bits and specks

if all i am
is highly organized bits and specks
minuscule globs of matter
mixed with water
passing chemicals all over the place
dividing till i'm new again
nerve cells with electricity
zipping back and forth
caused by stimulus
real or imagined

and if all i am
has taken the kind of time
to be what it is
that i cannot even grasp
in my highly organized brain
what has caused this feeling
something like poison
to be pumped around my body

giving shout to end it all
to self destruct this machine
give it up
bits and specks separate again

plain and distorted

the storm was nothing
i could write about
and i've given up writing
about it breaking up darkness
and driving back night
i've given up turning storms to words

it was her that was everything
it was her in the light
breaking through windows
some hours after midnight
it was her whose breath
on the back of my neck
blocked out the storm
it was her and all of her
that night coming back to me

i have given up writing about storms
because they allow me to forget
i know my time with her in words
is plain and distorted
the view of the sky in a stepped-in puddle
after the rain has gone
these poems never fit
i write them over and over
knowing they are nothing
a fleck of glass from the mirror
of my time with her

owing to one thing

the smile on my face
is owing to one thing

it's a smile akin
to my most innocent joys

seeing sunshine strike
first thing upon waking
from dark to light

watching water
form and hold a wave
recede a moment later

this smile seems wider
one which we share
as we sway together
dancing back and forth
in a way as simple
as water and light

dance

sometimes we did this little dance

this is a statement
i'm likely to make
in my reflective old age
when dancing lightly
is a thing of nostalgia
when my old body
will remember our young bodies
moving smoothly across the floor

sometimes we did this little dance
it's in the recent past
we know we'll always be dancing partners
though as of yet out fingers empty
dance partners
doing our little dance

polls show

after the destruction of the city
polls show that 70 percent
of people have a greater faith in god
what is most interesting
is the other 30
their response didn't make the headlines
wasn't mentioned at all
open ended it may be
that there was no change for some
or some doubted a little more
what is curious to me
is the stories of people
who through the storm
decided against god
this flood did not wipe out
the nonbelievers
an empty world for noah
in this flood
somebody gave up on god
wading in water
with the dead and filth

it's morning again

it's morning again
and there's music in my head
a mixture of what i heard
through the hours of last night

bob dylan is whispering
through my ears
with no assurance but his voice
i hear his name
said with accents
bob dropping like stones
into water making plunks
his name falls his songs sail
away into the rest of my day

i think sibelius is in there still
moving in my head like whisps
of smoke, finding places where
i can remember it again
where i can see the stage and know
that music traveled
from instrument to ear
unimpeded so that there
was a tremble at my lip
a curious wonder about where
this music came from
and if people would come to sit
in theaters in the future
to hear the minds of the past
grabbing at their lovers' hands
moved by music

sometimes the day can change
so that the next morning
you find yourself thinking
instead of forgetting
i think it was the music that did it
blame the music when you can
it wasn't just friends meeting
at the corner bar early in the week
to solely say hello again
there was songs to hear

the thing that gets me
about his songs is the pause
i have every time even knowing
all the sound is coming from one man
and one guitar
that there are moments
when it's like seeing lightning
and i think he'll stop stomping his foot
as a jackhammer and stand up
he'll move about the room
and the walls will crumble
the music will go wherever it wants
he gathers people to hear songs
once more
to shrug off what could have been
a day of sleeping, head nodding
reading the directions and making sure
to fill in the circle completely
turning it to one
where you wear your best hat
and another drink is fine
a night when people you think of
and want there, walk in the door
to hugs and a song
played just for them

drunken toast to the woman i love

i toasted from the cheap martini glass
to the woman i love
and i didn't stop there
in my drunken missing
i toasted everyone who love her
ice cubes clinked
and the chill of the night
when we decided
to make each other our world
blew in my hair again
i smiled wide
like i did when she hugged me
remembering how we walked
arm in arm over the mississippi
on a stone bridge
promising to keep
the love we had as kids
and found again
to be the love
we toast on drunken nights
when we're not together.

