Death in Hampden

Death in Hampden

I want to be impaled by a pink flamingo.
I want to crawl on the midday concrete
With a festival swirling around me,
Suffocating in vomit-rot air
Dying here in Hampden.

I want to lurk in dark bars,
Swilling beer in plastic cups. I want to be surrounded
By ladies with bouffants. I want to
Stifle under piles of velvet Elvises,
Plastic lawn furniture, paper cones.
Buried alive in Hampden.

Dying here
I will die of thirst, reaching out
one last hand, drowning in a saltwater sea
Of beer, sun burning my ears.

Confused, enraged, I will run
Through heated streets, a mad bull,
Transfixed by plastic straws.
A pink flamingo, falling from the sky,
My coup de gras.

Death in Hampden
Uncurls in front of me, along the street,
In the crowds, plays with dogs and small children,
Stumbles gracelessly, stares at glass-fronted
Two dollar stores, dances in dive bars,
Counting the hours.

I have always been dying in Hampden.

Zombie Kittens

Zombie Kittens

Zombie kittens prowl,
All in a row,
On your paper towels.

At night they crawl
Off the rolls and hunt
Your kitchen for
Ghost mice. Sniff
Delicately along the walls,
Pounce on shadows.

Creeping up your bolster
They will curl on your pillow
To purr in your sleeping ears,
They hoarsely whisper "We are
Sorry," or "All your dead are here."

Open Mic

Open Mic

Every Tuesday night was open mic
At the hippie, veggie, coffee shop
A few short blocks from where I
Lived when I was sixteen, in
Sun-drenched, red-bricked,
Tennessee. When I was sixteen,
In quiet, southern, Chattanooga
Tennessee, I played guitar outside
So many downtown coffee joints. But
This, my first night ever, my friend
Brought his bass guitar and I brought
My Gibson. I knew two songs, four chords.
When they asked me to play, I said,
"Where's the mike?" Every one of those
Lowdown, hairy, friendly, veggie, stinkin'
Hippies laughed at me. I came back every
Week. Summer of my senior year, they
Closed.
I want to see that chalkboard with the
Beany, veggie daily specials again.
I want to play Sex Pistols on an
Acoustic guitar, write free-form
Poetry denouncing Mickey Mouse and
McDonalds and the rest of our
Used-up, dried out, tired consumer culture.
Maybe tomorrow I'll walk down a side street downtown
And hear "Closer to Fine,"
And inside there will be a circle,
A six-string Gibson swinging, hairy,
Veggie, hippies drinking coffee from
Ceramic mugs, in that muggy, starry,
Close and friendly, Chattanooga,
Tennessee of my dreams.

Ursa Major

Ursa Major

His arms are my father's arms.
Thick, covered with hair, they
Hold the paper gently as he reads.

They were always around me,
Around my shoulders from
Above, that massive sun-
Warmed strength.

Driving to OC

Driving to OC

Driving to Ocean City to
Visit my parents, I
Remember each turn
Of the road, looking
For the sub shop sign,
Roadside custard, gas
Station, bridge, liquor
Store. Each mile is
Backwards, living and
Reading and playing
There every summer,
Four till fourteen.

Afterwards I
Speed back to
Baltimore, rocket
Into work, cook dinner,
Go out with friends,
Driving home I think
Through the next week,
Trying on my life again,
Brushing off the sand.

Failure

Failure

Over and over I stumble on the ice.
This is not skating; it's a refusal
To fall backwards. Staggering on
Hands and knees and back again, I
Can only see the next step-

that day I disappointed everybody

that day I disappointed everybody

I've been staring straight ahead for hours.
I no longer understand language, I hear tones,
Low howls, I speak the tongues of machines
And beasts. I know this is my punishment, or
At least how it begins - to wonder how
Or what has happened to me since I woke up.

Mid Afternoon

Mid Afternoon

rain drops glisten on the sidewalk
worms writhe half-cut by boots.

Sunlight glares over the suburbs
in impotent anger, drying well-cut
lawns. The air's a soupy mess.

the blocks between bus stop and home
sweat as I do, smothered with apprehension-

Bus Seats

Bus Seats

Mesmerized by bus seats, I watched
Monsters rise from wrinkled vinyl.

I stared at cracks in concrete
When I walked, a little boy
Studying geomancy in miniature.

In my heart I live in EE Doc Smith's
Vision of the future;
I believe any competent mind should
See the world in a pot shard.

Tongue Sandwiches

Tongue Sandwiches

Telling you the tongue sandwich story
I realized it wasn't funny, it was sad
As if I were dragging my guts behind me.

