Shoes

some nights i talk to them
because i have no pets
and i am alone

i make promises
"tomorrow we will go for a walk"
"tomorrow we will go see a movie"
"tomorrow we will be grateful
that we toughed it out tonight"

"tomorrow..."
"tomorrow..."
"tomorrow..."

because i have no pets
and i am all alone
so it is important to obligate myself

necessary to make commitments
that get my mind out the night
before the night does me in

i am not going to make a pun about
soles and souls

i know that my shoes are not conscious
i know that i am just talking to myself
i know that nobody really cares

but i guess
i do

so i talk to my shoes

because there is no god
because i have no pets
because i am all alone

The End of the Wick

the puff of smoke dances upward
and breaks apart

a small pool of wax hardens into a memory

once one with the flame
time has taken its toll
and a last breath
extinguished

but only for this candle

there are others

each burns away into the quiets of night
always knowing that when one fire goes out
another will light

hard hands hold softly 

the last petal of a rose 

to not break what's left 

I Am the Missing Key

i reminisce

being part of something

that created such a beautiful sound

i was only one note

yet i could bring great

and many affect

but

nonetheless 

what i most lament 

and also delight in

is knowing that the piano

will still make music

without me

no sense in an oar
the sea will make its own plans
i'm just drifting through

Life is Shit

and
everyday
i'm just trying not to
run out of toilet paper

A Song She Wrote in a Dream

as her eyes broke open

most of it washed away

in a dry wave of consciousness

there were a few drops

left near the corners of her bottom lip

not enough for her to remember

how it tasted

but enough to not forget

tasting it

an anthem for ghosts

ballad for a winter's breath

a song falling toward
the most unknown parts of the abyss

a place that might as well

never existed

heartfelt echoes of nothing

1994

whatever there was
died
and something else took its
place

the years that followed brought
a violent beating in the street
a dead man
and a woman torn apart by addiction

it was a lot to deal with
and i have never been good at dealing
with anything

i don't want to say i was permanently
traumatized by those events
because i don't want anyone
feeling sorry for me

but i don't want to say that i wasn't
because i don't want to
lie

so instead
maybe i should just say nothing
put on some Mazzy Star
or The Crow soundtrack
close my eyes
and pretend it's
1994

This Prize of Plight

dear is the dream
of life
and all of its horror
war across every border
killers around every corner

sweet is the pain
the pumps blood through
drug ravaged veins
and the polluted air that cuts off
oxygen to the brain

wonderful is the hatred
over-saturated
over-stimulated
until any hint of love
is totally eviscerated

glorious injustice
capitalism egregious
tables tilted to the prestigious
and the deck
is stacked against us

but throughout the cosmos
there are no gods close

no heaven near
no angel to hear
the loudest prayer
from the highest cross to bear

luck of the tragedy
this prize of plight

dear is the dream
of life
from which death wakes at night

Throw Away the Key

the jagged contours of sanity
only upset the gentle shape
of my madness

if they put me in a looney bin
i could find some peace

in a scattered mess of crazy
i could collect my thoughts

but as long as they keep letting me play
normal
they keep slowly killing me

the bills come in
my back goes out
men beat me up
women turn me down
the bosses scream
and the angels have no mouths

and since i never lost my mind
instead
i lost my heart

Head in the Game

life tightens its laces
keeps its legs strong

plays with vigor
enthusiasm
heart

a healthy kick for another goal

i just wish my head
didn't feel like the ball

Don't Dream About Me Anymore

withered skin drapes my bones

a tongue far too tired to taste

those bitter poisons of youth

sweet trappings of memory

will only contort into nightmare

unless you let me die

but you won't 

you keep trying to light a melted candle

just burning wax with no wick

darkness is here

whether you acknowledge it

or not

so stop

looking for the light

it's gone

lay down

count sheep

count your lucky star
if
you ever had one

count me out

come to terms

and go to sleep

and don't dream about me

anymore 

What's in a Name?

one of my coworker's last name
is Guerrero

i told her that my last name
would be similar
if my mom had named me
after my father

she asked what that would be

"Navarro," i told her

"i don't know anyone named Navarro,"
she said

i snickered,
"neither do i"

A Flower He'll Never Know

planted in a far away field
he was too young to know
how to garden

he left it for the dirt
and for the rain
to raise

a stem that crawled on its own
from the soil

each thorn
a mark of self-determination

each petal
blooming with independence

fed only with sunlight and abandonment
it grew
never against the odds
but with them

and photosynthesis became the father
he never had the guts
to be

Winter

we looked back at the snow behind us

and we could see where we were dancing

where we stumbled 

where we fell

it was right there

an album of moments ago

and we stood there taking it all in

trying to make sure we would

remember

because

over any christmas gift

above all the cards in the mail

and every photo

there is no keepsake more precious 

than a memory 

Comic Book Detective Dream

surrounded by borders
everything
including my hands
sketched in black and white pencil

it was most obviously a dream

my dream

so i told her
"hey, i just realised this is a dream. so, if you want me to stop chasing you, i will."

