Around Us

Waking up in a field
of flowers opening
            to the sun.
No one’s sure
            if its feathers
            or snow
but something’s falling,
all proud,
            with an angelic
            like maybe heaven
            is real
                        and its tumbling down



Smoking in the snow with a guy
who worked here when this place was
a Howard Johnson. Talking about
how the huge picture of town from the Hill
was exactly where it is now. Crazy.
He said this was his first time back in 20 years.
He said he looked up his buddy’s old place.
It was still in the phonebook, he said. So
he walked to the old street and felt like he
had walked passed it. He went back, he said,
and tried to look at all the house numbers
without looking like a creep. Nothing, he said.
So he crosses the street to see if anything
looks familiar. He’s standing there, and he says
to himself, “That’s gotta be where it was.”
Right where there’s a fucking parking lot.



Images and feelings pressed
together like memories through
déjà vu, leading to moments of
subtle confusion and a need to
reorient, to peel what’s right now
away from everything that might
be happening and continue on
with the full realization that this
is how it is, or you’re full of shit.



Happiest of all had to have been the milk, finally
so free from the ill fated and ill fitting
pitcher, as it skit skat and skee booped its way
past the Grand Canyon, and the Eiffel Tower,
and grandma’s final resting place before finally,
exhausted and solemn, settling in the lowest point
of the highest peak of the furthest mountain. All the
wobbly billy goats amazed at its sure footedness.
Together they discussed and decided to combine
their skills and so surely, yet slowly, made their
way through the wholly treacherous sky, so slippy
with soft clouds, so dewy, so thin, to heaven, where
the unseen night and the undaunted milk could
rest with some tea, before moving on to concur
the steep trajectory to the edge of the galaxy,
where’d they look back, and feel the joy of
succeeding. The vastness lasted forever, until
the milk became homesick, longing for the encompassing
embrace of the chilly glass container it’d lost, and
it went back to the kitchen while the billies stayed
to test their balance on the stars, and watched it go
                                                                        on its milky way.



When you closed your eyes
you could have sworn the clearing was just ahead.
You open them downtown
Friday rush hour traffic
on a bus crammed between the window
and some cool guy.
You’re just trying to get home
but you’re not moving.
No one’s moving.
Even the folks walking the streets
aren’t moving.
They’re not going anywhere.
So you close your eyes.
The woods are darker than before
but its almost 6:30.
You’re not running yet.
You’re smiling. It’s pleasant here
but there’s that scream again.
You can’t help it.
You need to stop but you can’t
help it.
You know they’ll find you
if you can’t make it out
so open your eyes.
You’ve only moved a half block.
That cool guy moved across the aisle.
That’s good, huh?
You’re just trying to get home. 



What a tremendous fog outside,
can’t see either end of the block,
but the mist moves so quickly

under the street lights
What wonderful clarity of old VHS,

makes me wonder what the difference
was. Why bother recording the present
if the future is already incompatible


Re: No Subject

There was a memo sent
to our BrainSpaces today.
It said, “What was 1 credit,
            is now 5 credits.” No one
seemed to notice.


Love Poem Part 4

She could hear the rain coming down before he could see it in the street or car headlights. She put the mug down with a bitter face. It’s hard to tell where exactly the sirens in the distance are coming from because sound can bounce so easily off the height of the city buildings, the narrowness of city streets. The concrete porch steps are so cold even through the comfortable insulation of sweat pants. He thought of his grandfather’s face at his great uncles funeral. Boxes of board games, played intensely for a week, line the bottom of the hallway closet. The box tops pimpled where water drops landed and became one with the festively colored cardboard. One light bulb in the kitchen is burnt out and the other won’t stop flickering, and it’s enough to make any sane person sick. The heater in the car works to well, taking over the atmosphere inside, the way the smell of sulfur can become the major attraction at a national park. Solitude turns into a relative term, just like perfection or gratitude or luck. From time to time, the cat will try to get inside the cage, giving the birds something to talk about. She knows it’s the wind that’s blowing the smoke in her face, but she holds him accountable anyway, not that he’s completely guilt free. There’s laundry to be done, of course, but that day isn’t until next week. Over the bus station and parking lot, the street lights look like lazy, low hanging constellations. He tries his hardest to tell a joke. She locks the door behind them.