i gave up

i admit that some time ago
trying to save the world
was something i gave up
it was my only goal
for quite some time

i grew up believing it
laid in my bed at night
a seven year old boy
swearing off the evils of the world
in effort to free it from the people
who didn't understand
like i did

sometimes i think
it was fear that drove me
to think i was going to die
before eighteen
so that i didn't have to live
in a world that was slouching on
to self destruction

at sixteen i felt guilt
for every unkind word i said
and it might be at this point
when self confidence and worth
identity and all that messy psychology
started to make it's way
into my activism
my so called integrity

this journey peaked
when i hung quotes
by mlk and dorothy day
on the outside of my dorm room
when i dropped out
to touch the world outside of books
and essentially save it

started to give up
when a friend died at 22
i saw him stand on his head
and laugh that day
later i touched his cold hand
to feel death as real
started to give up
when i realized all the rivers
that i'd paddled ran down hill
and the world was something
different than i imagined

i gave up more
when i made bad mistakes
believing that because
i never meant to hurt anyone
it would never happen
i ate myself alive with integrity
and i poked many people with pain
i was trying to save the world
while loosing myself

i have hung up my cape these days
and left the saving game
with my big brain i think it's not important
the world's for existing not saving
whether i'm here or not

take what i can get

dandylions have poked up their golden heads
they're vibrant freckles in green yards
hearty enough to grow in cracks in sidewalks
i notice in my six block stroll to the bus stop
watching the season change to another
in only six blocks i have the time to wonder
if this spring is different
or if it's always been like this, i take what i can get

i don't mean it quite like it might sound
like an opportunistic bastard
looking out for good old number one
it's not the attitude that follows to the tables
of the smorgasborg or all you can eat buffet
can't leave without trying the apple crisp
i'll put it on my plate just because i can
force it down my throat, store in distended belly
it's not the grabity grap in the shopping mall
two-for-one bin of pink plastic flip-flops
buy it because it's on sale, can't have too many of these
it's just really an amazing value

my take what you can get
is neither the begger nor the thief
my take what i can get
is standing in the rain storm
knowing it will pass
when it will pass
till then i'll take the view
of rain falling on open water
ripples from each droplet
travel till absorbed by another

my take what you can get
is feeling thankful
for the young woman singing
and with light fingers
playing keyboard at a simple service
for my father's only sister
who had a sudden stroke mid fifties
leaving him alone
the last of his family to die

it's an attitude
that doesn't leave
lying on my floor aching
for the way
people, the world, it
should be

it has me strolling
with eyes looking outward
and bright spots along the way
during a simple stroll in spring

why at times i struggle with school

this should be a term paper
one that discusses health care in america
that offers evidence of our leanings
toward personal responsibility
and integrates the idea
of inequality between class

this should be a term paper
of no longer that six pages
which will be given a letter
standing for a number
that's added to a point total
then adjusted for class average
converted back to a number
recorded on my transcript
under the category: elective
fulfilling a requirement
along my coursework for a major
ending in what's titled
a baccelaureate of science
entitling me to something,
possibly
it is something i'll be able to frame

this should be a term paper
instead of what it is
when i just want to write about
a ridiculous system-
-----------that doesn't meet our needs

i want to describe images i read about
old woman lying in bed
------------worked all her life
-------------------suffering diabetes
infection of extremities

there ain't the money to get her to the doctor
didn't fill out the papers to get the proper aid
the juresdiction of the center did not reach
that bracket doesn't qualify for meds
legislation 1965, Medicaid, budget restraints,
tax breaks and cut backs, socialization, choice
the title of the book is: better off dead

i want to write about what might happen
if every average american
could listen to the moaning of people in pain
let the sounds of the sick be heard
instead of racket in d.c.
lets tell it to their faces
-----------in our best bedside manner
i cannot or willnot pay for you to feel well

as stated by the author, "we don't seem to care
about health care for you"(peterson, stanza 7).

the pope is catholic

before i thought of religion
i thought of these things
how the river had risen
filled up the flood plain;
sun shone off water in one spot
rest of the pond still ice
a dull delicate grey;
how my dog hides his bone
in the corner of the living room
carefully sweeping his nose
as if he were covering it
with invisible dirt

before i heard the reports
of the pope's imminant death
in the background
slow chanting in latin
i hadn't thought much of the pope
quantitatively

before i go on i admitt
this might get a little bit messy
like sensory overload spring
and catholic guilt
the pontif, the vicar, and my mom
kneeling then standing then repeat
forever and ever amen
slow creaking of the church floor
under the congregation's feet
waiting to receive the holy host
these things stored like the spelling of my name
the word catholic means universal
i haven't believed in years