"no thanks," she said

"you don't understand," i exclaimed
grabbing her by the arm
and pulling her back around to me
"i am not a detective!"

she shrugged
"what is your point?"

"my point, sweetheart, is that none of this is real! you don't have to keep running for your life, because you don't really have a life. you can relax! we can just sit here, and talk, ya know, until i wake up."

she winced
"no thanks."

i couldn't believe what i was hearing
that she would rather be hunted down
than to just sit and have a fucking chat

"don't direct your anger at me," she said

i did cast two sneering eyes toward her
but i sank them right back down
to my chest

i knew what she was getting at

she went on, "if this is your dream, and you seem pretty certain that it is, well, this is just you rejecting yourself. if i'm just part of your imagination, that is."

i nodded
"you're right"

i woke up
lifted my head off the pillow
stretched out my lower back
and moved toward the bathroom

as i took a leak
i analyzed the dream
and realised after nine hours of sleep
how tired of myself i am

Girlfriends and Bicycles

i have been through a few

some were stolen from me
others just had to be left behind

it's never easy

sweet memories of summers
warm days where everything seemed right
sting in the cold of their absence

i take comfort in knowing
they are still out there
and i take comfort in knowing
there are others

maybe someday another will find me
but for today
i'm okay being alone
and fine taking a walk

For the Birds

i heard from my grandfather
stories of trees
branches
flowers
and even telephone wires

flocks that flew together
over streaming rivers
swooping down
one at a time
toward schools of fish

tales of migration
north and south

he told me of those
whose feathers had changed
and those whose songs echoed
in the wind

i don't know if his stories were true
but i hope they were
and because of those
stories
i often dream of a day when
we will fly out from this cage
and be the birds
we were always meant to be

I Bleed Salt to the Morning

i hold my wounds together
bandage tightly with old t-shirts
or even staple them shut

i do not allow one drop to the sweet night

i demand that it thirst
as i do
in darkness
as i am

and when the dry morning air
burst through the window
i welcome it like a killer
relieved to be caught

The Singer Who Lost His Voice

he staples a sign to a telephone pole
hoping that anyone can help him
find it

winter is coming
and he dreads the thought of it
out there alone on the streets
in the snow

he considered reporting it to the police
but as he dialed the number
it dawned on him that
all they would hear
was an empty line

communicating
to the outside world
was now more difficult
than ever

nearly impossible

he was trapped
with a head full of music
that will never have a beat

verses and choruses
like remote desert islands
waiting for ships that never
come in

a song that is
a dirge of itself

the injured gazelle
determined to end her pain
limps to a lion

she loved a good meal
bits of bone between her teeth
she loved him no more

A Headstone on the Dance Floor

a pop songs creeps out of the speaker
like a ghost moaning through a wall

apparitions of disco lights flash briefly
between long spells of darkness
and the only thing that i can see
is backwards

the only face i can make out
is squinty eyed and duck lipped
and as soon as the corner of my mouth
cracks what is almost a smile
she is gone

long ago
vanished into the same shadow
that takes them all

but every now and then
i still go to the club
with my laces tight
and a bouquet of flowers
to pay my respects

i twist and shout to dirges
and do the locomotion like a funeral procession

for the sweat we left
in socks
and stockings
to Billy Ocean songs

for the slow songs we swayed to
as if they were angels we prayed to

for when her body dipped
and my body bopped
until Death stole the dance floor
and our bodies
just dropped

Gratitude

going to see
my favorite Irish folk punk band
was not the endurance contest that i feared
it could have been

but there were moments

especially when they sang
three "whiskey" songs
in a row

i never liked whiskey
but i thought about vodka

clean and clear
ordered by the double
with club soda and lime
served in a pint glass

the taste of so many summers
so many falls
winters and springs

i shrugged those memories off
clapped my hands and shook my ass
to the music

when the show was over
i left

now i am home
with my DVD collection
my lemongrass green tea
and my vegan tacos

i made it through another night

so
for another morning
instead of looking in the mirror
and saying "fuck you"
i can say "thank you"

Style

grey socks pulled up to his knees
and a velcro strap over the laces
of his sneakers

he takes turns
between reading his Des Moines Register
and throwing bits of his maple pecan muffin
to the robins on the cafe patio

he makes me not afraid to get old
he does it well
even if he is poorly dressed
in a vacation t-shirt
and non-descript ballcap

whoever says the clothes make the man
never looked closely enough

but i can tell
and the birds can tell
that this old man has
style

Pesto Cavatappi

eight years later
and a thousand miles away
but this seems just like our place

there is nothing special about
chain restaurants

the tables are the same
the chairs are the same

and the food...

well
it tastes the same
whether you're in Des Moines
or in Dallas

and there is nothing special about
romance

the sweet beginnings
the rocky middles

and that last kiss goodbye...

