sky licked by flame
branches become fingers feeling
for the throat of the night
     clouds cast over crescent moon
the cloth concealing the blade
hanging in suspense while
     shadows make their way
up vacant streets toward
hollow voices echoing from
     inside the corner house
where nothing's as it seems
where children wake from
fever dreams to piercing screams
     and darkness

Once I saw not color.
My dreams were black & white.
The days, it seemed, were endless
and void of light.

Then I met a young girl
with rainbows in her eyes,
bringing hue to my life
and to the skies.

Before moving,
I left my apartment spotless -
no soap **** in the tub,
no hairs or crumbs in the carpet,
not even the linoleum had a scratch or scuff -
spotless, I can assure you.
Yet, I got a letter from my landlord
stating that my security deposit was being withheld.
O, the injustice!
O, the villainy!
Four-hundred dollars, that swine!
That crooked-nosed knave!
If this were 14th century feudalist Europe,
when men still had a fighting chance, mind you,
I would have half a mind to
drag his very name through each tavern and inn,
through the street muck,
don my longsword,
dress my horse,
ride through the dawn,
into the walls of his squalid garrison,
lay waste to his livestock,
enslave his first-begotten,
canoodle his wife,
torch his hens and roosters,
shave him bald,
form a rope with his filthy hair,
tie it to his filthy ankle,
and yank him along
from the back of my horse,
spitting in the eyes
of those who dare oppose me!
Nay, who oppose justice!

But, alas,
I merely read the notice letter and sighed.

Deep beneath waves -
salt and darkness -
a challenger emerges,

silver, streamline,
fins and flippers.
Tuna heeds no warnings.

Here to undo
all your progress,
mankind poses no threat,

on hands and knees,
weeping, crawling.
Tuna stands the victor.

I wake before dawn
to the soft sound of breathing
and am thankful
for another moment like this.

Not all martyrs meet their gods.
Don't be so quick to die.
There is no glory when blood is spilled,
just widows left to cry.

She glides through city blocks at noon
hair coming undone as she goes
I'm drunk from drinking her perfume
I wonder if she even knows

One thousand lovers gather in
beside her, pulling at her sleeve
but vanish when the tears begin
Not me, though, I will never leave

Dear lady with your diamonds,
dear woman with your pearls,
dear girl with your mother's pills,
dear baby with your curls,
is there one out here among us
who is worthy of your world?
Is there one out here among us
for whom your heart's reserved?

If you are a man, but
we share no blood between us,
if you are a man, but
are no mentor of mine,
do not tell me how I've made you proud, for
I consider that to be out of line.

When I am dead and gone,
as the final note of the song
     fades and
the next ensemble takes stage,
may my spirit be resurrected
     among sprightly friends,
for that is the crowd I played for,
and the music never ends.

Pitch-black the night:
God is awake yet,
sitting on the hospital roof,
feet swaying, dangling from the ledge.

Bitter cold is the wind,
howling like a broken heart,
dancing in the doorway
around the newly-christened widow.

Hard are the hearts
of the bedside mourners;
the brother, the sisters, the parents
whose eyes still trace the floor.

And pitch-black remains the night,
God jubilantly whirling, barefoot on the roof,
little more than a mere child
with another new friend to amuse.

This world spins
like a record
and we are
the needle

I've pledged allegiance to a flag
that pledges none to me,
that would sooner see her stars go dim
than allow freedom to be free.

I don't want to say
too much to you.
Violin plays through
the radio, lonely instrument,
and I don't want to say
too much to you,
don't want to make you
cry because that would just
make everything harder.
I mean, for ****'s sake,
the violin is sad enough,
don't go getting tears
on the strings.
Now my mind wanders
as I write this all down,
as my mind wandered
when it happened.
I'm thinking  of
the dress you wore.
It was white (you couldn't have
picked any other color?).
And I don't want to write too much,
I don't want anyone to know
what happened.
Yeah, I think I'll stop here
and just listen to the violin play
rather than dwell on what I
said or didn't say.

Eat it up while you can, pig!
Your future's looking grim.
Head down in a pig trough,
spilling at the brim.
Farmer stands with his shotgun.
That look is in his eye.
You're squealin' now like a loose wheel,
wishin' you could fly.
Running 'round in the pigsty.
**** stains on your pig chin.
Fear keepin' your eyes wide.
Crawlin' out of your pig skin.
Eat it all while you can, pig!
And don't forget to chew!
The dinner bell's a-ringin'
and we've got plans for you!

No one wants to hear the truth.
That's why we tell stories,
invent personas,
make secrets of ourselves.
Lies are the currency of love.
A peacock is just a turkey with pretty feathers.

I used to think that all I wanted
was someone to love me,
someone to give me all their
warmth and trust and sympathy.
The more I sit here in this
empty room beside a window,
the more I realize that that
kind of life ain't meant for me.

I'm making friends with all the
shadows climbing on my rooftop,
and I hear music in the leaves
that rustle in the wind.
And I dont need no pity, girl,
I kinda like the struggle.
Like feeling 'round for the doorknob
when the lights are dimmed.