        “Do the driver need this?” She asked in that Appalachian drawl. It was a sheet of notepaper with the address of the Eye and Ear Institute scribbled on it.
“He’ll ask where you’re going, yes.” I told her. She seemed surprised at either the simplicity or the convenience, I couldn’t tell which.
She turned to her brother, or boyfriend, again I couldn’t tell, “Is this a part of the Presbaytrian?”
He made a gesture like he didn’t know, or his hearing aid was malfunctioning.
“Presbytr… Presbry…” She kept trying. “It’s a part of some hospital.” She looked at me.
I assured her they’d get there.
He was wearing an AC/DC shirt.



Talk of making love, like making
plastic. It’ll fit a mold, hold only
so much and last long after it’s useful.


Than A Curse

Such a way the flow
runs, to dissolve this
mountain we believe in,
Here we are alive!
And living, touching knees
and giggling, enjoying the
reality that’s all around us!
The frenetic jittering of
human beings. Living in
the loathing of time, less
of a fable


Romero and Juliet

Two mindless things
wandering moonless streets

in search of blood.
Moving in and out of the droves

from house to house,
bar to bar, wherever

the gatherings move too.
Where ever that smell lingers.


In The Rain

Death passes me in automobiles
along the avenues
            The alleyways are well lit
within the electric buzzing of cities
I dream of streets that don’t
exist as I construct them,
Now, can I prove they ever were?
Outside the eyes of my loved ones
who, too, drive from homes to offices
and carry groceries with their arms


And All At Once…

Tight ribs, sore neck, don’t
have a brush to give away
for tooth’s sake. Ten PM testament

to the moment, went reading
through all I’ve not typed,

Doesn’t bode well for
the long term. Flights delayed
tickets lost. Bad check

Receipt gone missing
Inside luxurious purses
Sorry ma’am, no stub

no luggage. Taxis
don’t stop on the street around here.
I’ve caught a cab before, trust me.


Half Hinged

So many beats in conversation, such live
rhythms of the here and now. The looking
back’s not conducive to this place today.
If any day.
It’s too hard to really say if focus
can displace the place so completely as to
keep me from running away like so much
of before. So sure. Half the head I had hinged

back down the road lost its nuts and bolts,
so much spillage has lead them to find me



The computer, staring at me and chatting
away with its micro language, thinking I don’t
notice, or maybe, it just doesn’t care.


Tell Me We're Not Just Energy

Yes, I noticed that all of a sudden it was 3 AM.
So I stepped outside to have a smoke and ponder
the next stage of my drawing. Having closed the
front door, and lighted my cigarette, taking that
first drag, I felt an intense compulsion to explain
myself. “Working,” I said out loud to my self
consciousness. “We’re getting things done.
Nothing to do tomorrow, let’s get it done now.
3 AM, working hard. That’s just how we get it
done.” I was convinced, after half a smoke,
turning to our poorly curtained window, and
there she was, walking back up the stairs.



There was a large boom from
down by the river
                        The sirens were
distant, but audible within a
minute’s time,
                        At the end of the
alley in the trough of the two
slant roofs, I thought it looked
               But I couldn’t tell
if perhaps it had something
to do with my sudden desire
to have a squad car go screaming
wrong way up the one way

To be witness to a real life event,

A commercial airplane passed,
loud, low over my head



I'm an ideal of a product bought
                           and sold
            Sometimes ripped
            up down in half and sideways
But I am impenetrable behind
            the shield of procedure
Repetition like sport
The athleticism of emotional
Stamina, like every other thing,
is relative