well
it tastes the same
whether you're in Des Moines
or in Dallas

we've all already been there
and we all know what we're ordering
before we even walk in the door

A Season for Reason

like a lover that won't leave
you keep wrapping your arms around
the fleeting moments of a warm Autumn
begging for her to stay

but you know
she won't

you know the cold is coming

you better start bundling up
or all that will be left for Spring
are the remains of a frozen fool
who died not letting go

Salt Water

the oppressors' tears are saltiest

but fools with no tongues 

keep drinking

deep from the cups of

privileged pity

Unique

while i do mostly try
to celebrate my weirdness
or at the very least
accept it

sometimes...

sometimes...

it's hard

it's wonderful to be unique
like snowflakes
n' shit

your idiosyncrasies may at times
land you at the top of a great mountain
peering majestically over the heavens
and earth

but just as many flakes land near the gutters
of busy streets
dirty
polluted
foul

sometimes the grace of being different
doesn't seem so graceful to those
who are

and sometimes...

sometimes...

it seems like it would be nice
to melt
away
or
blend in

to not feel out of place
to not be unique
to not be different

sometimes
it seems like it would be nice
just to be the same

Once Upon a Time...

there was a mouse that dreamed
of being a wolf

every feral feline throughout the forest
would quiver at the mention of him

his mere howl at the moon
echoing through the trees
would claim one
or more
of their nine lives
as their hearts raced
to a stop

instead of scurrying from hole to hole
with a colony of mice
he would walk calmly
with his pack

instead of small
he would be big

instead of being hunted
he would hunt

instead of living in fear
he would instill fear in all things living

once upon a time
there was a mouse that dreamed
but as he kept dreaming
that time passed
and it never came to be

and now the rat
between the teeth of a cat
sees how useless a dream can be

Blood, or Ink

sit down in front of a sheet of paper
with a knife in one hand
and a pen in the other

make a promise to yourself
not to move from that sheet
until you put something down

since writer's block
is less dramatic than the blade
you will probably be able to get something
out of that fucking pen

I Want You to Haunt Me

apparitions of kisses long destroyed

still pass like chilly mists

over my lips

you rise from the gruesome remains

of the heart you shredded

covered in blood 

but as pretty

as ever

and though it was hard for me

to accept

i have

and it kills me all over again

to admit it

but

i do

it was never that i

couldn't

forget

you

it is that i

don't want to 

[killer sets tempo]

killer sets tempo

but it's the victim who sings

in songs of murder 

Her Dad's Car

down the slushy streets of a late winter
we took a joyride with the windows
cracked just a bit

the air still smelled like cold
trees were backlit by twilight
and rock music crawled out of the speakers
into our ears

it was our best moment

better than the sex
we had together

better than the sex
she would have with someone else
after we got into a fight

we were like a couple of kids
driving around in her dad's car
trying to get in as many miles as
we could

before nine o'clock
before he needed it back

before our time was up

You're Never Too Old to Start Playing with Fire

as a flame dies
you stare wistfully through a pile of embers
into a past that has burned away
and left you breathless
choking on the smoke

it feels like you're out of gas
but you still have plenty of matches

you look around
desperately at the fallen leaves
at the branch

hoping like Hell that something
anything
is flammable

After the Gig

bicycling home from a nightime gig
with the guitar on my back

only two people came to the show
so i hated myself

i didn't make a dime
so i hated myself

none of the hopes i had
ever amounted to shit

my dreams were mistakes

some drunk bitch
smoking outside a bar
comments in my direction
"that's a wreck waiting to happen."

little did she know
the wreck already
happened

[popsicle romance]

popsicle romance
what lasted sweet through winter
summer melts to tears

[her lust scented loins]

her lust scented loins
i'll never forget that smell
those long breaths of sex

The Cotton Club Blues

ten years younger than i am today
i was slinging pizzas on the east side
of Milwaukee

one of my guests was an older
silver haired woman

she overheard me
singing Minnie the Moocher in the back
while i waited for her order
to be put in the window

when i brought the pizza to her table
she said she liked that a young man like me
knew that song

she told me when she was young
she used to hang out at the Cotton Club
and that for a short time
she "hung out" with Cab

"i didn't think nice girls hung out at the Cotton Club," i replied

to which she smiled
"who said i was a nice girl, honey?"

we both had a laugh
but with it
we both felt the sting of knowing
how youth passes us all by

she was young once too
smoking reefer with Cab Calloway
and probably crawling between the sheets
with him on more than one occasion

but when i met her she looked like
somebody's grandma

somebody who crocheted
watched The Weather Channel
and drank a lot of tea

a decade later
i find myself
watching The Weather Channel
and drinking a lot of tea

youth passes us all by
and when it does
all those wild nights
all those parties
all become just fond memories

the Cotton Club is gone
CBGB's is gone
hell
even that fuckin' pizza place i worked at
is gone

and someday
with my own head full of silver hair
i'll probably surprise some kid by telling them
that i was young once too

