The Cup

well,
that's fucking it
I guess,
There it was
and we watch it float by us
like lazy clouds
when you're daydreaming
on your back, hands above
resting under your head
the wet warm grass
dampening your clothes,
the sky is blue and solid
beckoning you to stare harder
unfocused
through a calming breeze
and its almost like
you can see into heaven
so you reach out
unmoving
and
a bird shits on your face.

A phone calling out in the dark

Clings to my room,
hiding in corners,
waiting for me to find--

and when I do,
a flood,
there's memory
it's warm and taunts me,
tempts me with--
something like truth and
it brushes against me,

burning from the inside,
the outside over my skin;

I reach for you,
through thought and time and space
and we can change it,
hold it in our hands and
make it feel, and touch

There, somewhere--
your lips and mine,
A phone calling out in the dark.

Joe, after this a glass of Jameson is required

A new success,
A new religion,
shake off the caked mud of
empirical designs,
starchy and maddening,
sit still and
listen to the herd marching off
into the nowhere,
the stinging light of
an empty refrigerator,
the burning of unladen stomachs/

Shitty

I
sat down
to write a depressing
poem,
I wanted it
to be unmemorable
and cliqued,
I wanted you to read it
and fill the dark shallow imagery
with your own doubts and failures,
like a gothic cathedral
weighted down by the sun
and age, where
rock would crumble
imperceptibly over eons,
green invading cold brown
and gray,
ivy crawling or
tumbling down its
ancient stone ribs,
written on inked paper
to read crumple and throw away,
or to place in your library
like a trophy announcing
your bravery,
spine embroidered
with silver or gold,
a bloody leather sacrifice
to pretension and
shitty defense.
 

Night

Just outside, outside the window
I can smell the cool air,
but here, here
It's warm, and
hot, the air is thick,
pulling at me, thick,
holding me in place

and obscuring my vision,
warped by the air, like well trodden boardwalk planks
resting by the beach, listening to
the sound of salty waves pound the shore,
carried by salty winds,
unaware of their fate, irrevocable.

Historians

A thunderous disappearance of magic,
running like hurried writing, copious and
incoherent, scribbled on decayed walls,
a quick scrawl before the master arrives,
to be left, and found by ancestors
who create their own meaning,
their own importance
through the struggle of forgotten souls
given rebirth, creation though a dialogue,
written by the subjective pen
of the glorious few.

Game 3, 5:59

Thousands of souls,
one on top of the other,
experiencing death regret failure
jubilation success the promise of another day,
a burning light draws them forth
like moths to their destiny,
our destiny, a singular prize,
they call out in unison,
sharing ecstasy, clutching
at grand victories
forever heaped upon history,
all together basking in
the pulsing red light
of a perfect tomorrow.

Trav-elling-with-the-air-as-your-guide

Travelling, dust on our/your back,

to your back, kicking up,

over, beyond, side-ways,

scrolling and marching

forward, you've been forewarned...
before--this--

so, Cool and lazy, the river flows

by us/you, non-existent restraint,

the air/wind restraining,

pulling back, peeling back,

a figure walking toward her,

running backward and running away,

running out of the light,

afraid,

of jet engines heating up,

displacing energy, gliding on currents,

tons of metal/plastic, simple,
primordial like a bird weightless and weighted down,

pulled down by the earth, straining higher,

wind sweeping through the past, 

the recent past, the myth of present

toys with her,

we could watch from inside-out,

from dreams and reality,

a star sparking, blinking

yes and no.

June the first

You watch me sleep,
with innocent glances
and mouth wash tinged smiles,
sitting still like
dormant volcanoes,
plotting the destruction
of ignorant youth.

It's Almost Summer, It's Almost Raining

He stands in the rain,
it avoids him
a barely perceptible phenomenon,
the chance so small
it will not be realized and analyzed
until long after he reaches his destination,

an abandoned home,
an occupied yard,
a girl, struck by every drop within view
a nexus, a return;
rebirth and death and rebirth and birth and death
and it all washes away
little Persephone in the cold,
pulled forth and back,

the road eaten away
dirt mud ugliness impossible,
sucking his boots in
holding hard, fast,
refuses to let go and
drudging through, obscured by a light
refracted, mingling with
the rain's neglect,

a silhouette in the garage,
forged of crafted blistered metal,
a 1965 Oldsmobile,
and it hasn't run in ages,
since 1985 to be exact, it's well kept
except for the engine,
silent and content
to wrestle with eternity,
rain makes patterns on the roof,
pushing through tin and iron,
happily rusted,
a treasure passed in the night
footprint after footprint.

Electronic Love Light

Your light- and me
staring back, where did our comfort go?
was it your fault? I don't think so,
you've tried so hard to stomach my lies,
now I can barely touch you,
you don't pull away, have you-- given up?

Why won't you say a word?...
Is there nothing left for us,
am I to forget you, like I've forgotten the rest?

If you could hurt anymore,
filled with half-truths and easy-way-outs,
I'd break you myself, but then
you would look like me
seated in front of you,
illuminated and transparent,
not asking for forgiveness.

Coffee Table Words

How many inspirational words
can I find, placed here
hidden from the street lamp,
keep looking hard, you'll find them;
I'm locked in tight, the windows are closed
in past tense; unremarkable,
you just might ruin your eyes
squinting so and straining into the night.

comma period colon semi-colon

It's been years since I felt the rain I can tell you because you won't speak back unable to utter a sound fearful of laughter and joy and confidence even a stinging drop of water from some untold thousand feet there is or there isn't one or the same and the same spilling out breathless what the hell read on because you can't now it's my turn now it's my turn to taunt you to taunt you to take it out on you passive silent but terrible waiting for the rain to fall you you're soaked thinking you're dry standing in the light covered in shadow and wet and shadow a fucking idiot with darkened clothes and damp hands outstretched grabbing at everything seeing nothing thanking no one you don't deserve the punctuation I've left out and you'll never get it so while I wait for the rain under this cloth and steel and sweat you can dance in ignorance or whatever you call it pulling everyone down and draining the world

Vacations

You exist in typed words

and messages left

with intent to reply,

It's spring and oceans

warming to swimmers

hide you from me,

endless blue sky pushes out

and away against the clouds

moving north to find a place to rest,

or readying for rain,

They say you're miles away,

it feels like more,

I'd count them but they don't make tape measures that long,

or so the woman at Home Depot says,

I think you're on an island somewhere,

in the spring, in the summer,

in the past, morning when its night,

a day before and a day behind,

The summer is waiting patiently for your return,

light on steel wings and rudders,

over ancient temples, decayed cities

and painted rocks,

The wind carries word from you,

the spring has your name in its air,

and when the past catches up,

I'll be there to see it.

Wave

Whatever happened to Google Wave?
Drawn in by the motion of the moon,
obscured, incandescent light,
through a link an error displayed,
404? Or else? salty and sticking to my lips,
you left us,
neither sated, nor confident
for you return.