the pope is dying in tradition
prayers of the faithful surround
i heard at the end
they will call his name three times
wait for an answer
before they pronounce
the pope is dead

before i draw any conclusions
i wonder for the humblest reason
in thinking about this man dying
if i might be jealous of his faith

at my fingertips

the world
is at my fingertips
these nerve laden digits
feel the tiniest prick
or smooth surface
on a table top
the tips that in a minute
grow numb
when it's cold

there are days
when fingers wiggle
seeking out the world
and others when
my figertips get tired
and want to run
far away; live alone
maybe in a cave
do the basics
clean under the nail
push back cuticle
trace a groove
in the cold stone floor

easy place to hide

i am standing
behind a skinny tree
out here in the open
my body pokes out
tree too small
to hide me

i read the news
from around the globe
while sitting at a screen
adjusting my posture
blinking and squinting
at the same story

killed
---school
-------boy
----guns
dead

i hide in headlines
sticking out from behind
wonder if i can be seen
but not caring
sometimes i want to be found
and pick
an easy place to hide

easy place to hide- edit

i am standing
behind a skinny tree
only thing on the horizon
my body pokes out
exposed and in the open

i read the news
from around the globe
seeing the same story
adjusting my posture
sitting at the screen
blinking and squinting

killing spree
schoolboy
dead

i hide in headlines
skicking out from behind
wonder if i can be see
but not caring
sometimes i want to be found
and pick
an easy place to hide

a name to fear

phobias
are some latin word
or maybe greek
translated to mean
a fear of x

when i take a moment
to think about the feeling
of standing near of cliff,
finding a scorpion in my boot,
ants covering my flesh,
there is a sensation
but i wouldn't call it fear

fear is a driving force
a fight or flight
or collapse
knowing you can run
as far as it takes
break through anything
lash out unwittingly
or that ashen face hollowness
a statue retreat, gone

fear is the things we don't talk about
a love violated by dirty hands
in the dark somewhere screaming

is running down the street powerless
airplanes streaking and the sounds
of things falling, booms loud enough
to assume that someone died
any second you might be next

fear is power taken away
nothing left to replace it

i am willing to presume
that fear is little felt
among any with the time
to read this
wonder
would that be
agoraphobia or hypophobia

ambuscade

i shuffled in
like usual
closed the stall door
pulled down my pants
felt the chill
on my bum
and heard something funny

there was the quiet pausing
of phone conversation
from the only other stall
in the restroom

my hell in a handbasket
old man cranky
kicked in my thoughts
i stopped and listened
to insignificant mutterings
thought about jokes
i could play by making
load and echoing noises

i just sat smiling
doing my business
pondering technology
and excretion
another first
here on the crapper

new love poem

its hard to write a new love poem
but here's another
just like all the rest
we're at this tiny beach
she and i

can't remember
if its sunny, but it's way too cold
to swim
what i'm doing is
sifting through sand
finding little pebbles
smaller and smaller
with each one
i put it in the palm
and point
saying, what about this one

she nods, or something
and then i flick the tiny stone
the size of lentil, a grapenut, a flax seed,
and then a large grain of sand
we lose it as it zooms
in a small fantastic arc
human eyes with limits
she and i look out across water

before it breaks the surface
there is silence
when we both hold our breath

the stone slips into water
like a tiny blip on our radar
we see it's minute splash
here's the thing we were guessing
each broke our silence
with the tiniest sound

i turned to her with a smile
she shrugged and i sifted another
couln't wait for our silence
once more

secrets of seperate lives

it must have been
sometime in the middle of the night
stuck somewhere inbetween
hours of the talking
that can be done in the middle of the night
and probably passonate kisses
where whether eyes were open
or closed you saw the same thing
your love, up close, loving you too

it must have been
a little aprehensive
because no one's ever asked
like that, to know what i'm thinking

and so i told my love
how my mind translates
the world around me
how it slips away
to find a memory
in the thunder cloud
of nervous impulses

i told her about
leap-frog thoughts
and little details
like guessing the time
it takes for my arm
to fall asleep under her head

how thoughts can nosedive
and tailspin
submerge and disappear
sink down and divebomb
places like my heart chamber
and stomach wall
my finger tips
and spinal column

