Me and my friends
Me and my friends, we’re still into guitars
and motor nerves, quelling-habits
dragging our feet out, for today’s more pressing
than even the pot of brew we throw so far
back down the hatch it’s behind us and hearts
go running and when the chase doesn’t catch
we click link after link open tab after tab
for brilliant strangers who do it like we only learn
to do it. Me and my friends, we’re fat grubs in chrysalis
we over the years begin to lean ever-more backward
into the far seat of a dark theater, dumb-struck
and we cross our fingers and transfigure
into photons against the theater screen
hit concrete concrete, light-beams like pins
in the pin-cushion, finely-ground like saw-dust.
Me and my friends we forget the point.
We either learn to love a little better
or we learn to smother a little less, and we got
to rampage when the day breaks, just to make it
to the front door. Me and my friends
we hate the quiet but don’t mind the solitude
writhing away letters and wave-forms, whittling sticks
to make them sharper than the knife that’s doing
the sharpening. Me and my friends we’re full of shit
but what’s the difference.
Me and my friends, we break like the big bang
that’s still going slow as all time.
baby’s over & this time we make love like a slow roast
every touch is like, ‘girl
I got ideas that make money, & girl
I got something to bury your worries in’
(crux is: you wanna grow me like a garden
but I can’t grow up)
baby’s got better things to do
& so of course I kill her time
I touch her on the exhale with eyes down her bosom
& we cry for the womb we gave up to start breathing
well we’re all here now
& what a complicated accident
baby leaves & I feel as guilty as a promise
as a penny at the nickle slots
& when yr as old as me you’ll get it
kids got it all these days, they got all
of the probz you once thought’re yrs
& now what, you ain’t nothing
to do any more, ‘cept kill time, feel wise
pick up a hobby like a box
fr yr special snowflake thoughts, I’m a crux
baby puts her hopes in me & I pray
she doesn’t find out
I’m crazy, the rose petals dry out while the thorns’re
getting stiffer, we still put on the crown
of some all-american something
that goes away like the skin on yr shoulders, heaving
but baby when I’m touching you it’s the softest
thing I’ve got to give to you
& when we roll onto our backs baby
yes, I’m afraid that it’s one last
chance we got to get up, girl
First Watch Shift
My lady has
a wild thicket
of black hair
and the roots
all the way back
to the first woman
of our species
I sit by her
on a catnap
like a chief
by the campfire
about the state
of the union, and all
What would you say
for yourself if it
were the lioness
that did the hunting?
For my lady
I will be the watcher
Truth be told
I am afraid of her
but am lucky
to be in the position
My lady is the
fuse on a stick
My lady does not
strut the sidewalk
she fucks it til
its eyes roll back
like the sun
She tells me
her tastes are
base and low
(of which I know
not a thing)
One day she will
teach me a lesson
Most of yr stumbling will be from yr refusal to see things that’re not there.
Some small things’re really perfect, like: this cookie. Its chubby pumice body.
Regarding the story: we don’t know what comes up until we get it down.
All day reciting toilet stall hisses, like, “The story of you-ness will simply write itself”.
Everything steps from one step to the other in such microscopic increments
I just really don’t think it’s effective to make plans—as soon as you do
the tide has changed, the moment redefined. Spooky, for sure. Beware, then
of designing for your loneliness any reality requiring too fine a choreography
of the universe to pull off without rehearsal.
When you close the door behind one another & as you each gaze at the
romance of the other, if you should notice teetering imbalances
you can both discuss collapsing simultaneously on the floor.
We are effortless as the days of the week, what with the falling, the sleep
then the waking up still at it, & over again.
A container of the universe is a poem:
tell us what you think.
I’d help you deal with your selfishness
but I’ve got my own to concern me.
Don’t you want to be that place for others
where security is no question?
Blinded by a fear of wool over the eyes.
Don’t go always in the habit of loving in hindsight.