The Hill

when you're going down

the momentum is compelling 

to the point it almost overwhelms 

you

at the bottom

you look back up

seeing a steep climb to the top

and in your exhaustion you think

"maybe i should just stay here"

but something inside 

won't let you

it pushes you up from the guts

seeps into your blood like a drug

or a demon

both legs cries out in pain

and it doesn't seem right that it would

take so long to ascend

when going down was

so rapid

each step burns in each thigh

scolding embers of gravity taunting

and the whole time

there is never a second to

ask yourself if it's worth it

for some reason 

it doesn't matter

even if there's almost nothing left of you

when you get there

even it kills you

and sometimes you are near certain

it will

even if you don't make it

there is something that keeps pushing

keeps screaming from the guts

keeps convincing you to keep going 

because even if the hill is too steep

to live at the top

you will never rest

at the bottom 

Goodbye, Eclipse

a man who tries to possess the moon
would understandably be called
arrogant

a man who tries to possess the sun
would rightfully be told he was
a fool

and a man who tries to possess them both
would be accused of the greatest
absurdity

but for a brief moment
this man
did exactly that

and i saw
that light and darkness
are the same

i discovered pleasures which
only exist because of danger

standing there
in a vast silhouette
it screamed at me
that love
without rage
without pain
without complete insanity...

well
that is not love

soon the moon slipped to one direction
the sun to another
and the moment
was gone

only after it had passed
was i aware of all i learned

only then did i realize
just how crazy about that eclipse
i had been
and
always
will be






-with great, and devastating love for Elise.

[trees tremble in fright]

trees tremble in fright
sharing tales that shake their leaves
lumberjack stories

Wanting

virginity was wanting most

what I'd never

had

absurdity was wanting most
what I needed
least

sobriety was wanting most

what I've had too

much

serenity is not wanting

Samantha

her name wasn't Samantha
and it wasn't Amanda
or Sara
or Brenda
or Jill
or Judy
but she did have a name

a beautiful name
and her face was beautiful
too

i wrote her poems at night
about how beautiful she was
but i never gave her those poems
and i never said a beautiful word to her

instead i cat-called her in the hallways
made lewd innuendos to her
to get a laugh
from the other
boys

the biggest laugh was when i went up to her
as she stood at her locker
and pinched her ass

she turned around and slapped me
and the other boys laughed so hard
and i laughed too

it hurt me inside
but i laughed because
it seemed like the right thing to do

manly
macho
whatever

i never won her heart
but i won some laughs

now
i could say
it was sixth grade
boys will be boys
all in good fun
whatever

but it wasn't fun for her

Why I Talk to Myself

isolated Sunday bicycle rides
tend to compel long winded speeches
character dialogues from stories in my head
and plenty of staircase wit

i speak with the dead
but not with the living

i speak with the imaginary
but never with strangers

because there is no one else around
and i always have something to say

because it is hard for me to just
shut the fuck up

i talk to myself for many reasons
but mostly i talk to myself because
i'm a good listener

When the 16 Bus Turns Into a 6

voices speaking Vietnamese turn
into voices speaking Spanish

i think of all the languages i don't
understand

suddenly
i hear two men talking about sports
in English

and
again
i have no idea what they are saying

[Capitalists]

Capitalists
disciplined maniacs
swindle profits calmly
watch the world die

Cathy's Funeral

she was always running late for work
no matter what the job was
or what time she started

yelling at me and my brother
from the bathroom
with a curling iron
in her hair

"if you two would pick up after yourselves
I wouldn't be late all the time!"

we could never figure out how
our rooms being a mess
so consistently impacted
her time frame

as a family
we were late for most things

important school functions
any big holiday gathering
weddings
wedding rehearsals
wedding receptions
and funerals

every time
it had something to do
with our untidy rooms

now
i am almost 40
live in my own apartment
in another city
in another state

but when i heard that my mom had passed
within five minutes i found myself
picking up the place

because
subconsciously
i don't wanna feel responsible
just in case she is
late for her own funeral

The Most Important Part of the Poem

that moment
right after you've finished reading

when the mind gets to digest
and what Jeffers referred to as
"The honey of peace"
lingers on the tongue
on your breath

the sweet aftertaste of language
bits of metaphors caught between the teeth
and small drops of verse rested on the corners
of your mouth

you don't wipe it away
but somehow it still disappears
so you flip the page and devour another

chewing some of the lines
and swallowing others whole

hoping that it makes you full
and keeps you hungry
all at once

each bite bringing you closer to the next
closer to a clean plate
closer to the poet
closer to yourself

closer to that feeling

the one that is supposed to happen
right
about...