i told her things i thought about
as my eyes wandered her body
like they were lost and thirsty
in the grandest desert
tracing the lines of gentle dunes
the ripples and curves
sloping rises, falls
running her clavicle like it was an esker
conversely she's my fluid
her movements like the flowing of water
shoulder, smooth as stone shaped by stream

and she listened with the care
of a blind man
taking steps over unfamiliar ground
listened to details striped by darkness
runons and poetic fragments
the secrets of seperate lives

her eyes blinked in almost silence
saying their blue grey thank you
her lips pressed close on my forehead
she's the only one i share this with

it must have been
something about her
for my mind to open like this

jealous of rock songs

this one's jelous of rock songs
of songs turned up loud
in teenages rooms with doors shut
where the drums match beat
with hearts pounding in the thick
of learning what the world's about
rock songs that fill in when we don't
know what quite to say

wish this was the song i listened to
for two hours laying in a heap
on my closet floor
having thrown the phone
to let my highschool girlfriend choose
wether to hang up or listen to the music
that i immediated played
guitars battling lyrics hurled
by rock singer screaming
music i heard with the hairs on my neck

and why can't this be
something that shuts out the world
with its melody

in the life i meant to live/
i made all right choices.
when i sleep i'd never leave/
my lover's tender voices.

this will never be the song
that reminds some old man
of a girl he knew once
who when she let down her hair
would smile a half-smile
that would feel like shocks from a carpet
when metal was touched

never the song
that gets people turning
when heard from a car windows
the kind that bobs the heads
of even those who hate music
think it just noise

this will never be the song
that i scream from high places
when i feel bold and drunk and giddy
a song that
when scremed
with out of breath
urgency
can sound
like prayer
chanted
by devout
old ladies
who believed
so long
that it
is under
their tissue paper skin
between there
and the visible
veins

i will never write a rock song
that makes you lock your jaw unknowing
masseter jutting
brings feeling to the surface of your eyes
or an ache somewhere inner thigh

these are just words
trite music-less lines
that never leave the page
to catch your ear and whatever else
try and tap your foot
hear the downbeat
of this

a series of experiments: not a story of excitement

it took awhile
to shake off dreams
that i must have zoned out through
so that they never happened
it took awhile
to find my eyes in their hollow cavities
and rub them into action
it's the kind of day
where i want to wake
with someone singing a song
just for me

later, standing
i wondered if the mushrooms i was slicing
were too old to eat
if the eggs i cracked were bad
i cooked them up with confidence
adding them to my series
of experiments i've been running
like getting out of bed some days
trying to be nice to someone
who people might not try to be nice to
very often
this is one too

i take a moment to imagine two things
there's me in a lab coat
behind a plexiglass window
hanging in midair
with a clipboard
i watch myself do everthing
sometimes writing notes
there's a reader of this poem
holding a flimsy piece of paper
and they yawn

i am sitting down to try again
this is not an exciting story
the most exciting thing that happened
was shaving my beard
jaw line reappeared
a narrow face and pointed chin
a kept a black mustache
like an upside down u
i don't want to tell the things
that are exciting
they are better in person

this is an experiment
to tell how it is
sitting in the corner looking out
popping a balloon at a party
watching ripples of reaction
spread across the room
little jumps and somewhat wild looks
for something that can't be seen
i laughed hardest then
with a wide open mouth
stretching my new mustache
i laughed the hardest i had in weeks
having stored up reactions
to many things i found less than funny

the eggs and mushrooms disapear
-food is sometimes the greatest magician
i wish it wore black silk capes-
mixing in my stomach
with my dietary fiber
another experiment, with measurable results

this is an attempt at reassurance
after a slow start
with eyes in hollow caves
a bad taste in my mouth from business
if i call this an experiment
i cannot expect results
over my shoulder in a lab coat
i take notes
notice that yawn again

donate my body to art

it was just some comment
concerning a little anecdote
uttered by someone in the back of class
who i want to call an academic
or something equally pretensious

...when i donate my body to science
how would i make sure
that it was of some use-
making sure it got used for science
not some art piece...

