1.31.08

Winter (Safekeeping)


these days you leave your warmth at the door

the careless take it with them,
arrive stripped and breathless and blowing it
into their hands

you know it's worse
to have something stolen than to give it up willingly
which must be why last night
before you left you pressed it into my lips
full and quick
a parting gift

for all the moments we wanted to, but couldn't
outside in the cold when you invited me in
but i, in my skin stretched so tight
couldn't move for shaking and excused myself,
embarrassed, left you wondering
was it something you'd done wrong

for safekeeping
for when the time comes to brave the cold
and we'll lock the doors

1.16.08

Asphalt

"He will not shout or cry out,
or raise his voice in the streets.
A bruised reed he will not break,
and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. "
Isaiah 42.2


walking around
at night in the neighborhood when there're no cars
you may straining hear the television hymn
a ghastly tune sticky like pollen congeals
grabs holds preserves brain's cracks way back to asphalt
leaves you rushing to explain
how the sounds fit the pictures like they used to
like billboards by the highway
colorful and foreign
words you haven't learned yet
moonshines cloud over now streetlights light night streets
not what you remembered in the woods aged eleven
sunlight lingering branch-high
now no fireflies anymore or bicycles or running water
there are windows and buildings behind them
people who live and sleep unaware you exist
who refuse to listen when pavement talks
that's how your feet know stories of this neighborhood
chalk and water skin and rubber ice and metal
learning to whistle and stepping over cracks
dreaming of summer
the weekend
everything to do before the sun goes down


**note: this used to be a different poem called "Information," but i was going through old stuff and it stuck out to me because as far as i'm concerned it had a lot of promise it didn't really live up to. not like it's some kind of prom queen at this point, but i'm happy with the changes. stay tuned for totally new stuff.

1.7.2008

7:30


I-95 is how i got to school most days

once i glanced over and had to look again
where I-95 splits to I-295 and later splits to I-495
7:30 sun was coming up, eclipsed by some guy passing me on the right
maybe five years older than i was, leaning forward in his seat

i only saw him for half a second, splitting to stay on I-95

all i could think was, he really knew where he was going
i knew where i was going, but i was still jealous
it wasn't a literal kind of thing

once i stalled out about three quarters of a mile from my exit
walked to school that day

12.23.2007

Radio


Mary loves everyone

listens
to the radio

doesn't mind
commercials

likes knowing
somebody's there

loves to
listen

guards her heart with an
infinite kindness

sleeps in

asks the ceiling: "have I not been
Good enough?"

waits for answers

has doubts

pounds the wheel
at night in her driveway

takes a
deep breath

turns on the radio

loves everyone

12.20.2007

Winter Blues


it's winter blues that find you home
you think you might, you know you won't
you put the face on, toast the day
you hibernate in hopes of may
you find the blues in all you do
it takes the little parts of you
it's not a crisis like tv
it's what you don't want it to be

it's thoughts that make you walk about
it's not something to talk about
yes it's the ache you can't shake off
you're cleared to launch but can't take off
the morning promise, the smile at night
you know you won't, still hope you might

11.18.2007

If You Party Tonight


An old friend looked me up on Facebook about a year ago.

Some time last Saturday morning, a Washington College sophomore, Patrick M, was found dead in his room at Kent house.

Blair C: “you may not remeber me but I went to middle school with you. anyway for some reason or another you and Sly popped into my head the other day and I just wanted to say hello.”

I didn't know him. We took the same freshman seminar last Spring, but he and his lax buds didn’t seem to take much seriously and I wondered often if they saw beyond their four years here.

Out of nowhere; after eighth grade she disappeared. I heard her parents got divorced – that's it. That was high school.

It took until three Saturday afternoon for President Tipson to email campus with the sad news as well as his condolences, but by then I’d already received Facebook invitations to the candlelight vigil, not to mention the groups --

Now it was college and she was doing alright. The last thing she wrote me: “I'm going to school, assistant teaching karate, and well stuff that people do. you know eat sleep party so on and so forth. everything is running pretty smoothly.”

'In Loving Memory of Patrick M' and 'IF YOU PARTY TONIGHT 11/17/07 – R.I.P. Patrick M.'