"If This Is My Last Poem..."

the first line wrapped itself around his neck

a quickly tightened noose

to take his breath away

a second stanza slashed down his wrist

like a cold razor blade of verse

and his blood felt cold

too

without rhyme

reason

or meter

he held his pen

as if it were a pistol

against his temple

this was it

the one that would kill him

but he wasn't sad

and he wasn't scared

in fact

he was relieved 

"If this is my last poem,"

he thought,

"at least it's a short one."

She's a Drum Set

built-in pyrotechnics
the stage explodes
in spectacular light show
fireworks blasting every which way
an entire audience goes up in flame
and if another instrument gets close
it melts

cover your ears
cover your eyes

unless
you can keep a beat
and keep a fire extinguisher handy

'cause this fuckin' girl is
bangin' hot!

[in all restaurants]

in all restaurants
madness overwhelms the staff
spirits break like plates

Fingerprints

the friction ridges on his fingers
are different than most

where there are usually arches
there are the shapes of broken hearts
and laughing faces
in his

where commonly you find loops
instead you will find tracings of teardrops
and tornadoes
and trees
and suns
and even
a moon

houses with gardens
and flowers in the gardens
and bees in the flowers
and people in the houses
spreading honey and peanut butter on
pieces of toast

some of the people are dancing
making love
making dinner
and making music

others are making messes
they can never seem to clean up
or making choices they will only regret

there are towns and cities
and universes full of comedy
tragedy
and magic

angels smoking cigarettes and drinking vodka
criminals with wings and halos

man
animal
and monster
all alike in his prints

where typically you would see a whorl
in his you can see a world

upon each finger of the writer
there are thousands of places
each with thousands of lives
waiting to be born

waiting to begin

waiting for that first line

if only he could put his finger on it

[strangulating dreams]

strangulating dreams
wrap around my sleeping neck
i wake up choking

When Flowers Slight the Sun

some petals

never know their place

or how good they got it

blooming entitlements

as if each solar ray should

shine gratefully upon them

spoiled with photosynthesis

the occurance of a cloudy day

is taken as insult to the very stem

daft to the knowledge that

they are only as much a part of this

as each blade of grass

ignorant to the idea that even a weed

can be beautiful

and so full of themselves

they see themselves

as large as the trees

Poised Against a Backdrop of Complete Chaos

she sips at a cup of coffee
pondering the schemes of philosophers
and admiring her own reflection
in each ripple of the black water

it is without fanfare
she thinks
that the greatest moments are
accomplished

without company
or even aplomb
that a grand relationship is forged

as everything continues breaking down
she pieces together little mysteries
and calmly claims her senses

everything waiting to be nothing
and right now nothing is more
or less important than this cup
of coffee

She's Even Beautiful to Napkins

the next one in the holder on the table
can barely contain itself

part of it is already protruding
anticipating that when she finishes
her burrito
she will pull it
the rest of the way
out

that it gets to be the one
to wipe the salsa verde
from the corners
of her mouth

Journeys vs. Destinations

only those
who never looked at a map
are heading in the right direction

[she kept waiting there]

she kept waiting there
the other side of his phone
but he never looked

I Am the Bird Crawling from Its Wings

at odds with the sky
i have rid myself of every feather
and with my beak i have chewed off both
of my wings

if i am to see my dreams die
it will be upon a trail of blood in the grass
and not at the cold hands of the heavens

one can only fly
so high
so often
before realizing
you cannot land on a cloud

Disbelief Is Water

thirsts will not be quenched
sipping from the well of doubt
but it does keep a mind hydrated

[scales tip to reason]

scales tip to reason
there is weight in foolery
but less than logic

[lazy is the square]

lazy is the square
that tries to be a circle
by cutting corners

The Meaning of Life

the bathroom in my one bedroom pad
is small

not cramped
but far from spacious

yet
in the smallest room in this apartment
i have some of my most grand ideas
and entertain my biggest woes

i have written poems
brushing my teeth in the mirror

i have written songs
scrubbing my balls in the shower

and as i stare
at all the little chest hairs
and butt hairs on the tile
every time i take a shit
i can't help but wonder
what it's all about

Where the Wolf Last Wept

the moon's reflection glistened
in a damp patch of grass on the hill
glinting wet blades

anguish howled through the dirt
with rancorous echoes of bloodthirst
hunter's remorse
and teeth

during each of night's passing minutes
the earth peacefully accepted its duty
to be a home
a haven
and a hell
for killers

now
the land waits with virtue
until the beast returns

because
it always does

after tears have swam deep into the soil
winds have brushed over each piece of grass
and the moon has completed another orbit
a wolf will come pacing back
through the forest