and in my head i groaned immediately
blocking out the little chuckle at the end
like some people do
give me a fucking break, i thought

not that i'm one of those people
who thinks art is the high and mighty
and science is a dirty whore
more like we're all a dirty whore
and pretend we're high and mighty

with this comment i thought
i'd leave the greater good at home
and donate my body to art

paint with my blood
and silkscreen my organs
weave with the sinews of my bones
a collage with my wirey pubics
my tongue in a scupture somewhere
and i wouldn't care if it inspired or not
hung in a musuem or men's room

so say what you will
about science and art
but at the end of the day
the nice thing about art
is you can say
i liked it or- it sucked

almost like it happened

i make up these stories
in my head sometimes
when i'm walking along
inspecting the ice on the sidewalk
things that i think could happen

a beat up sedan
something in the engine
out of tune
and the driver
not seeing not looking not thinking
coming down the alley
too fast to stop
until my dog is under its stupid wheel

i'm at my most eliquent
still holding the leash
saying, you just killed my dog

the driver says nothing
a whimper hangs in the air
they are as oblivious as ever

i go on
have saved up this rant
noticing every oblivious action
by our dumbass species
for at least the last week

you just killed my dog,
i'd break their stupor with this repetition
killed my one true friend

there'd be no room for anger in my voice
only sorrow that feels so real
that somewhere there's joy
and i'd have this opportunity
to change the way we all live

by now they'd offer money
and i'd refuse
saying my dog's life knows nothing
of the worthless stuff

this is what i want,
i'd say
for every time you leave your house
you'd remember you are one of many
and when you met anyone else
by the way you met their eye
you'd remind them too
you would know every car
had the potential to end life
every ugly thing you might say
can hurt someone listening
have a little compassion
and an once of imagination
how about that,
i'd say
for the life of my dog

and i'd scoop up my friend
struggling to carry him
walk away with him bleeding
feeling the last little bit of his warmth

and it's almost like it happened
somehow life feels better
breath in cold air and stop at a stop light
wait for the walk sign and hope a little
no one runs a red light

this job i had in the desert

i once had a job
where there was a great lack
of bullshitting

it was no perfect oasis
wasn't other wordly or even
all that romantic
and that's not to say people tried
somehow it's in our nature
these days

all these kids would come
get sent out to the desert
at any time of the year
sometimes in the middle of the night
and me and another
would walk out to some kid
some kid who'd pushed things a little to far
with the drugs or lies
some kid who was too down to get up
or broke windows and walls with fists

we'd say hi, tell them our names
ask them how they're feeling
make sure they knew how to poop in the wild
tell them we weren't gonna lie
and about the bullshit thing

mostly we walked around in big circles
talked about their lives
and what we saw in them
people were happy or pissed or lonely
sometimes elated about little things
or furious at the huge
how ther moms and dads could be assholes
and how life felt like a fight
just to get up some days

the best things
were around the fires
on cold nights that didn't feel cold
when you all woke up before the sun
and no one talked for awhile
people were too busy thinking to pretend

somtime i think of bullshit piling up
a sizable hill like a sand dune
someone's trying to climb it
keep up a life pretending
i imagine bullshit as the slipperiest of stuff
sliding down and down
to wherever the bullshit runs out

what will rise

there are times when i'm afraid to write
because i either know or don't
what will rise to the surface
writing is my shake up
what is buoyant prevails
this comes to mind-
on the bus with many
people are silent and squeezed in
trying not to step on toes
what's most amazing is the eyes
that everyone tries to avoid
i don't think it's shyness
when you're sad
all it can take is eyes
meeting yours like a key in lock
there's the pop of the spring
look away before then
out the window to the billboards
find something to be angry about
more accepted than sad
sadness sinks
somthing else comes up

days are

days are like this sometimes

when you get home and sit
you can't remember
the mood when you left
it might be too much to know
that you left the house happy
ready to face anything
and returned not wanting
to leave until you're dragged out
long after you're dead

days can get this way

where you find yourself writing
poems where you die
then rot
and i wonder back and forth
is it just me
and my brain cells
my chemistry and bio
the genes and hormones
and parts of me
under microscopes

or is it outside

is it the things hermits hide from
on a day to day basis
is it a society of strangers
and a modern culture whiplash
is it selling yourself for a job
and a piece of hanging on
is it- that the only good
five second conversation
was with the begger on the street
who was in it for a nickel
is it the pretending i don't want to cry
on the corner in this city