And when you joked that I cry more
Than you do, I froze up. You said,
"What's wrong?" I said, "I used to cry a lot.
He would say, 'Stop crying. If you don't
I'll make you cry. I'll give you a reason.'"

Ramón and I

Ramón and I

I dreamed you were taller and your hair
Fell in golden rings around your shoulders.
You told me about the man you were meeting
Later, the man you love, and I was angry,
I said, "Wait, but what about me..."

I dreamed I lived in a house with people whose names
Kept changing. I told them I was Ramón
So I could put his suits on. They sent me to his
Meeting at eleven but at the last second
I said, "Wait, I can't go. I'm not Ramón."

A giant dinosaur head looked through
Your blinds, and I was so scared I woke up
And told you my dreams. Of course I couldn't explain
What was so straight in my mind.

Of course my dreams make no sense. The details
I know stand alone, the setting and plot
Still need to be worked out. I don't even
Know what to call it, I need help for that.

Helpless

Helpless

You drown in your pillow,
Shaking with sobs.
Holding your soft flesh, gently,
My hands are useless, empty,
I am helpless.
The next day I'm anxious,
Worried, distracted, watching
The clock, waiting to see
The proof of your fears-
"There there," I tell you, and
"Tomorrow will be better."

Headaches

Headaches

Massaging my grandfather's head
With a damp hand towel, I think how easy this is,
A moment under the sink, pop it into the microwave,
Hey presto, perfect for warming your skull,
Pushing heat into your forehead, relieving
Some pain (but not all) of your migraine.
Gently I move it around; he says "So good, so good."

Is that really all it takes?
Could I have solved everything that way?

My ex-wife's migraines were so
Bad she'd claw at her eyes, put pencils in the sockets,
Scream at anyone nearby, cry, attack the furniture,
Cause fights, break up plates, bite.
What if I had tried dampened, warm towels, would that
Have made it right? Nine years of marriage, and
That I never tried?

My Dream

My Dream

Last night when you
Came to bed I had the
Best dream I've ever had.
I mean this is kind of sad
But for me this was
Better than eating candy.

I was in high school again
And playing D&D at a friend's
House. Actually I had been
Waiting for the game to start
For a long time. All of a sudden
The DM came in the kitchen and
Told us we could start at
Sixth level. Sixth level! I would
Be starting with third level spells!
He warned us it was a gritty urban
Campaign so I shouldn't take any
Spells that were too flashy. I was
Already planning out what to take,
In my dream (probably fogs and gases,
Enchantment, confusion type spells).

I called my mom and dad and told them
I wouldn't be coming home till late.
All of a sudden I realized I was
Living at home and had no responsibilities,
Just a long, fun game to look forward to.

Anyway I wanted to tell you about this
Dream. Not to warn you I'm a huge nerd
Even in my imagination (which I think
You already knew) but so you know
What I felt like when you came to bed-
That feeling of holding you again
Was like the best kind of night
I've ever had. And best of all
It really happened.

Bridge Building

Bridge Building

We're building, plank by plank, a bridge
Into the water, hidden by the mists.
The future. Sweating, shaking, we're
Both scared, we glance at the cold
Black shock of the river flowing
So fast beneath us - not wanting to
Stare; not wanting to dare it to
Tear our work away again.

We never learned the trick of
High arches. We're not engineers.
We build far too close to the water.

Hand in hand we venture to the bridge's edge,
Each looks back at the other. I mention
Plans for Thanksgiving, Christmas.
Her eyes smile. We move out a little farther.

Tightrope

From a Zelda's exercise - for some reason we used the phrase "There's Potency in Pairs."

Tightrope

We're bipolar, two-faced,
Hearts loose and knocking
Around.
Climbing tightropes
On either side, we
Balance; just
So.

Waiting

This was a phrase exercise from Zelda's. Original phrase: "It was so bright, I couldn't see it."

Waiting

Does it wait like a frame
Without a picture
Hiding in future tenses -

Lying in tall grass by
The waterholes of your life,
Charging beautifully to
Meet you?

Does it hang, hunger-heavy
Like a humid day, clinging
To your shadow, following you
To the fields and back in the house?

When you sit down is it under your chair?

It is too bright to see,
Too loud to hear,
Too sharp to feel.

Tell Me

Tell Me

Distract me with burning kisses.

Lie to me with your heart and your eyes,
With your smooth skin and lips. I want
To inhale your lies with your breath.

Tell me the best lies. Smile and kiss
Me and say you like my snoring in the night.
Tell me you'll never tire of my nagging,
My careful planmaking, my frowns and half-sighs.
Say you love my froggy, choked voice in the morning.

Tell me I'll never be your furniture;
An end table, a coffee server.