climbing the hillside
with a new litter of crimes bred
and dripping at its jaws

never willing
but always seeking
to change its nature

and the land knows
this is how it is going to be

where the wolf last wept
it weeps again tomorrow

on
and on
until the wolf is no more

Before the Sun Comes Back Out

most raindrops don't know they're falling

until they hit the ground

a few of them loathe the storm so much

they cannot wait for their part in it

to come splashing to an end

and then there are those that know

this is it

all they have is this fleeting clouded life
accentuated by brief flashes

and steady rumbles

no greater purpose than to wet the air
before the sun comes back out

and evaporates all evidence

they ever existed

slightly terrified 

but determined

in spite of fear

to enjoy some

falling

Getting It Right for Once

a majority of the details
he worked out days before

the time
the room
the chair he would be sitting in

it was his favorite chair
a baby blue sofa chair he stumbled upon
sitting in front of a duplex down the street
years ago

he didn't drive
so when he found it
he called a cab service to transport it
the five blocks back to his apartment

he fondly remembered having sex
with all of his last three girlfriends
in that chair

good memories
until he kept thinking about them

picking a song proved more difficult

the first one that came to his head was
Love Will Tear Us Apart
by Joy Division

he actually laughed
at how cliché that would be
and decided he was going to have to do
a great deal more thinking

he couldn't pick any song that correlated
with any of those past relationships
or any particular person
or event

this wasn't "a fucking statement"

he finally decided on
We Have All The Time In The World
by Louis Armstrong

it seemed a bit ironic
which is not what he was going for
but ultimately
it was a beautiful song

the perfect song

then
came the hardest part

the glass

looking in his cupboards
he was embarrassed to realize
he had mostly plastic cups

what actual glassware he did have
were pints with brewery logos on them

just more evidence that
he really didn't have his shit together

he made a last minute run
to the Target a quarter-mile away
and there he found the right glass

a short
clear
rocks glass

classy

after returning home from Target
he ordered his favorite pizza delivery
smoked a cigarette
and listened to
npr

the pizza came
he tipped the driver a twenty
ate just enough slices to feel full
and put the rest in the fridge for...

for whoever

he poured a bottle of still water
into his perfect glass
put in the Louis Armstrong cd
and pressed the Repeat 1 button

he sat down in his baby blue sofa chair
and felt relieved

like he was doing the right thing

[Jazz has no nightmares]

Jazz has no nightmares
when trumpets sleep with monsters
the rhythm adapts

[never would they meet]

never would they meet
without the hands of labor
a hammer and nails

Perspective

if you still have your fingers
push them deep into the dirt

if you still have your arms
with all your might
pull yourself up

if you still have your legs
use them

and if you still have your heart
let that motherfucker
beat

because the only difference
between a grave and a hole depends
on whether you have the strength to climb out

[fingers shake near switch]

fingers shake near switch
afraid to turn on the light
a monster's dark hand

[gone from the pocket]

gone from the pocket
still gleam in my tarnished heart
rare unpolished coins

Prime Time Rivalry

for a long time i had remorse
over how often we argued

we argued a lot

sometimes about politics
but on those
we mostly agreed

sometimes about other family members
but on them
we mostly agreed

the majority of our debate
was over what to watch on the ol' boob-tube

"Everybody Loves Raymond
is trite garbage," i'd say
trying to sound smart

"well," she'd respond
"it's still better than that
dumb show you watch"
referring to The X-Files
or The Simpsons
or Futurama

we both liked Frasier and The Golden Girls
but beyond
we just could not find any common ground

so
after dinner we would go
to our separate rooms
and during commercial breaks
bother each other with details
from our rival episodes

both to reply with the same witty retort
"sounds stupid"

that was our thing

it wasn't that long ago
i stopped regretting it

and tonight
as i tried to watch a rerun of "Raymond"
i wished like hell she was still alive
so i could call her and tell her
what a dumb fuckin' show that is

The Pen Is Mightier Than the Tear

a writer
without changing the story
or its dismal outcome
can turn the tables
on a memory
with just
tone

A Poem for the Working Artist

every artist is likely to fancy themself
above a hard day's work

but
if somehow they actually manage
to avoid true labor

if they never really get their hands
and their boots
dirty

then their work will surely offer
a good night's sleep

My First Day of Kindergarten

never has a door been so heavy as
the west wing door of Duncombe Elementary was
that day

it was an early indicator
how fear would always overwhelm me
and finding strength would be no easy task

i could not open that goddamned
door

i ran down the sidewalk
after my mom
bawling
"i can't open it! it won't open!"

the look in her eyes was one of  sheer pity

she knew i wasn't gonna make it
they were gonna eat me alive

the teachers
the other students
were all going to tear me apart
limb from limb

there was no avoiding it

so
mom walked me back to the door
opened it for me
and said
"it's gonna be okay"

i knew she was lying
but i went inside anyway
thinking
"let's get this bloodbath over with"



©https://allpoetry.com/poem/12841175-My-First-Day-of-Kindergarten--by-Danny-Price

[funk between her toes]

funk between her toes
a sandal flaps to James Brown
sole naked for soul

Subjectivity

tonight at the shelter
Denny's got a couple new die
and him, and a few others are shooting craps
for pennies over in the corner


the t.v. up on the wall is playing Wheel of Fortune
and Susan
as usual
has her eyes glued to the screen


they are serving fried chicken
corn, mashed potatoes, a slice of bread
and a couple of those little butters wrapped in foil
and Doug, who grew up on a farm in Wisconsin will say
"if a man needs more than bread and butter to be happy
well, that's his problem"


