Tuesday, December 29, 2009

To the Shape Across Two Lawns and Two Roofs

Between myself, the moon and you...
is space.
But let's be honest:
space is neither
distance nor time.
Nor is it the shape illuminated
by the kitchen light,
the circular moon around
which my mind runs
when thinking of what
it'd be like if I
knew you,
young woman in a tank top
with your arms out stretched...
Or perhaps just a collection
of white and purple balloons.
To the shape across two lawns and
two roofs: it was nice
knowing you.

Monday, December 28, 2009


(yet are we mindful, though not as yet awake,
of ourselves which shout and cling, being
for a little while and which easily break
in spite of the best overseeing)

Friday, December 25, 2009

II - The Who-How (Unformatted)

Longing smoke fractures from a small fire,
Lets eyes dance
Which fall into an unrecognizable pile.
Small complaint, please.
What am I still doing here?
Hits cloudy glass.
Rain storms in the mirror.
The sign said said, walk alone with another,
And the green grass grows all around all around

Then the green grass grows all around.
(Downtown, wander, artists on the brink
Of never being discovered. Winter never ends here. Their scarves strangle them
Their coats blow in the wind,
And falling down Michigan avenue,
I wish I could blow away too)

Then our other becomes aware—post the bee sting needling
Its way through dim veins—a lip kiss—
Reaching hands cling—an advertisement
Hiding in littlenothing words—thin lanes;
Street spirits banshee screaming. Silence.

Still I let notes bounce on skin giggling,
Witness breath exit,
Still you only kiss me when you smell of whiskey,
(Drinks to forget forgetting winks of fluttering wings)
Witness breath exit, steam, incense, sex (where does the mind always wander?)
Still traveling towards dusk and an odd cavernous culture,
(Vultures brood on broken branches, a carcass cues their eyes)
Witness breath exit, incense, certainly this time, kept under, burning the binding.
Never felt so free, not since the twilight of Spring and Fall.

Excuse me, but I must get better dressed to meet
All these lovely acquaintances.
Stability is a homely recess.
Catch imagine love want fuck

There’s been a lot of talk about plucking hair
(Not that one can compare)
But there is a golden instrument I’d love to hear
Unlike any other stringed.
She reverberates as she laughs.
Catch imagine
Can’t forget.
Instead I worship a coffee stain
At least mine I can see
Soaking through.

Why not me? Am I not a tabby?
A happy cat tree hugging dirt worshiper
Who does not fight sounds that disagree
With the air that rests?
I can walk, but only barely,
Diametric snares, paradoxical caring
Tell self. Worry lists.
Bend again to reach half backwards
They said. Don’t let that pose go.
A drone bounces as you let open your mouth

Notes bouncing skin giggling drones plucking ad infinitum.

Your mouth is a furnace for the unaware to wander cycles like a force ten gale.
Feels warm here.
(Sunlight soaks through branches and leaves,
Directs our sight upward; still, we feel with our feet.
These trees are our enemies.)
More words, please.
They are lost under water.
Was a wet dream anyway.
Wish the flies would be afraid,
Haven’t had a cup yet today
Well, only one.
Never enough to liven the blood to flowing less coarsely after being awake.
Harping on long hair, but grumpy lips
Whispering wish how will I get with you?
That is my dish.
I’m toward the back end sticking with waste,
While the waiting for
I want to hear,
Senses Sense
Allows such
Discriminates because
I am not here
You are not there
Really, now what is to fear?
Webs. Blank crumpled pages. I’ve been here before.
Forget, it happens.
We’re just like them.

Might be perfect.

In heaven everything is fine,
You’ve got your good thing
And I’ve got mine.

