Catch

It is difficult to write

poetry

when you don't know

who you are.

It is difficult to know

who you are

when you don't write

poetry.

Dumbass

So you tell yourself
you are in love
without realizing
you don't even know
how to fall;
to be in love, anymore.


But you tell yourself
it doesn't matter
this time-
you're going to make it work.


Because you tell yourself
you need this,
love, that is.


And you tell yourself
it's time to move on
before you even know
what time it is.


And you start to crush,
like a kid,
though you've forgotten how
to crush-
how to be a kid.

Still Air

Sitting in your passenger seat,

silent hands that won't sit still,

my world

hinges

for a moment

on the hope that this won't be a phase.

Hope that one day I won't drink

that apple flavored beer

and think back

about how happy we were.

That yours are the last lips

mine beg to kiss;

that this is the last time I fall in love.

Early Winter

I've thought about you

every day

for the last six weeks,

Every day.

I don't even think about myself

that often.

And I want you

to tell me what to do

about it,

but I can't tell you,

"about what?"

Chirp

I am a small bird.

My life is short.

I sing beautiful songs

all day

and make myself

invisible

when the weather is good.

And each year I mate,

build a nest;

nuture.

Then we fly away.

And my life is short.

Wake up

The familiar bar

bathrooms.

Spent tampon apllicators

in the men's room,

my own name on the wall

in someone else's handwriting.

Piss

that seems to go on forever.

Ache

A conversation

comprised

entirely of unasked

questions.

Remembered,

but not.

This is what real people

prepare for.

72

If you constantly

remember

the people who forget you,

does that mean

you constantly forget

the people who remember you?

You'll never know.

The nature of forgetting.

Perhaps

the only perfect

human interaction

is when two people meet

and mutually forget.

Maybe

In my chest

there may be a glowing ember,

I haven't checked.

Just blow on it, baby.

And I don't know

if it's feathers or scales

on my back, I can't see it.

Scratch it once, baby.

And I'm not sure about my ears.

Everyone is so loud;

I may be deaf to a whisper.

Whisper baby, just whisper to me once.

Band-Aid

Someone else's wedding bells
are ringing in my ear;
someone else's private hell
is really what I fear.

I find myself in indecision
as you walk away;
subject me to my own derision
every single day.

My left hand reaches for anything new;
my right hand clings to hope, to you.

I can't remember what it's like
to live without a care,
but I am not surprised-
life was never fair.

Mountain Rain

I am glad
these raindrops aren't bullets.

But fuck are they cold.

2 a.m. on a little stoop
shirtless, utterly
exhausted,
and I am glad
it's just phlegm
and cigarette smoke.

I'm coughing
up, not blood.

And though I won't be standing
too much longer,
I'm glad it was
no one
that took me down.

The Greedy Part

I want my chops licked
for the meals I prepare for you.

I want you to notice
how much effort I put
into decorating my house.
What do you think,
I did it for me to look at?

I want you
to sleep in my bed
without me
because it is my bed.

Frustrate

I don't want to remember,

yet much to my surprise

I don't want to forget.

I won't even write this down.

Cigarettes destroy your lungs

yet sadly leave your memory intact.

There are good days and

there are bad days.

Today is one of those.

She

You brought the first spring day,

and the sun has't set since I met you.

And while I would love you

to stay,

I just don't think I could let you.

You brought me home and showed me life,

and pointed up the road.

When cold wind blew you held me tight,

and both of us laughed as it snowed.

He, Himself

Unintentionally charming
and far too aware of it.
So much so
that
he couldn't be an ass if he tried.
But he can
if he doesn't.
So smooth he ends up silent
at his best, so silent
he can sneak up on himself.

So apathetic towards happiness
in general,
he can't put effort into his own.
Because he knows
he'll feel the same either way.
And he still doesn't know
what that, "the same," is.

He knows too many people
look alike, and he knows
no one here
looks at him the same as people did there,
there.
But he knows people like himself.
People that listen
overindulge
and forget.

Your Problem

You jeopardize your job

and all of your relationships,

you bitch

about your roommate

not having money

or food

or looking for a job.

And you sit back

and watch everything

that makes your life

possible

run away,

just run away.

Crystallize

If you go a week

without writing a poem,

they don't build up

or crystallize,

they don't get sweeter.

