I get caught in my own webs
failure designs drawn in my head
put down in full color
no more
no more
they jump from blue prints
to actions
to my lapse in intuition
but lucky for me
I never finish anything
I never finish
I never
I

Everyone's caught on
humans try to
play god
who doesn't exist

Who needs heavenly
voices
when you can get a
text message
from yourself
the day after you dropped
acid
that reads,
"cherish these moments
be happy as a component
in a world made of
patterns"

Maybe when I die
they'll jettison  my body
out past Saturn
so I can escape from
this atmosphere
of looming endings
and juvenile fears

I believe in the cosmos
where no one has
a throne
or a bigger house to
not call a home

out in the asteroids
wealth doesn't matter
neither does gender
or whose abs are flatter
I hope when
I'm drifting
that my spirit doesn't shatter
like the plates I dropped
staring in the mirror

Seeing myself
through the eyes
of someone who loves me
my fingers dusty
from the space debris
created by my
body

Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
_


morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?

which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.

as I walk,  I note the:

seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that

with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,

the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion

before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...

impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy

a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated

impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.

as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:

newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,

About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.

I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,

so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.

summer 2012

January

More than anything else, I have to find me first; 
but I don’t want to forget you.

February
"Don’t worry, I’ll tell you until there are no more words to say.” 

You just shook your head. 

I tried to explain when I woke up this morning

just beneath the surface,

but I’d lost my ability to speak.

How strange.

March

I dreamt of my very being

keeping the city safe

up until the day it rained.

April

I finally understood that Love herself 
is a “four letter word”.

May*

Well my darling,

I’ll have to forget me to know where I’ve gone. 

Open your eyes.

June
*
But now you’re gone, just a few days later, 

to keep us both alive.

I held out the matches with no real reason why.

Just go.

July
Just like that, I watch your head spin.

My fingers tingle, and I can breathe.

August

“How do you like it?” 

It's falling together.. 

I’d seen it since the beginning. 

Even so, I miss the days when things were simple.

September* came and went with no evidence or new scars.

October
*
Nature can’t make up her mind about me either.

I still have the pictures to prove it.

November

The music is pure, but I barely notice.

December
*
It’s beautiful,

Getting hopelessly lost
until I can barely distinguish my own penmanship.”

mom played dave matthews
on the way home and sister, sister
hummed softly while i considered the
things I never thought would
happen this year and the sky was
green and orange and blue
green and orange and blue
till it reached the mountains

This year, I actually feel older.