If we weren’t boxing away at waves in the ocean
we’d be bruising our own children, heiroglyphs
for the ones that reared us: tread marks, a fence,
a hole in the backyard, a swinging door, what’s for dinner,
a dark bedroom hour where no peep dare sound,
on the mantle a rack-of-ribs christ on a crucifix hanging
by his nails forgiving some not-know-what-they-do’s on skull hill,
perhaps a bit of ourselves agonizing, “Look at me now
I have performed the steps of time like a conversation
with many complaints, but it was an interpretive dance
and my theme was complaint. By your many hands
I was passed, like in transit, like the peace pipe.
Look at me now, I forgive you. Look at me forgiving you.
So many years, you never told me. You’ve got no clue
what you are doing here, how you affect anything,
and you think you’re going nut-so. I forgive you, but
if I’d’ve known, I would have crushed you instead
of feeling like the only one.”
The Pit Of It
Great taste is a matter of
We’ven’t the time, sometimes
will shine when it is raining & you know
this kind of bright sprinkle
is how I first came
Houston, in the first days? When the air’s
thick w a smell
& car exhaust & dumpsters full
of plastic bellies
think of Saigon.
We’ve categorized the whole planet
to our liking — the wholeness of one’s
an intimate secret.
An historian picks a word
then threads it across time
Then the folk talk of
“It’s all relative,”
aye, yes — of course —
but we only mention it when one of us has got
to shut up
when the bridge has already been built
as a flag of what separates.
these days, long enough to wonder
if the laughter sounds at all
of its sincerity.
Then, the tragedy
of a foot risen over the edge of the bath
then, the other foot
out of the bath, & the whole
drips with the flushes
of having misunderstood.
A Little Bit Of
substance can make you very charming.
Marijuana makes me feel very charming.
Everything you look at is in its own little world.
Everything is so fine, so fine in its detail.
You contemplate yourself in finer detail.
I feel like an 85 year old man who just woke up in a 25 year old’s body and the first thing he notices is that his sex organs work again.
My body is swollen with warm blood.
Headaches like it’s been leaning against the window, kind of thing.
Sunbathing in my own imagination.
Being at work is so easy, here I am writing a poem, brewing iced tea, and flirting with customers.
A little bit of substance can make you very interesting.
Flirting can make you very interesting.
mind transforms to body
I am twenty-five & a half
(years, that is)
& the transition is more
or less beautiful
I will no longer afford to the gods
they always beg for seriousness
and when they beg they are likewise
too intense, too dry
but even I from my street corner
can see: they are not themselves
serious at all
I prefer a god
who is unavailable
Sitting on a porcelain throne
I think about propriety
fasten my waist
& now decide to write unconsciously
some final line, without fear
"I am not afraid."
Sitting Across From You
I am not tall enough, and these elbows
flap like skates on slick ice —
the table’s smooth as a flat brushing
motion — and from here I see: how as a woman
you split yourself, how you paw at which
tool in the bag the suitor may want you for
the answer is any, or, if in the quiet
morning, if he should wake before you do:
nothing at all. Company is enough for me
most minutes — you will think that, like a dog
at your knee, I beg for what is on the table —
you will draw listless the calculations: how
many bushels of my womanhood are to be spared
this season? by whose hand might it grow
tingling beneath the earth’s face? as I
paw at the table, to wipe from my hand
my own dust — a breath, now, not to be
the rake, but to be the tended stalk — only
to fill an empty space, for once, that I did not
first have to bore out myself.
Shrines for eyes
The skull is a container for silence,
a tin bucket of pitch.
A tame ghost does not leave its casket.
I smoke to take the spirit for recess
like a dog for a walk
around the prison gym: a prism/gem.
(Pun-ishment.) It is not up to you to depend
on loved ones for the
urgency of breaking precious shackles.
"Mind-forged manacles" says Blake,
meaning the eternal hippie
placidly sharpening his spoon while making
a bowl of his cell.