Each day someone will call and
offer me a new solution,
and while I do respect the
depths of their true concern,
they have to realize solitude
and silence both are virtues -
but that's a lesson that I
hope they never need to learn.

a loneliness surrounds her heart
her bridges twist and fall apart
green eyes cry wide beneath a sky
that's both too blue and far too high
her friends walk by without a word
to catch a glimpse of this rare bird
who only wished to leave her nest
sing all the love out from her chest
now her heart's crammed into a jar
the world looks better form afar

I can feel you reaching across
miles and miles and miles.
I can see you in the sun casting
smiles and smiles and smiles.
I can taste you, and it's new
like I were still a child.
Yes, after all this lonely time,
you're still driving me wild.

Will I meet you?
Will my eyes see you again?
Will I greet you
like I did O, when, O, when
I first met you
and my eyes were closed on you?
Will I greet you
with arms open, open?

Someone said to me once
that "you have to have empathy
to be a true poet."
     You have to have empathy
to be a true person.
I said that.

the metal silence
of an empty river town
still rings in my ears

boy dreams in big words,
looking out from the porch to the
pond growing algae

moon is alive with
vivid colors and pictures,
reflection of this

wake to the smell of
bacon frying up the hill,
grandma cracks an egg

this recurring dream:
rolling down the hill naked,
logs rolling behind

the trees are it all
and I might be part of it,
so I like to think

we built a treehouse
at the edge of the cornfield
and never used it

it was hot I remember
and I didn't like the sound of
the hammer on wood

I said it was a
cornfield, but it only used
to be a cornfield

now just mud and ruts
and a place to stand when we
feel introspective

when a good thought leaves
the mind and's not recovered
it ends up right here

rustbelt suburban
teenagers smoke and ride in
the dead of the night

when I close my eyes
riding in the backseat now,
I pray that we leave

It seems to me that I've
got myself a situation.
The girl I love doesn't even
know that I exist.
The more I think, the closer
I get to a revelation -
when she's away I'll write
my name down on her grocery list.

Even though we sleep
beside each other every night,
she doesn't reach for me. In turn,
I never reach for her.
I try my best to justify it,
but it isn't right.
The hardest thing to do
seems to be the only cure.

Maybe when I'm gone she'll
see the error of her judgment.
Maybe she'll be sorry when
I ain't walking through the door.
They say that time heals all wounds,
but maybe it doesn't.
At least she'll think of me
when she's shopping at the store.

I've been dreamin' up my own hell.
I've been ringin' Satan's doorbell.
Just makin' sure that I'm prepared.
Don't wanna get there and be scared.

I had a customer at work today
with a tattoo across her chest
that said "Royalty" with a little
jeweled crown hanging off the "R."
She wanted a pack of cigarettes.
She didn't ask, she demanded.
She didn't say "please."
I gave her the cigarettes.
She didn't say "thanks."
I asked how her day was going,
and she said "good."
She didn't ask how my day was.
At first I thought a girl like that
isn't royal at all.
But, the more I thought, the more
I realized that she was.
Because royalty doesn't ask,
it demands.
Royalty is above saying "thanks."
Royalty doesn't mingle with
gas station clerks.
Regardless, I muttered "*****"
under my breath as she walked away.

All this must disappear -
crosswise minor roadways and
State Road with its bleating traffic,
plazas where pennies melt into
palms of Middle Eastern merchants,
Chinese, Nepalese, Indian or
what have you,
road signs for New York, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Toledo, Youngstown, Columbus, Sandusky or
what have you.
All this must disappear -
the ****** gardens
on Ohio River banks, railways rusted retired and ready to
sink silently into the soil and stone,
back yard above-ground swimming pool algae beds and front porch
family-festival fetanyl parades,
All this must disappear -
gas station dollar altars and
decaying or decayed Irondale tennant building windows, *****,
community college self-defined
street scientists gathered in old
high school parking lots discussing
politics and the Pleiades and the fastest way out of the galaxy or the
slowest way into an easy death.
All this must disappear,
from Walnut Beach to Wheeling,
and the rust lift and assemble
into something lovely tomorrow's youth can work with, can love and
can sit atop the hills and smile and
be content in knowing while I
sit on the sidewalk and be
glad the future finally showed up.

(You)
You’re flying over my head.
(Now)
Now the sun’s in my eyes.
(I)
I have both my wings spread,
(But)
but never learned how to fly.

You’re supposed to wait for me, girl.
You know I’m scared of the fall.

With your parting,
the sun was pushed aside
by grey clouds and silver moon,
dropped down below the horizon
and didn't rise again for some time.
Summer ended and autumn began
too soon, with leaves coating the
rooftops and sidewalks and
everyone talked about the doom
riding wind, swift,through the town.
        Down and down, everything fell,
but the light did not touch a thing.
Darkness was the language,
darkness was the doctrine.
In the plazas and asylums,
I saw this shift in reason,
wisdom falling from the brain
like flesh from the bone,
driven hard down into dirt and
left alone. The madness swelling
outside like cold air in a lung.
Then came the snow with an angry
wind, hung in the halls and bedrooms, hospitals and cathedrals,
me asking, "why did you go?"
The radio crackled with static fear,
and everyone who hadn't gone mad
went mad and disappeared into
crumbling homes with ***** windows, their fates forever sealed,
like pointless letters into envelopes.
       I wrote you from the madhouse,
hand shaking with indecision,
words risen out of dread,
words you read but never reached you, telling you that,
with your parting, the whole world
has gone to hell.