I Took Too Much For Granted, I Got My Signals Crossed

Once when I sat with you I remember being particularly
Ashamed, on a bench lit yellow by fluorescent lights
With little thoughts of woo, a peripheral leaf
Danced like a bird pecking the avenue. Once, when
You spoke without stopping (a galaxy of words
Pouring like rain), you offered shelter, shortly
After finding a way. For a second the pitch
Changed, lower then the pavement on which
Puddles grew, my feet sinking deeper with every
Time I watched your lips move. I knew this meeting
Meant more to you, as you mentioned who I was
And the things I used to do. Buckets began to fill,
I could not contain the will to reach across the void,
But the thought of toying with a force greater than myself
Made wanting such a selfish act nothing more than a
Ploy: to pretend I’d traveled distances beyond sight,
That on that night I understood the loss of love tucked
In soft sighs, that when knees met it meant much more
Than hiding little nothings behind a black door. Your
Lack of confidence shook my bones (in retrospect it
Might have only been the cold), but to see your
Uncertainty was a type of relief I’ll never again enjoy.
I’m nothing but an unnamed boy trying to find himself
Through chance encounters; but ours was a meeting
Which I always will remember. I see the bench now
From the warmth inside, as the little leaf bird flies away.
Hopefully to give itself shelter from this rain.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Please Don't Confront Me With My Failures. I Have Not Forgotten Them

The last time you said goodbye
You gave a crooked smile. You
Waved and in that instance I
Let a good friend die. What
Prevents a simple call, why
Do I pretend to have fallen
So far off the map so as to be
Dead myself. In this winter bliss
The air couldn't be more dry.
Curled on a couch I remember
Nights in your chair, body aching
Like a child who emerged with
Fresh eyes and forgone thoughts
Of reunion with the womb. That
Warm space we wish to return to
Before we reach that icy tomb.
A companion to hold close with these
Troubled thoughts of failure,
To reconnect with the other
Dove, when we flew so close together.

#4 (Live Through This, and You Won't Look Back)

You never get that far
When what you are
Is an irreplaceable part.
Your smile, my heart.

Bar Banter

If you love me
You love him
For making me
Who I am.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009


It always cycles
Always swirls
Twirls the fickle

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

The Night Dances

A smile fell in the grass.

And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?

Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel

The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,

And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

The comets
Have such a space to cross,

Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----

Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling

Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given

These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes

Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair

Touching and melting.

Sylvia Plath

Monday, December 21, 2009

I hope you take a piece of me with you

It was then I knew I did not know you,
that beautiful things can come from the dark
if the soft light so choose, and I struggled
with the gap where your fade and my day
intertwine to create a stark shadow, which
now rests comfortably on this soft pillow.


Our night dances betray themselves: the shelf where your books used to sit only collects dust, and hardcovers beg for porcelain owls to protect. Unread, the bloodletting words shrivel and puss with a clot where the center was once waiting. A coffee stained cover remains the surest way to tell a lover has yet to let go. But the careful calculation of a goodnight tucks the goodbye into cold sheets, so no fleshy tones provide release from a four-concrete cell of chain-smoked forget-me-nots and a knotted stomach--all when I return to my riddled lot, a begotten desire to maintain trivial distance. In a corner sour cushions punctuate an hour, looped on a lamp a belt buckles my knees. Lying in an icy puddle, just the peak of two tips drowned under rusted smells of color, which runs down a sketched map creating the illusion of clenched knuckles unprepared to loosen. Coincidence teaches nothing but the value of real estate, escape from this black hole city offers only brief repentance, and to relay is to imply I wish to own a name. Jealous of shapeless forms projected from the magic lamp of your mind, I contort until I find that hole where my childish imagine need be forced, else I toy with excitement from meaningless meetings between artists who know only of aesthetics. I wish to know more about physical forms in the unusual way: to see smoke spiral and sway, uncertain of when the night becomes the day. A tangible change I struggle to embrace. More than a night dance for shelter from the rain.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Lyric Exchange / If You Need Me

