brevity of sound

the brevity of silent sound
that escapes us all
cries murder in the dead wind
that is our every day
sure as breath we amble along
waiting patiently
like waiting room magazines
to be read, ingested, swallowed whole
like the flaking
roadside billboards we are
beyond the beyond
we hope to begin
currently we
shape and strecth our docile skin
around illuminations of frustration
dirty stucco walls
in pale yellow light
tiny hopeless romantics
burning bright
as viking burials
set out to sea
we are not our dreams
we are us
we are collectively more beautiful
than a hundred rose gardens
strung like a necklace
around our soft throats
the brevity of silent sound
screaming "let me out"
is all we have

shadow is free

shadow is free
frolics in the musty shoebox with the other shadows
their midnight whispers rattle like cards in spokes
“let us out let us out let us play
the devil is scratching his head
dandruff melts on our tongues like fresh snow”
awful weather where they live
chance of hurried flurries buries them eternally
they hold parched eyes in their palms so delicately
have to be able to see the past without turning, they say
have to be able to look back without falling forward, they ramble
one is a meteorologist, i think
his forecast always erroneous and esoteric
another a hitman
pistol-whipping his knee constantly
a few are scholars
illiterate fools clamoring on about empirical formulas

the artist
i like him

the doctor
is out

the teacher
has a heavy ruler

the nightingale
sings dirges
about loss lament let love LIVE
sit soar stand still saline SHOUT

the shadow
is free

the shadow
plummets
like lead wrapped in granite twisting turning fingers burning
weightless breathless sightless tranquil (as a summer wave)

the shadow
is free

rush hour

little dervish let her spin
touch the fun taste the wind
bright eyes warm winter glaze
street intersection directional maze
how sweet the mind uncluttered
how young the heart unfettered
swims floats skips falls in snow
make an angel now before you know
uphill slopes are in your way
and you can’t cash in on rainy days
let the hot glint of sun warm your toes
let the tall one melt your icicle nose

hope on a monday morning

i have seen it all

in the blue of twilight

i can taste the tannin in your stare
it peers down a road to somewhere
miles that try to escape themselves
by backing over innocent by-standers
are drunk in your glare

momentous occasion grow small
in the deepening blue of twilight
collapses on itself like on old ferris wheel
rusted air rises in the rapids of the aftermath
i know i've paid for this ride before

glimmers of tomorrow sparkle coy
you nasty thing, you dirty hope you
i’d buy you a drink from the other end of a dusty bar
if i could only make eye contact
present obscured in a muddy mirror

but hark, i hear the angels calling
they reek of opportunity laced with fear
their screams smell like syrup and flint
wings burn when touched and explode beautiful
shower me in amber ropes of light

wrap me red
heal the head
make a boy’s smile shine
in the deepening blue of twilight
in the maddening blue of twilight

boardwalked

sugar descends on minds of dust
dark corners taste so sweet
cotton candy clouds conjure
caramel chords
second hand sounds
(pyromania)
mired in minutes
so quick to be up in it
saccharine streams weld patterns
cobwebs that never matter
the smell of youth
saltwater taffy
never tasted so orange
before the summer storm
the jet star ran warm
railing new wires
fistfuls of unknown
they the beautiful they the strong
we the massacred we the wrong
a touch of you for me
a touch of you for free
stampeding honey trampling the dream
we drip
we fall
we do it again

3:54 am

she wrote her book
on the backs of old recipes
scrolled them up
parchment cylinder crinkles
placed in a box on fire
things are less legible
when smoldering
i tried to inhale
the smoky sentences
maybe they would make sense
inside of me
as opposed to pretty thoughts
glancing off my eyes

i am scared to breathe out

1983

wednesday is today
yesterday was 1983
yes, i remember
(africa, allentown, all those years ago)
phone home birthday party plates
holding dark brown crumbs
at safe distance
from the hungry alligator
on my shirt

test scores were high
(meant nothing,
just cared that i got a new activision game
as a reward)
four years of awkward adolescence
awaited the innocence
like a chainsaw staring down a tree
and i, a weak birch
wandering in the woods

when i came out the other side
the alligator had stopped breathing

another dream

the beautiful one
with the purple eyes
smiles sideways
in my head
moonlight drips upward
from the silver window
where there is no wall
just the color green
undulating tirelessly
is it the sea? am i drowning?
the beautiful one
places willowy finger
upon clenched lips

“you are dreaming
you are the dream”

then i am the yellow island
where the green undulates for me
in waves that lap at my warm heels
and the beautiful one
with the purple eyes
is the palm
that dances gently
in the sweet salted air

Dysfunction Junction, What's Your Function?

