At your book signing

We shuffled forward inch by inch,
until I was alongside the antique wagon wheel
with its rotting spokes and rusted iron straps
Inch by inch,
until I was level with the front doors of the book store
which had been pulled from their hinges and set aside
Inch by inch,
until I could just glimpse your wiry hand gripping a pen
signing your looping name across books, cd’s, and loose leafs of paper

And closer, until I could make out the print of your shirt
and the sameness of our eyes.

Later,
I was speeding home at several hundred inches per second
your new book riding shotgun in the passenger seat
slowly reading itself as wind from the ripped convertible top
came in and turned the pages one by one,
and on,
until the very last page was turned
and your book closed itself
with the small humble sound of paper touching paper

For Ashley

I hate curd.
But just the word.
I find the food
really quite good,
but the phoenetics
are too absurd.

Call it sematics.
I might be pedantic.
I believe Satan’s name
is nearly the same,
and simply the sound
can make me sick.

But when you said,
“A slice of bread
with this above–
Is it true love?”
I went to the store
and asked for it.

Thinking smaller

…As i dipped my arm in a bath of ice
the sensation thrilled my inner child
who then cried out with broken nerves
and bottle rocket screams we learned
meant more than books when books could come
and steal your bike and take the fun
from army games in minature
trenches carved in my backyard
a treehouse leaned against the stars
could make us indians with feathers in our
hair but something evil stole those years
from me, at least,
….i don’t remember clearly
what went on inside my head
when i had less to worry me

Slow to wake

almost on the verge of recounting my dreams
i lay for an hour, still as a flower
in a pot on a porch in a town with no breeze

i focused my eyes on a corner of ceiling
where a cobweb chaotically was strewn on a beam
its features as jagged as cliffs by the sea

what dream was i so laboriously attempting
to bring from the theater of sleep
into the scrutiny of careful recollection?

what was my subconscious trying to tell me
when i was running through Paris’ empty streets
at night in fog as white as angel wings?

i stared at my corner and tried to remember:
wasn’t i searching for another dreamer–
were we to meet under the Eiffel tower?

yes.

finding that clue, and pulling it through–
like unraveling a sweater with one thread exposed
my dream came back like crystal glass

i don’t know if this was a rendezvous
conspired in secret by our subconscious minds
but last night in Paris
we met
and kissed

…so why the fuck did i wake up?

The clouds are coming

The clouds are creeping
crossing paths
and sometimes sleeping
staying still
for minutes more
than we should spend
simply, sweetly,
contemplating
the white
that breaks the blue

someone in seattle
might not be
so bewitched
by passing clouds
or singing storms
drumming on the roof
but inland towns
in mexico
will fall in love
with these wispy
white continents
inverted on
their paths across the blue

we can’t escape
the stoic, cloudless,
unembellished sky
with none of these
white ornaments
to make us sigh
(and want to spend the day outside)
its always here
and we are stuck–
patient prisoners
in our insipid cyan cell

(poetic souls need novelty,
embellishment and decoration
to satiate their appetite
for delicious images
for hearty, lush,
and potent emotions;
so you see why i say
the bland blue sky
is hell!
my soul is starving!)

Quiet but for the crickets

tonight i got home late
(the neighborhood was already sleeping)
on my bed I found a note:
the family dog had died this morning

i continued mechanically
with my nighttime chores,
thinking a lot and brushing my teeth
with mixed emotions

write,
a voice shouted above the silence,
WRITE!
keep moving!
Dont let these feelings escape you!

Only now,
after obediently opening my computer
do I wonder if my mom thinks
I’m a cold, stoic bastard
for not being more dispirited at times like these

but how am I supposed to tell her
that I got all of it out on paper
the night before–

with my chain-pull desk lamp glowing,
amidst the scattered calculators,
drafting paper, and flimsy notebooks–

the keys of my laptop are clicking deliberately,
like the nails of dog used to do
while pacing the hardwood floor–

An idle evening

up cowle’s mountain
on a perfect afternoon
i walked with you in tow

where giant granite sculptures
perched like vultures
pour gentle jagged shadows
down the hill

from the peak we watched
traffic trickle down
a two-lane road through town below

sitting shoulder to shoulder
in the shade of a boulder
seeking nothing in particular
the sun sat still

I Believe in Futures

how how how
do you choose between the one and
the other when
one (in the realm of speculation)
sparkles in your hand,
while the other
is absent
but for the memory of your skin:
an arm
around your waist
in a way that
warms your chest
with each excited pulse
of your
blood pumping
heart

it’s that easy

Debussy scattered my wants in the wind

“what does it feel like?” he asked her plainly,
with a look on his face that said, “come and save me”
the keys of the piano, the baton, the crescendo,
the wood of the cello, the oboe concerto
it is the sweetest sound, and the most bitter feeling
he cocked his head, so she continued explaining:
it transforms my world into that nostalgiac romance
with castles in france and love unending
and after it wears off,
it’s back to reality.
bills and employment.
tv and commuting.
concrete and asphalt,
stucco and electricity.
how much would you give up,
to have that love?
to wake up every day
inside this world
you are dying to live in?
just how much of this fragile world would you be willing to drop?

“…all of it,

if i knew how.”

then they stared at each other

and maybe the floor

for a while.

Static

emboldened as i am just by your interest
the more you smile, the more i persist
your demeanor’s disarming
your laughter is charming
and the sight of your skin beats my heart through my chest
there was too much tension
and not enough friction
so a month of relation
caused an abberration
and the very first touch
(by accident)
was an explosion
of static
(electromagnetic–
unexplained
by science)