.
thrilled
to make your acquaintance.
honored, really.
thanks.
no, thank you.

all you gotta
do
is ask. asking’s enough
to get you anywhere. another time,
another city. i’d be
lying if i said i wasn’t flattered.
you’re really saying
something there. i wasn’t
born yesterday. been there
done that.

i hear you.

it’s not like i needed
to overhear they were so
loud. whattaya gonna
do. you do what you gotta.
what you gotta do, you do.
it’s all there is. really
that’s all we’ve got, i hear you.

i hear you.

listen, you hear me, you
gotta understand, i don’t say this
very often.

i hear you.

thousand opinions in the wind.
everyone’s an asshole with one. every
asshole’s got one. you look smart
not like the others you look like
you know what’s what, you know what
i mean.

at the risk of repeating myself
at the risk of sounding stupid
at the risk of being misunderstood

i mean it
you
look good.

look it’s not like this
is a good place to talk
maybe there’s a place near here
we could get a drink
maybe your number
maybe another time

maybe someone will overhear

maybe the park
maybe the dark
maybe the thing i want to say

maybe another time
see you again

glad to be here
thrilled to make your
acquaintance

Brother,
I gotta tell you, your
poetry stinks so
it sure must be good —
must be the marinade
you’re using.
I’d ask for the recipe
but then I’d want to use it
myself and that’s
out — no
copying what works, that’s
what I was always told.
Make it up yourself,
that’s what I learned coming up
and I try even though
my poetry doesn’t stink half as much
as yours does.

Let me
have another bite of that.
I like how stringy it is.
I like what you’ve done with its
obvious faults. I know I said it
was the marinade but now I’m thinking
it’s gotta be the heat you cook with —
gas, grill, electric? Never mind,
it’s not important, you just do
what you do and I’ll do the same.

You tell those kids to shut up.
Just because your poetry
smells like old people and
holocausts doesn’t mean
it’s not nutritious. I mean,
liver is good for you too and
that tastes like pure doom
even when it’s done perfectly.

Gimme another slice of that
stuff you’re serving, and spoon
some of that black juice it sits in
over the top. Maybe it’s the marinade
or the way you cook it, but something
in the flavor of it
reminds me of a good rancid
spring swamp and I guess
life’s gotta start somewhere.

You’ve got a real feel for this.

Brother, Jesus,
your poem stinks, stinks all nervous
like a whore in church, like
it did something dirty when no one
was looking,
it’s gotta be good for something.

Here you go:

BOUQUET

1.
The brain
knows many things.
Some of them you know,
some you do not.

2.
If the brain
was a flower,
you would be
its scent.

3.
Perhaps
the brain is a
flower, starving
for light, lunging out
through the eyes
for sustenance.

4.
If you plucked
your brain out
and held it to the light,
would you have a mind?

5.
The mind lives
in the brain and
hides in its petals.
The mind is the dark
among the riots of color.

6.
You sleep
and the brain corrals
the mind. They talk all night,
pretending they are
you. In the morning
you are nearly mad
from the echoes of their
conversation.

7.
Put your hands
around your mind
and know it’s not
part of the scheme
that you should understand
everything: there are things
shoring up the partners
that would terrify you
if you knew them.

8.
The brain blooms
long after you close your eyes.
The mind rises from its nooks and folds
to escape, moving past you,
playing in the meadows.

9.
The mind drifts back
in the hot late afternoon. Your head grows heavy
with pollen. You open your mouth
and bees fly in
to take their fill while the mind
avoids being stung
by the danger in the commerce.

10.
When you sleep
the mind and brain bear ideas.
You pretend they are your own fruit.
The brain laughs at you. The mind
strokes you softly, saying,
“There, there…”

11.
You are the scent.
Something plucks your brain
and you die slowly. Maybe
another brain and another mind
recall you for a while, but
you’ll certainly fade.

12.
Anything
fed long enough
on vision, scent, touch,
sound, taste will double back
on its own surety. The brain
makes you sleepy. The mind
makes you frightened. You
make yourself believe
there are reasons for everything.