I'm a dancer only when you submit,
That deep scratch on your stiff neck
Shows me you don't regret a soft waltz
Embraced in longlegs. Your memory a maze
Blooming, the melting way your eyes bend
With a grin (again, you've felt something,
I can see it in a sunset), lost, however, with
A burnt leaf in a recycled notebook, hope
Charred by a dismissed gesture. Disappointment
For not finding better horizons, more pink and human, willed,
Still light and bleeding such profuse looks of bitter
And black neglect, no anchor to tug you towards
Now, where you're still smiling (of course, you didn't
forget). You are what a pair is, not a metaphor for more,
Instead another way of saying you need not shove down
My door, pave the road to your hut where I pluck
A few notes, which resonate the entire next day.
I try to remember the song when the dancing is up,
I try to remember that the dance is enough,
That there isn't a cup to hold such full memories.
And no bowl would be adequately adorned to capture
The sweet taste of your lovely lips, wide eyes, and my
Finger tips running up the ridges of your spine; more
Importantly, the sly way you sneak littlenothing goodbyes.
To say I understand is to lie, of course; and yours is a text
Whose holes beg to be filled, but not by force. So for now it sits
Next to the bed, waiting for the next cold night to be read.
So trust me, love: you have everything you need inside.
You loom, and you will own that gentle beginning
When the sun is exchanged for an illuminated moon.
For now, you can be a dancer, too, whose shifting will never end.
And if you need me, friend, I'll be in the other room
(Still dancing with the shoreline lit light blue).


The off chance these comets do collide.

Saturday, December 19, 2009


now is news
now is the time for two
now is the time to worship
now is the time to talk severance
now is the time for pants
now is here
now is your online information source for springfield
now is the time for peace
now is?
now is not the time to increase corporate welfare
now is the time to
now is the time to get inventory right

Wednesday, December 16, 2009


ypsilanti is ann arbor next?
ypsilanti is the latest of nine petition attempts across the state
ypsilanti is also home of the founder of the tucker motor car company and has the distinction of having the very last hudson car dealership
ypsilanti is approximately 22
ypsilanti is a small city
ypsilanti is about 24
ypsilanti is being forced to vote again on protections already granted by our elected leaders
ypsilanti is 4
ypsilanti is preparing for a flawless election in november
ypsilanti is also home to the worlds last hudson dealer a part of the automotive heritage collection and is located next door
ypsilanti is more than just ann arbor's neighbor
ypsilanti is the us constitution
ypsilanti is certainly no exception
ypsilanti is 11
ypsilanti is via i
ypsilanti is available through aata
ypsilanti is located in washtenaw county michigan
ypsilanti is a rock/progressif/heavy group of the quebec
ypsilanti is located

Sunday, December 13, 2009


and his is the most soothing
use of the IPA, when his "āz"
puncture the page like a force
ten in a crawl space. nude, a
glint of rusty history. solved
self-debates. decompression.

Friday, December 11, 2009

Never Cared Much For Butterflies Before

You’re incised upon a desk adorned with butterflies
Whose incessant non-flaps send shrill cries. Across
From one another, they the other you the wind, Me
The black markings imposed on a saturated wing,
Paper thin, torn from presses, pressed by machines,
An assembly line designed to push them out quicker
Than a cesarean king. Two about the lampshade,
One dangles from the wall, you, a gold crest etched,
Floats above them all. Out the hollow window, into
The darkest night, you and every décor exits from my life.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009


Email'n everything, Email it all! Email it all to your friends.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

To Be Written on the Mirror in Whitewash

I live only here, between your eyes and you,
But I live in your world. What do I do?
--Collect no interest--otherwise what I can;
Above all I am not that staring man.

Elizabeth Bishop

Thursday, November 26, 2009

( y h art flutt rs) and tog th r

( y h art flutt rs) and tog th r
w turn th ov n ov r w turn th ov n ov r
tch d upon th ch a upon
th fir pl tch d a paragraph
agr b caus th thought
r und rl s (conc ptually) by und r
v ry word outl