They go flat-

they fade.

And watch you do the same.

And it is just as easy

not to write a poem

as it is to write one.

What it is

Liberating,

that's what it is.

To not have to try-

to be unimpressive,

to just exist.

Watch ambiguously

and imagine.

Force other people

to assume,

to wonder.

Masturbate

and pretend to feel things;

get thing done.

It is liberating

to be isolated.

My Thumb

I was peeling shrimp for your dinner,

and one of them stabbed me

in the thumb.

And that really stings.

So I mutilated the thing

and let it sit on the counter

to think about what it had done.

Those big guys

with the long spike

on top of their heads,

they always forget

who holds the knife.

Hillbilly Roar

There's pro wrestling in town

at the armory,

and I can hear all the

hillbilly roar

from my house.

Hillbilly roar

from a mile off.

So I wedge my knees

against the well-polished wood

of the skinhead bar-

the one with all the good beers-

and there's a guy with a broken

volume knob-

turned up until it cracked off.

And a girl crying

sounds like a rodent

with broken ribs.

And the bartender,

his hat just like mine,

is showing a regular the professional

wrestler trading cards

he collected when he was a kid.

Self Titled

Fuck you.

Fuck you and your horse,

and your cute little accent.

Fuck this,

"I love you,"

bull shit.

Fuck your beautiful eyes.

Fuck the way you run.

Fuck that laugh,

recorded on my brain.

Fuck asking questions

you don't want answered,

and fuck not answering.

Fuck you,

just fuck you.

Sparkle Harvest

Downtown,
rumbling, grinding
scraping sounds
from the sky.
Trains in the dock yard-
police choppers.
Girls, and they are all so beautiful,
and wet
streets, so easy
to slip.
Dogs barking, off leash
drooling into carriages,
obscured by smokestacks,
exhaust.

Seed

There is a kiss

on my lips

or somewhere deep inside

my face

or in my soul like a swollen seed

hidden from light,

or wherever kisses hide,

that you should have gotten.

That I'd hoped you were waiting for;

that you never received

and likely never will.

But it's there,

still,

and it's yours

and that's almost good enough.

Week Four

Then comes that moment of despiration.

Those feelings that fill pages-
empty the soul.

When you get so worried you are going to lose her,
for no reason,
that you start to believe you already have.

And you just want to cry out.
And you feel the angry weight
of the summer sun.

And you feel like you are working
three times more
than you are sleeping.

And you just want to cry out,
whatever you do, please,
for the love of god,
I am begging you, please
don't stop loving me
first.

Evocation

I will ride into battle

bored, broken hearted, burnt and bruised,

if you will not forsake me again, oh muse.

I'll call out in the night

in exhaltation, not despair

only for the hope of finding you there.

And if you were at the bottom

of some hopeless crowded sea,

I would gladly drown

to find me next to thee.

Full Pockets

I've got time
and brain cells
to kill.
1,000 fuses to light.
Well, 12.
Nobody to talk to-
nothing to do.
Ice cold,
everything to drink,
all the seat a man needs,
a clock and a wallet.
I've got inpiration for the desparate,
despair for the inspired,
two beautiful eyes,
recording.

I've got a pair
of magnets,
a pen and a notebook.
And I can lie,
boy can I lie.

This night will burn.
Not one stone
will be left standing
upon another.

Smoke

Bent over a steel counter,

hand on a dirty rag,

watching a heavy rain douse

the fires I've started.

No more fires.

These days there is no horizon,

only false peaks.

These days there is no big or small

wonder,

just wonder

and the things I need.

Suburbia

A wasp in a warzone
stalls in a cloud
of pipe smoke
the color of sun-bleached asphalt-
retreats.

Life here
is a still pond
full
of life, unseen
from the surface.

Breaking only
occasionally
for a breathless moment,
useless ripples
useless ripples-
too lazy to last.
Failing
against simple gravity.

Bathtub Gin

I was out of beer

but not yet drunk enough

to be done with my day,

so I called you

just to listen to you talk.

And like bathtub gin,

your words pushed me over the edge

of inebriation

and I sank

into myself,

happy,

but not content.

Wanting more

than your words.

Reaching, feeling

in the dark

like a blind fool

every inch

of the miles between us.

Craving you

while I had you.

Like one more before last call.