13.
A night blooming flower
holds its beauty
until first light, collapsing
at the first touch of your hand,
staining your memory
with a scent you never can
describe.

Paint and ink
mean little to me. I
am not a visual man. Give me
the sound over the image.
Blue is tone not shade, frame
is drum not holder, line is path
through air and not on paper.

Red dog runs by the window
and I don’t see it as much as I
feel its bark, the cheerful
husk deep in the soft throat.
I know the cars on the street
by their songs and couldn’t tell you
their brands if you threatened
to strike me.

At midmorning yesterday I heard
a small child playing in the
neighbor’s backyard, calling to a friend
as she threw snowballs: “Bigger!
Bigger!” and I tensed up, ready to scold,
because I thought I heard a color in the cry.

Facing the yard and seeing the two of them
for the first time, seeing one white and one
black, heard them laughing (both now screaming “Bigger!
Bigger!” as they threw dirty old handfuls of
snow at each other, gathering more each time and
getting louder with every toss),
I looked down at the sidewalk
even as I was learning to trust
that my eyes, sometimes,
could tell me more than my ears would believe.

because
we like our lettuce
crisp, cold,
and white.

because beef
is what’s for dinner.

because we believe
we like Mexican food
because we’ve made tacos.

because we couldn’t tell
an Apache from an accountant
if we heard them but we still think
we could.

because we miss
riding and roping.

because we haven’t
killed a whale in a while.

because caribbean cruises
don’t take us too far from home.

because it’s ten miles
from here to work
and the train is so
dirty.

because
the night time is
the right time to
turn on the lights
and stay up till dawn.

because some of us
will never have
to learn another language.

because grillz, rims,
scooters, nines,
leathers, bedliners, cowboy hats
and headwraps
are so much fun to sell.

because a desert holds
bones and bike tracks
for a long time.

because
lakes look like postcards.

because
we never have to go
anywhere.

because we can sleep
when we want.

because it is always morning
when we awake.

Fourth airport
in two days.

Double bourbon
in a concourse bar.

Two Camels
in seven minutes.

My head’s a rose petal
singed at its edges,
last scrap of a full bloom.

Two hours of airtime
still to come.
Then, the drive home —
with one stop
for one kiss.

Every stop’s been
progressively colder
except for this last one:

a life-drop wrapped in an embrace,
softening me
back toward myself.

Masks for Facial Disfigurement Department

Compassion and horror. Thank God they so often go hand in hand.

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

there was a hole
in my face. they laid
copper on me
and made me again.

before she painted me
back to fullness, she touched
my blasted cheek and
learned me.

i will not move my lips again.
i will not smile. no one will turn away
until i get close enough to let them see
i will not smile or move for them.

she laid a hand upon me
where no one can see but me,
looking in the mirror for what is gone.
i will not move my face again

for the people in the street,
but there are days
when i think of her when i am alone
and i swear the metal bends a bit.

black here
is evil. unknown.
impure. red is angry,
yellow is cowardice, brown
the shade of shit and dirt.
white is so pure
it stings.

and the light
between colors
is denied.

every attribute’s
been attributed
by someone who does not
own it.

go out and roll around
in the hues of the race.
see if then you can call me out
by the beliefs you’ve been fed.

when you’ve finished
give me a call here
in the dark and i’ll open
the door to my room
to you. i’ll hit the switch
and then you decide what you
want to call me. i know already
what to call you, but i’m willing
to change my mind.

dear tony:

i sit inside and watch you. remember
that phrase, it’s always darkest before the dawn?
that’s why they call it night. i sit in that dark
and watch you not acknowledge it.
you stay in the dark and pine for day. you think
it’s a problem to sit in the dark. you imagine
i’m with you on this. i’m not much inclined
to agree with you. i sit in your dark
and watch you sit in the dark and cry. you
ought to sit back and watch how the sky changes
and how the splinters of the city’s sparse life fall out in the street
and people still live though it’s hard to see. tony,
you dark sitting man, you know it’s a passing phase
and still you sit and stare for hours out of the window
and from where i sit you’re surely some kind of fool.
it’s no holocaust out there. it’s no holocaust in here
either and what you think is heat from some imminent oven
is just your own blood rising to the challenge.
it’s always dark somewhere, always light somewhere else,
and i’m always here next to you, the boy nickname, the affectionate
and tough altered ego you won’t admit to ever having known.
dear tony, dear boy, dear man,
it’s dark here i know, but i can still see you.
i’m here all the time. can i get you to read this
before it’s too late? turn the light on and give it a try.

