Apocalypso Hangover

A sleeping man asleep on the El.

A sleeping woman asleep at the counter.

A sleeping child asleep on yesterday's newspapers.

A sleeping mother asleep in her coffee.

A sleeping couple asleep in the park.

A sleeping photographer, shooting, asleep.

A sleeping tramp and a dog asleep.

Two sleeping lunch-men asleep on a beam.

A sleeping disc-jokey sleeps: asleep at the wheel.

A sleeping fireman asleep on a sleeping Dalmatian asleep.

This is only a poem in that it is inscribed within one blog post.

Earphones?

I always though you meant earthquakes.

Well, go ahead. Pour me a cup too.

I'm trying to think of what this means and I can't think of it.

I'm not that good at keeping my legs still. The coffee, maybe.

This is only a poem in that it is inscribed within one blog post.

And though the hot sauce flows, I remain cold.

I only know poems about poems.

Which sucks, it does.

no hagan la cama
in spain they don't leave home
no traigen el cafe
at least until they're married
voy a quedarme en cuarto
and then they move down the block
y ver el cambio de la luz
or down the hall
porque no quiero salir de este pais
where their parents can still hear their hacking cough
y nunca quiero decir adios
and insist - NO ARGUING - that they take cough syrup
a la vida que tengo aqui contigo
even though they both know it's only cuz they were out partying til 10 this morning and smoking cigarettes all night long

#8

just when i came to know
to malign my ignorance--
this is lost to me, but
i can remember the back seat
of an ’81 datsun.
sleepily borne
by words freed
from context or connotation,
from any meaning save that
of three bodies in motion.

in the overheated cab
of yalver’s pick up i am
exhausted again tonight.
longer legs folded up
onto the dashboard, this time
I am trying to understand
the words skimming
over consonants that
hum along behind me
through stories
of flowers and factories.
I am trying to build the scaffolding
to hang these words for meaning
so I mine the metal off this truck
and i drive it
to the abandoned school
by the old house on Clouet;
I do it up in facades
from the juvie jail.
I gut the insides and refashion it
into something from Maria,
Full of Grace, but instead
of unnamed de-thorners,
it’s the four of us inside.
this way, I can imagine my way
into your life before this car I can
weave myself into all your places
where I do not belong.

we both believe what we said, that:
anything I have, that you need,
is yours.
but I have kept my ignorance so close
strapped my ribs round it
like startled, spasmic wings.
if I could bear it,
knee deep even
and meet your gaze
I think we could play
the distance between us
like cats cradle.
I’ve heard that voids collapse
can’t stand to be surrounded
by eyes.

if i could mourn one loss
from my childhood today
it would be the capacity
to not understand.

viii

He felt her smile, and her voice was sweet and new in the darkness.
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Now not anymore
and not n w
and not sw t
and not either in the d rk
now myth c
growing l mbs to swat away
grabbing at th ngs not there
library b ks checked out
the last c kie eaten
before just two r ch d out
a b dy so there
h nds in h r, on ch ks, lb ws
sk n pinched between f ng rs
just this one thing enough

#8

my number one feeling lately is like, relief plus embarrassment. i make things hard for myself, apparently.

(the possibility of ease is true but unbelievable)

this is common i guess, but geez.

Angel Dust

Why did you peel your skin off

and feed it to your dog?

I'm afraid of leaving

because I'm going soft

Don't have any worries

when you're here with me

Cut your pills from the chunk they gave you

and lay off the PCP

Let's watch TV

Everybody needs somebody

to worry with

Someone to go with you

up to connecticut

Everybody needs

a friend to stop worrying with

someone to help you

to not give a shit

You and me

ice box tilt

the blue flame beneath the kettle
wraps its soft cold light
around the kitchen.

the soft hiss of the gas,
the slant of first sunlight
slung low against
the gold floor.

everywhere there are
reminders of last night:
the bottle of wine,
the roasting pan,
the dishes stacked high in the sink.

the plant needs water,
and your favorite cookbook
seems to have disappeared
beneath the detritus,
beneath the clementine peels
and remaining slice of pie.

the kettle whistles.

Lurk

I regret the first half of 2004. Regret my makeshift computer setup. Regret the heavy black metal stand found curbside, dragged up and down station stairs, through MTA tunnels. Regret the blind workaholic hours, reckless dash to escape the nine to five. Regret the dresser teetered under, inch by sidewalk inch, stubborn, obsessed, wrists bent backwards. Coupled by contorted performance art avant posture. Coupled by paint roller repetition. The cause of these circumstances makes perfect sense to me. I brought on a great burden through the expression of my primary attributes. Hard working. Frugal. A hunger to live life unconventionally, artistically. Chronic pain entered my life in May of 2004. It has never left. Every day I face it. Sometimes struggle. Sometimes mourn. Spread to my shoulders and back. Worsen. Became aware that many of my favorite activities are rooted in hands. Many of my greatest talents are expressed through hands. Using the computer becomes more difficult. Writing by hand, more difficult. Playing piano, more difficult. Experimenting with recording, manipulating new technology, more difficult. I am still able to do all activities. But always with pain. I imagine that people do not believe my pain is real. I assume that people would not believe it exists to the extent that it exists. So I do not discuss it. You now read a rare indulgence, allowed to myself tonight. I consider myself open minded. Patient. Persistent. Having a capacity to approach conflict with gentleness, care. Healing has been one of my highest aspirations throughout the last seven years. My life has had accomplishments, but I have made little progress with my pain. I have worked a great deal on art, but at least this much effort has been devoted solely to healing. Lost hours, lost hours. I feel I have tried almost everything. Speaking these words into a dictation program. Works badly, crashes. Putting up with it. Fear for the future. Fear of physical pain. Fear of loss of ability, mobility, expression. Helplessness. No answer in sight. My days contain many wonderful people and happenings. I am very lucky, but all of my days are colored by this pain. It lurks. Ominous. Relentless.

The Backpack

He bragged about all the pockets
but little did he know
it's not really a school bag
it's a bright red squash bag.

Redu

You know, I had a perfectly good day,
and I'm still going to bed feeling like
I've made some kind of mistake.

Did you ever, consider, Frank,
that you might not have known you were winning?

Breakfast Accident Featuring Endless Sorrow and Loneliness

under a bright new bowl of cereal my morning
erupts with a splatter of bran and I've ruined it;
the floor is littered with my one great love
I weep, my roommates weep and feed each other mangoes
they offer me mangoes, I accept mangoes, weeping,
mopping tears creating softness with the wrong liquid
sopping flakes with mangoes and wishing for hard milky raisins

days starting

The days start
in a circle
a cycle of suns waking up
and sleeping.

Each one
different air
similar routine

Moving through each one, crossing off the days
counting down hours

to begin again
fresh
the next