(Poetry is pretentious, so I’m taking a break. At least that’s what I’m saying because I haven’t written any lately.)

I used to think Katie Holmes was hot. Like, super hot. Like Phoebe-Cates-coming-out-of-the-pool-in-Fast-Times-at-Ridgemont-High hot. But something strange seems to have happened this morning. Let me explain.

I have somehow found myself in the midst of an unprecedented run of watching Dawson’s Creek. (Slight pause for laughter and the few readers who just threw their laptops on the floor.) Back-to-back episodes every weekday. Two straight hours of Pacey’s disarming witticisms, Dawson’s drive-in-movie-screen forehead, Jack’s ridiculous rushing of a fraternity as an openly gay freshman (I’m not the least bit homophobic, but this just wouldn’t happen in real life, at least not at the snotty, small-town college they are attending), and Jennifer’s maddeningly mysterious omniscience. Seriously, every character is like some top-of-the-mountain oracle that casually passes around sage advice and life lessons as if they were simply a joint and a bottle of wine. Every answer to every question is ten minutes too long.

Joey: “They forgot to put cream cheese on my bagel. Is that a sign?”

Pacey: “You know, Sartre believed that all bagels were meant to die, because all they really wanted was to be English muffins. You know, whole, like they way you want to be Joey. And the cream cheese you long for is Dawson. Go now, run to him. And I hope my amateurish attempt at psychoanalyzing your love of spreadable bread condiments does not diminish the way you truly feel about him.”

To borrow a line from Kemper, it’s fairly irritating.

At least Andy’s out of the picture now. What the hell was her problem, anyway?

Back to the topic at hand. I’ve started to notice that all the cute little idiosyncrasies that used to make Joey Potter unbearably hot now just make her unbearable. The crooked-mouthed confusing look she applies to every situation used to be enough to make any hormone-fueled high-schooler pop a chubby in his Levi’s. But this is college, and that innocent, introverted aura just does not fly. I remember steering clear of girls like her in college because they either had far too much baggage or a butcher’s knife in their pocket. And then there’s the myriad of facial ticks that make her resemble Katherine Hepburn on Red Bull. Does every conversation she has have to involve twelve furious bats of the eyelashes, ten alternating eyebrow raises and five brushes of hair behind the ear? Okay, the opening sequence to every college episode does have her jogging in a tight shirt and skimpy shorts, so I got that going for me. But when does she grow up and just GET IT already?

And can we change the damn theme song?

writer's block

ashtray
eyes
smoke
words
rise
cream
wisps
letters
cough
letters
air
(paper
palette
obvious
stupid)
spell
space
words
breeze
dammit
smoke
in
out
words
rise
ashtray

december

grey ocean floats
holding pattern pigeons
vultures

stacked bricks plunge
smoked surface face
smooth

trembling hand hold
amber point stick
drag

answer question none
absence clear opaque
always

rigid lids lean
arid eyes sleep
less

dance dark spark
die shine deliver
december

leafless

petrified capillaries
small shaking branches
a tree on its last limbs
strikes a strange angle
pointed toward warmth
hoping (like its frigid fingers
folded in glacial prayer)
the sun will come out
come out somewhere
make chlorophyll matter
like blood to a heart
i stare and we start
to accept
our bittersweet
synchronicity

age = temperature

pre-war angles
meet and make walls
mathematics
cannot explain
incessant metal clangs
sounds of gremlins
making heat
noticeably absent
icy calm

frozen arm
creeps in slow
permeates space
where insulation
called out sick
past elderly brick
quietly slinks
through hardwood
villages of dust

i shudder

november’s gnarled claw
scrapes at my face
teeth clatter
like the tracks
beneath the local 6
i take a sip
of brittle coffee
and wish
for so much more

kas

i miss her on this new york morning
as shards of sharp autumn sun
blanket a tar floor
under a cool blue ceiling
children laugh
animals speak
vehicles scream
the wind walks

waves of life
pour up and over
flood my tar floor
buildings smile
as rooftop treetops
bend and sway
in the dance
of manhattan’s sunday

rusted boxes
whir and cough
a symphony
carried away
on a concrete breeze
massive shadows
crawl along
faces of safe edifice

some
slumber quietly
in there
not ready
to take in
the shimmering air
i breathe in the city
and exhale my mind

i miss her on this new york morning

i miss her every time