yours,
brownie

what i was
was an injury
unpatched. i was
unnoticed evil. i was
public good and that felt
like i was a balloon stretched too
tightly, full of air, ready to
pop and leave scraps and sound
behind me. i never knew
anything about love on my own, just
what i felt from the person across from me —
at least until the end, when a glimpse came to me
so late its promise made me laugh
before i wept. too late
i recognized the dead man in my poems
who mocked me — how can you create, son,
if there’s nothing inside you to work with?
i was a wound with a ragged edge
and a stitch or two, here and there, that
had long ago let go and left only
black threads to show the attempt.
i was futile, i was a robe on the bed
without a body to fill it, and when i finally understood
how little there was of me i let even that slip away.
you can read my poems now and imagine
a man who wrote them. i never knew him.
what i was was a script for a poet, not
the poet himself. you can protest
but i won’t hear it. i don’t
have an ear on my head that’ll work for me.

1.
hi i’m new here and thought it might be fun
to keep in touch with friends
and maybe meet some people
come say hi

2.
two vast and trunkless legs of stone
stand in the desert

3.
preferences: children?
love kids, but not for me

4.
shoutout to all the shortyz

5.
don’t send me a picture of your dick
show me a face pic first
i’ve seen cock and unless
you’re the biggest on the site
it’s not going to make me cum

6.
look upon my works ye mighty and despair

7.
trajectories computed
throw weight calculated
impact accuracy determined

8.
hi
i never thought i’d be writing something like this
hi
this is the last place i thought i’d end up
hi
is there a woman out there who wants a nice guy
hi
i’m funny and sensitive like poetry elliot smith and sufjan stevens
hi
any other dave matthews fans out there

9.
statues break because they do not take themselves lightly

10.
what you conceived in a moment of loneliness
lasts beyond your subsequent coupling

11.
i’m currently in a relationship
and am only looking to play as a couple

12.
any hotties looking to chat

13.
someone’s raised a long hard rock with his name on it
putting it out on the web for all to see
email me for a webcam show
email me

14.
see the crumbled state
the war as lover
reaching for the next place
to make a stand

15.
hi
i’m new here

I watched my mother
read a book about it poolside,
her towel dripping now and then
on the aqua tiles.

We had heard about it all our lives — a network of pain,
flat, cold, decolored; mobs of grey men
sucking at cold soup and cigarettes,
watching each other’s mouths for scraps.

We imagined that they
were just like us, more like us
than they were like their countrymen.
We suspected they were our story on ice,

believed that so hard that it hardly mattered
if that was true. They were a slice
of the red white and blue. Freedom
was always an American word back then.

When we were older and prisoners
began to emerge from the gulag
with stories of how it truly had been
we were shocked to learn we’d been close to

right, but still so far from truth. We got a taste
for spreadsheets and close notation. We understood
that some of those people were scum
and not heroes, and heroes

and scum were sometimes so blended
they didn’t even know who was who.
No one reads their books by poolside now;
some myths are made to be remembered in error.

Each day we wake to news
of new islands we’ve filled
with dangerous men. We’re now the ones
punching the clocks and typing the stats.

Honestly, we don’t know who’s sitting there, sweating
out the days in boxes, staring
at the mouths of comrades. Some are terrible
potentialities, some long for their fields and children,

some are all at once a terror and a caution
to us. We punch the names and strike
the boxes. Someone’s going to write about this
someday, and someone’s mother

may read the book by poolside again, taking in another slice
of the red white and blue, but not now. Now
the oceans and the trees are flat and grey to the easy viewer,
and while fewer are smoking, the new soup is still cold on the tongue.