Bobby has a new dirty joke he tells us
and, holy christ, is it a good one


tonight at the shelter we eat


tonight at the shelter we laugh


and tonight at the shelter we don't think about
the people in the mansions, or the people in the fancy cars
at all

[blender warm with tears]

blender warm with tears
cradle bits between her teeth
dead baby smoothie

[her gravel road heart]

her gravel road heart
leads to the most beautiful
but desolate place

[kings of saturday]

kings of saturday
sunday's dethronement awaits
fleeting majesties

[crossword puzzle girl]

crossword puzzle girl
ACROSS from sudoku boy
both keep looking DOWN

[treated well with sleep]

treated well with sleep
a rested sun shines steady
balanced with sparse clouds

Dust Lasts Forever

once upon a cosmos
two stars fell disastrously
in love

as their romance began to supernova
what they thought was infinite
came to an explosive end

leaving them both
with the debris of heartbreak
and the dust of memory

Orphan

she remembered leaving the orphanage
her gramma came to get her
and her older brother

she told me how it felt
when the car pulled up
the rush of relief
leaving that place

she was so excited that she was going to
have her own room
and dolls
and eat breakfast
at a kitchen table

what she really meant
was she was excited that somebody loved her
enough not to leave her there
and forget her

she got to be part of a family

somebody cared about her

my gramma's life certainly wasn't
smooth sailing
after that

as with any life
there were as many hardships
as there were fortunes

but
i am always glad
to imagine the day her gramma
came to get her and her brother
out of the orphanage

Without the Minors, There Are No Majors

as tears trickle over piano keys
a sad song escapes from its cocoon
and like the determined moth
seeks the light

[library books due]

library books due
pills kicking in, he wonders
who will return them?

[gasoline lipstick]

gasoline lipstick
her tongue tasted like matches
Hell, could that girl kiss

[lament of feedback]

lament of feedback
whether from critics, or amps
guitarists hate it

Cigarette

a ring of white skin
where there used to be gold
pressed up against a butt
stained purple with cheap lipstick

she remembers when she was young
and everyone would tell her how pretty she was

she never believed them

trust was a fool's game
and you could call her anything but that

when he asked her to marry him
she asked him why

when he asked her for a divorce
she asked what took so long

when he was finally gone
she felt strong

strong enough to be alone

to doubt any good deed
offered

to walk through the alleys
and stand in soup lines

to let a cigarette burn between her fingers
as she slept in a doorway
out of the rain

That Funeral Wasn't All It Was Cracked up to Be

i heard more about a man who has been dead

for two thousand years

than i did about the man who had been dead

for just over two thousand minutes

as the churchman sang hymns

i quietly recited Guns N' Roses lyrics

knowing full well which was

most appropriate

and you can't help but think
about you're own death

in those moments

when my time comes

even though i won't be there

i sure hope they play some better fuckin' music

[adored by the birds]

adored by the birds
a playground of flight held high
flattered skies blushed blue

[we eat the shadows]

we eat the shadows
misfit bastards of sunshine
teeth stained in darkness

The Match

the one that did not light
sits next to the one that did
in the ashtray

feeling like it blew its chance

[each tear like a star]

each tear like a star
galaxies escape her eyes
black holes of mourning

The Picky Dick

baby
i am a detective
and i've been lookin'
all over for you

but
baby
i'm selective
and not any "you"
will do

[life kept playing games]

life kept playing games
as death wept in a corner
not wanting his turn

[swimmer made of stone]

swimmer made of stone
prides himself stronger than tides
unbroken, he sinks

[when coffee cups dream]

when coffee cups dream
dances with cream, and sugar
nightmares of decaf

[time puts on its shoes]

time puts on its shoes
aware it's an illusion
walks around the clock

[from gramma's deathbed]

from gramma's deathbed
she says, "the preview looks good"
movie she won't see

[yield to her a rose]

yield to her a rose
should she destroy it, that's fine
you have the garden

[the moon broke in half]

the moon broke in half
night skies became no brighter
only divided

[boxer never learns]

boxer never learns
his gloves must be made of light
to knockout shadows

[her lips were neon]

her lips were neon
kissing windows at last call
flattered by vodka

[stale breadcrumbs of fear]

stale breadcrumbs of fear

pride is an awful compass

map that gets us lost

[sharks will take the helms]

sharks will take the helms

when crews cannot trust captains

no ship stays afloat

Atone, Thief!