When I cling to you in the night
I want to feel your heart beat fast in your wrists and neck
I want you to tremble like a dove.
I want to believe your soft, gentle hands.
I want you to write verses about me you have to
Lock tight in a black leather journal for no one else to see.

this hideous strength

Written after a Zelda's during a conversation. It's been a while so I'm not really sure when this was (I do know who, but that would be telling). The name is ripped off from a C.S. Lewis book no one will recognize.

this hideous strength

She has a hideous
Energy; I think
She wants for worshipers,
Towering woman with
The name of a goddess.
Blazing with self-confidence;
Underneath the empty hand grips.

Red and Green

Again I waited for the 'perfect time' to polish and post poetry, and of course I never got a chance to. Been more than a month since the last time I posted stuff. This is from the Metro Gallery (I wrote it in the dim light of a dance club).

red and green

red and green
red and green
disco beats in
crazy dreams
whirling circles
rising steam
blazing beams of
red and green,
red and green

Popsicle

Wrote this one after the last decent snow we got. Sounds like we've got another on the way. I hate snow, by the way. This was from a Zelda's exercise - we had a list of words to use. I'm not going to bother writing the list out here, too much trouble.

Popsicle

Stuck in snow like a popsicle,
Hands reach up to high above.
White cotton flakes fall on my eyes,
Tears on cheeks burn then freeze.
Adjust my arms, alone in the deep.
Soon forgot even by me.

Banjo Player

This is a bit older than the poems I just posted but hey, that doesn't matter.

Also I've noticed I tend to write a lot of poetry about live mics. The reason is that sometimes I get bored when I'm at one. But sometimes I have a really great time - the problem is I don't write poetry when I'm having a terrific time at a live mic, I sit on the edge of my seat and pay attention. So ultimately the impression that I hate live mics is incorrect, you're viewing a biased sample.

Banjo Player

The banjo player stumbles
Around the key like a
Drunk man looking for a
Place to pee. I shift
In my seat.

Across the room- she's got
Earrings like hula hoops-
Looking and flipping through
Her papers like you do
In line at the DMV.

Next to me a man in his forties,
Eyes bright and shining like pennies,
Looks like he's at his first Christmas.
But this fellow's special somehow-

The ladies running this thing are
Watching the clock like hawks. They
Keep one eye on the list as if
There's a bus coming they don't want to miss.

Meanwhile the banjo player's voice is
A thin tin whistle, he's playing with broken yellow
Nails like he searched the hard scrabble road
For a song and couldn't get it to come up.

Why I Don't Talk About My Feelings

Just want to remind my audience that author does not equal protagonist, etc. etc.

Why I Don't Talk About My Feelings

When you agree with someone else
I want to tear their lying
Tongue out of their mouth and burn it.
I want to rip the hair from their head.
To lift them by the shoulder and hip and
Throw them out of the bar.
When you smile at someone else
I want to scratch their eyes out.

This is why I don't talk.
This is why I can't say
I want to be with you
Until the stars die
I want to live with you
In a boat on a river
Seeing no one else
For years
This is why I can't say
I want to explore you
For the rest of my life-

Because if I said all
That I'd have to murder
Everyone else who'd ever
Loved you. Just in case
You loved them back.

Trapped

Trapped

I'm trapped at this live mic
Fenced in by poetry
Stifled by bouncing
Egos, panicked by the
Feeling in the air;
We're all listening so
Closely but there's
Not much to hear.
I am so, so tired and
Cranky. I have only just
Discovered what I need:
To go home to your
Place, crawl under your
Sheets and your coverlet,
And wait in silence, sleeping quietly,
Until you find me, like a long dark
Present you may or may not want.

Coming Home to You

This is the one I got stuck on, about a month ago; don't ask me why. I have two or three poems backed up behind this one so I'm going to try to get it out, but it needs major work / revision / reconsideration / etc / etc.

--------

Coming home to you

Your kiss was lush
Like the wine
And I tasted it long after I went out-
Dancing, drinking, smoking little black cigars
In the cold with hipsters and rastas,
Singing with pop songs, bouncing to rap beats,
Closing out the club, numb with vodka-
So I could collapse into an empty bed.

Honestly the night was a
Waking dream; and I was dreaming about
What I was going to do
I was dreaming about
Coming home to you.

There's a taste in your breath, dear,
Some intoxicating smell that lives
In your throat, and I don't ever want
To tire of it. I try to
Sample it slowly, but I get
Greedy for it - don't want to
Get addicted, so I try to
Separate myself from it
But then I find myself
Dreaming about it
And dreaming about
The way we fit together
And how it will feel
Tomorrow night,
Coming home to you.