Thursday, November 17, 2016

Oh Wild Truth

Oh wild Truth,
you are too much for me—your hands flying
like dragons with their long bones,
your solar heat, your sharp axe tongue.

I love you, but I can’t stand your moods.
Sometimes you hold me in your wings
and sing such beautiful songs, but most days
I am crushed. My ears ring. My eyes are always burning.

Maybe we could be casual friends
who see each other on the weekends.
Or what if we tried texting?

A Reflection on Donald Trump's Incredible Victory

He says things.
But what he means

to people is a well

walled by stones of each man’s fear
or hope, filled deep with liquid mystery.

Fame is disembodiment.

If one soul lives in many mouths,
it dies. But he ached

to be bigger than himself

and, breaking through his bounds, his sanity, 
his scalp, that’s what he is. Victorious.

A symbol.

Saturday, August 6, 2016

One Shock Among Many

Real murder is so slow.
He raises his arms like a man fighting sleep,
turning his head.

Two Trends

There’s a wave of minimalism in Japan,
a man with three shirts and under 100 belongings,
not including his daughter. He used to think about
what he didn’t have, he says, but now
he is happy. There’s a study of neuroticism
published recently that tries to explain
why unhappy people seem so damn creative.
It says imagination is the root of fear. I think
I could be happy with three shirts and a daughter
and no imagination.
Like the man in that movie, Pi,
sitting lobotomized under the trees.

Intellectual Property

Guard the gate, the base of my brain.
Hire a watchman, a dog, one of those electrical systems
you can’t see except in stickers.
No matter; there’s nothing there
worth stealing. I cobbled the furniture together
from old parts; found the TV in a junkyard; the floor
is all-natural organic dirt. They wouldn’t come for that.

My Mind Refuses

My mind refuses to go where I send it. From the outside,
it may seem a small thing: one invisibly
stiff-necked brain, sitting in a skull in a room in a house.
In here she is violent, bursting through the sockets of my eyes,
dragging me across the sea.

I'm Starting to See the Money

I’m starting to see the money under everything
flowing, coursing, cool and inevitable
as the springs and pipes between layers of rock.
It scares me how little it scares me,
how true and simple it seems
that you can quantify everything.

3 Things I Do

1.
I track my every minute, nine to five,
obsessed with a thing without substance,
time, efficient to a fault, creating days, or
destroying until night.


2.
I kiss my lover’s lips, his back,
submerged in our ocean of two-toned flesh,
us, ignorant of otherness, in ecstasy, or
dancing wide-eyed on it.


3.
I watch for death, the sword,
curious from the crevice of my mountain,
life, perched on the edge of it, half-awake, or
half-asleep, perhaps, perhaps dangerously.

Friday, January 15, 2016

Could Be Cancer

If I die tomorrow
know
that all my passwords are variations
of my cat's nickname
and that
I was the one who spilled the milk
under the refrigerator

2015

In 2015 I wrote nothing.
Do I have to tell you why?
Isn’t this my poem?

Do I have to say
why my tongue stays in its cage?
or when it escapes, hungry, again?

I will write or I won’t;
I’m not a bill in your wallet
or a voice in your head.