She was a pretty little girl with a jaded brain
and movie stars in her eyes
From a little town in northern Maine
where dreams fizzle out and die

She was looking for a Casablanca gent
to match her Ingrid Bergman looks
But all she found was me - her discontent!
Her face was like an open book

I paused to read and
she proceeded
to tell me that we had no chance
Before her mouth could shut
I jumped onto her tongue
and asked her if she'd like to dance

We waltzed into a secret fantasy
like our dreams were intertwined
She was blowing pink bubbles with her chewing gum
and it just about blew my mind

It wasn't long and we were lying on the floor
My shirt had come undone
For a workaday girl from a quiet town
she sure knew how to have her fun

Before I buttoned up
she handed me a cup
I drank and I asked for more
My head was swimming
like a salmon when
I watched her walking out my door

She called me her savior
for watching her dog
while she was away.
     Savior? No.
I can't even save myself.
Hell, I even forgot to feed the dog once and now her couch is in ruins.
But if she wants to keep thinking it,
     she can.

I always smack her *** when she is cooking -
her eyes tell me she likes it.
She says to everyone that she's a feminist.
Well, so am I, honey.

You came to me an angel.
With gleaming eyes, seduced.
Around your head a halo,
now become my noose.

I myself was broken
long before I ever met you,
long before those words were spoken,
long before I could regret you.

So you don't get the glory,
can't lay claim to my sorrow.
I erase you from my story.
I'll write you in again tomorrow,

Or until I learn of freedom,
learn to bear the thought and smile.
And this you will call treason,
sentence me without a trial,

But I myself was guilty
long before I ever knew you,
long before you made me filthy,
long before I could pursue you.

Don't let anyone
try to tell you
how to live.
The moment you
do, that's when
you start dyin'.

When did our homes become
tombs?
When did our truths become
lies?
When did our hearts become
stones?
When did our laughs turn to
cries?

When did our men become
gods?
When did our gods become
men?
When did this world become
someone's?
When, oh when, oh when?

When our page was white and empty
words came easy, I was smitten.
But now you're someone else's poem
and a line I wish I'd written.

I don't forget that I love you
when we disagree.
My dear, I have learned humility
through my shortcomings.
Sometimes I sympathize with Pluto;
once a planet, taken seriously,
orbiting mysteriously
at the edge of what is known.
Now, demoted to little more
than a frozen rock
somewhere out there beyond care,
only locatable
by its relation to Neptune.
My love, I am estranged by you,
though I dare not speak it directly
for fear that I might
plant a seed of fault in you -
a **** that is hard to uproot,
I know.
So, you can go on being Neptune -
I'll stay at your limits
and hope you'll turn to me and smile.

Somewhere, a brother's
not a brother for real,
who'd rather his little brother's
innocence steal.

So, you've been to Venice,
 kissed at sunset on the gondolas,
  sipped Merlot at
   Ristorante Albergaccio.
    You're very well-read,
     you know Tennyson and Tolstoy,
    Fitzgerald and Faulkner
   ("Always dream..."
  tattooed on your rib).
 You lived in museums for a year,
  you spoke with Van Gogh,
   his ear turned toward you as
    you crawled among the Irises.
     My dear, it is impossible
    that you are a realist.
   It is impossible that you
  speak not of love.
 It is impossible
that you have forgotten.

Crying, she locked herself
in her room,
boarded up her window.
She laid down.
I didn't know what I'd done
when I asked about her old lover.
It was casual,
but maybe that was the problem.

Hours turned to weeks.
Her parents brought her
all she asked for.
Wood.
Nails.
Paint.
All she needed.
She didn't leave.

You could hear the anguish,
the hammer,
her feet pacing,
her knees drop to the floor.
You could taste the tears,
the sweat, her blood.

I called to her, ashamed.
Worried.
I drove my fists through the wall.
I drove my car to city limits.
I drove myself to the edge.
I sat in the hall.

When finally the door opened,
she looked mad, accomplished.
No more tears,
just red and black paint
smeared across her eyes.
I reached to her
with broken hands.
She handed me what she'd built -
wood nailed to wood,
crudely cut and shaped,
splintered,
dripping red and black
paint and pitch -
her heart.

The past comes back to us,
emerging from the dark, cold water,
dripping wet and breathing hard,
born again and longing to be held.

Lavender candles and dopesmoke evenings.
Quiet enough to enjoy,
not so quiet as to shatter my high.
I light another joint and begin to read your poems.
I still don't understand, really,
but I never expect to.
When I'm done I fall into the mirror.
It breaks, cuts my finger.
My own blood runs.
This I can relate to.