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