is it neither is it both

or the spirit that i've lost
my godforsaken meltdown
godforsaken in the literal sense
and it's me that's done foresaking
replaced god with the absurd
because in and out it's the only thing
that makes sense
when sitting in my old dead grammma's chair
and never wanting to leave
it's been a day like this
a damn you day like this
and days are,

days are sometimes- like this

a poem with options

some of you may see this like a movie
like pictures and the flicker and the cuts
you've already missed the previews
see exits signs hang in the dark

some others may hear the voice of a story
that old kind that was told aloud
like a teller of tales around the fire
there's the pauses, and the bursts in words
with the sing song , the lulling, the voices
the action, the end

some of you may see this as a shape
a column like a rectange, one side waves
no symetry to the columns, no design
only black and white there's no color
no capitol letters
and did you notice the font

some of you might find this amusing
like the stories babbled on by a toddler
...and then when we got there, there
was this man with a horsey- big as
a elephant and there was an ocean...
wondering where it comes from
you might smile, play along
whimsy's fun

some of you tire of repetition
of a poem that just seems way to long
some of you tire of repetition
of repetiton, repetition, repetiton

some of you feel this as judgement
though i didn't say it, of other poems
of you, other art forms, of myself
as the anger i can't give away
and it's mocking and jeering and its-

some of you try to see meaning
see it here, see it here, now it's here
these words are shards that i find

some of you have given up reading
are somewhere else
as eyes trace a line
did you put out the garbage
tomorrow's tuesday, already

chances are some of you like this
and some don't
chances are some of you'd probably pretend

some hear my voice as they read this
speaking these very lines
even though they may be all alone
hear my slight lisp on all of my s words
for those of you that don't know
it amounts to a very soft s

instant winner

the kind of week i've had
somehow feels like scratching
not the satisfying nails finding an itch
or sickening nails on a blackboard
my week was not the kind of scratch
you'd hear from inside kitchen cupboards
or moving behind the walls
not the scratching of the needles
in a cat's paw as they rip through
your delicate skin
this week had the feeling
of holding a sweat smelling coin
firmly in two fingers
back and forth rubbing
on some sticky grey matter
you're scratching off some contest
did i win, did i win
but we don't know
behind that grey matter
behind all that scratching
we don't even know
what we're looking for

after one

i'm not sure how long we stayed
it was after one in the morning
and the light in the sky
had a timeless dreamy quality
running and sliding on the ice
a lake with new cover snow
seeing the dog chase my brother
then me and we ran yelling
catching ourselves numerous times
from crashing on our asses
we're adults and we're playing
up past our bedtime
i'm not sure how long
it was enough to later
fall asleep easy

as i sit and write

even as i sit and write
sometimes it strikes me
as the most absurd thing
perhaps most pretensious
thing i could do

for a moment i might pause
run a list in my head

i could read
make a snack
take a walk
tug of war with my dog
call a friend on the phone
play the guitar

plant a garden
take a nap
go to the bank
get a job
surf the net
watch tv
make a list
buy a new sponge for the sink

then i stop
and i sigh
write some more

winter

in the descending blue gray darkness
of an endless winter sky
snowflakes crowd around streetlamps
hovering in bold golden light
sidewalks soft with the snowfall
as it lines every detail of the world
shadows glide on an icy pond
melting crystals, tickles as they melt

this is the romance of winter
of the memories, of childhood in the north
it's both as true and as false as a lost love
sometimes its fantasy sometimes its real

headwinds burn on your face if you're lucky
if you're numb you have already felt its ache
it was dark in the morning when you woke up
dark well before supper's served
touch your finger to some kind of metal
and they'll feel like they're metal themselves
it's true that your eyes can feel cold too
try to think when too cold to think
don't complain when it's only half over
two and a half months more, if its short
the only thing you love is that you have shelter
without it you'd have nothing else

this is the reality of winter
of the day in, of the day out
of the crusty and wet dirty snow
it becomes hard to make it romantic
like life its a kick in the ass

to what end

hearing what i heard
i wanted to push on my temples
in some way lessening pressure
people were discussing disaster
and how religion explains it
i couldn't help but feel sick
hearing all those lives lost
explained away as a test
that waves of water
were pushed by some god
that it signaled some evil
was some sign

there seems to me
no easier way to explain
my lack of faith