you have robbed me
and of far more than monies

i count the pages i write
when you are not around

juxtapose that number
to the number i write when you are

there is a great difference

i look across café tables at empty chairs
where a beautiful woman could be sitting
if you hadn't chased them all away

and in the mornings after a night with you
i look in the mirror to see you've been taking
my life itself

right from the flash in my face
from my bones
from my eyes
from my heart

asked by you
to dance so often over the years
i was convinced it was because you loved me

now i see
you just wanted close enough to pick my pocket

Self-Conceptualize

if all you ever saw was the stars
then what reasons would you have
to believe you are not the moon

if all you ever felt was burning
then evidence could be suggested
that you are the fire

when you look in the right ways
and dream in the right ways
you can be anything you want

Exorcisms Aren't for Everybody

sometimes
   Hell
        is
          a
           man's
                favorite
                         spot

sometimes
      sin
          is
            good, for some like it hot

sometimes
    these
      demons
        are
          all
            that
              you
                got

On My Way

i've had this cell for a little over four years
numbers and letters on each button almost completely worn away

typing this poem on this phone is no simple task
but appropriate

because this poem is about hanging on
and nowhere is my hanging on more apparent
than the inbox on this phone

now
i've deleted all the heavy romantic swill
the "i'm thinking of you"s
the " i'm missing you"s
the "i'm falling for you"s
and definitely anything heavier than that
especially all the texts from the last serious one

but of all the short flings i've had
since i've had this phone
i have saved all of their "on my way"s

i could pretend that i don't know why
but i do

cause on nights like tonight
when no one is on the way
it's nice to scroll through the phone
and be reminded of when someone was

Sometimes You Forget To Punch Out

I won't tell ya that Chuck was the meanest motherfucker,
but he was pretty goddamn mean.

Last customers gone,
my personal iPod hooked up to the house speakers,
and Chuck walked in.

He left me alone about the drink at my hand,
he left me alone about the music that was playing,
but he didn't leave me alone for very long.

Shortly after heading to the basement-office,
he came back up stairs.

He asked me,
“What Daniel are you?”

Everyone else called me Danny;
“Daniel” referred to another waiter;
but Chuck went by the w-2,
and only told us apart by last name.

“Price,”
I said.

“Oh,”
he responded
“it's the other idiot I'm looking for,”
and began to walk away again.

Then
he came back.

“But You're the idiot that keeps forgetting to punch out,”
he screamed,
and I cringed.

As he continued to denigrate me for the next minute and some seconds,
I contemplated murdering him.
But Chuck could not be killed.
People tried.

Pushed him down the stairs of the restaurant,
shot him,
pushed him down the stairs, again.

The fucker was invincible!

So I apologized,
and said,
“Yes, sir,
I'll make sure to punch out,
from now on.”

“Good!”
he exclaimed.

Still not enough of a victory for Chuck,
as he walked away for the last time, he added,
“Ya punch-in, ya punch-out,
ya fuckin' moron!”

In The Eye of the Beholder

the orange glow of the street lamps
slipped through the cracks in the blinds
as we fucked on her roommates bed

no music playing
no sounds except for
the crescendos of our heaving bodies

skins peeling from the adhesive dampness of lust

it was the kind of moment i had dreamed about
in adolescence

a perfect celebration of adulthood

and though it was the beginning
of something that would grow ugly
on that first night together
we were beautiful

Yoga Pants

tightly pinched
against her ass

the black fabric begins a story
that I become eager to finish

[within one haiku]

within one haiku
peace sought through each syllable
seventeen chances

The Fire Hydrant Blues

soldier that never leaves his post
steadily at arms
easily found

i am always there when you need me
but
you only need me when shit is burning

The Flower of Damnation

from what hell do i bloom?

the sun could be no more of a stranger to me
yet my stem continues to reach upward
and my petals still open
to welcome a warmth
that does not come

my being is not photosynthetic
it is a heretic

my existence ought not be watered and grown
but clipped and coffined

yet
planted like a gravestone
in a place the light never finds
hidden behind an everlasting shadow
i keep blooming

Like Nobody, Like Son

"was it hard growing up like that? without a dad?"

eh,
it was it was

"but, like, who taught you how to throw a baseball?"

uhh,
nobody

"well, who taught you how to play guitar?"

my uncle rick,
and one of the guys from Spooky Mojo

"but who taught you how to be a man?"

uhh,
nobody

[painting an ocean]

painting an ocean
more difficult than it seems
as waves wash his brush

[they melt when he wakes]

they melt when he wakes
dreams to dance upon the ice
a boy made of fire

[a cloud surrounds you]

a cloud surrounds you
make the most of skies fallen
act as if you fly

[past one reflection]

past one reflection
the fly shows him another
between glass and screen

[no peace between blades]

no peace between blades
they differ in destinies
mower and the lawn

[anxiety's ball]

anxiety's ball
panic would like the first dance
depression, the last

Consensual Rape

the relationship between

a poet and his poems

is more

defiled

debased

and degrading

than any consensual sex i've ever had

also more

desired

delightful

and deifying

than any consensual sex i've ever had

basically

what i'm trying to say is

i was asking for it