I never wrote back – I assumed we had time to catch up.

His profile is still there, busy with messages, well-wishes for his family, the odd uninformed invitation to hang out this Winter break.

After a week of navigating Facebook – or eating sleeping partying I suppose – she'd contacted just three others from middle school. Then she was killed in a car crash.

A best friend’s public plea for direction.

Sly told me over the phone two weeks after the fact – he thought somebody else would have told me.

Pat has five-hundred-forty-two "Facebook friends."

Anyway, nobody knows her password, so nobody can change anything and her profile is still there.

He’s quoted in his own "favorite quotes" section:

It’s desolate; no favorite quotes, books, movies, interests, sexual orientation, views on politics, religion.

"Only thing i need is a big and good heart to live long!"

A name, a birth date, a grayscale photo she took herself which reveals her neck, hair, nose, mouth, fingers.

Bless you, Pat, you were wrong.

Even without eyes anyone can see she’s gorgeous, was gorgeous.

His funeral was packed, I heard. I’m not one of the hundreds who loved him so sincerely – hell, I barely knew the guy.

I look until I’m sick, and go back to doing my homework.

But I know too well the unanswered knock could have been at my door that morning.

11.8.2007

Love Bites


the male otter
bites his mate’s
nose for better
grip whilst impregnating
her sometimes fatally

10.24.2007

Liberal & Complicated


getting by these days, glad you asked
but not ecstatic, see i’m self-sufficient

digesting the latest Radiohead album
and my upped dosage of Wellbutrin

it’s empowering not to care about the gov’t,
old friends, new friends, whomever
stands on two legs; they all exhaust me

it cost too much to run away, in many ways

i’d be dishonest if i said i never thought about
ending it – i’d thought it before but
in the end it was easier to just check out

find a routine and say I Do

show up to class, run five miles twice weekly

watch TV with a friend or three

ridicule the commercials for not getting me
fear they secretly do

maintaining a cynic distaste for the status quo
still acquiescing, perfectly happy getting by

swearing, if i can’t do something with this life
i won’t try

10.18.2007

Say Yes to Hibernation


Say yes to hibernation
Leave your worries in the cold
Lay long enough, they’ll leave you
You’ll be happy in your hole

Say yes to hibernation
Roll the stone in place
Close your eyes and sleep tonight
Forget your mother’s face

Say yes to hibernation
Close yourself from the world
Live your life inside your mind
Forget the names of girls

Forget about the waves of girls
Whose names and faces plague you
Say yes to hibernation –
Say goodbye to what enraged you

Forget about the girls that
You thought you loved so well
Say yes to hibernation
Vacate yourself to hell

Say yes to hibernation
Take refuge from the storm
Of feeling, thinking, being nice
Be happy where it’s warm

11.6.2006

Arising


there’s a moon glowing against stars faint,
shadows in the night sky that cover
trees and traintracks and a fence
that covers a circle, made up
of four boys and a plan

and it’s oneboy’s first time
so it’s a real celebration,
the party of the century no
fuck that man! of the millennium! so just
make sure you breathe real deep twice
and then once again and then
make realsure it’s moving counterclockwise
just like Elvis said, man, legitimate.

so there it is, oneboy’s shaking now
starting to feel it down in the knees Hey!
you good, man? hey! tell him he’s okay
forChristssake give him a coat to wear
before he falls the fuck over hold him now
he’s starting to feel it

now he’s shaking it out now
from the knees now
the elbows now the wrists now the fingers now
he’s reaching,
ready for one more, just one more
and there it is

burning sweetly, like the time
he was at the concert and all the chords made
eternal, absolute sense right there
in his chest like God breathing inside
and he didn’t notice

but while they’ve been standing under the trees
the stars got brighter turnedshiftedtilted just for him
and now there are Words forming on his tongue,
round and full like goblets of Mountain Dew Hey!
you good, man? good. when you’re good
i’m good and likewise and right now
i’m so good that i think i could be President,
man, i think i am.

it’s absence and maybe cold that leads the boys
inside to where the lights are
rubber and the walls are electric and even
though he’s trying as hard as he can
oneboy can’t keepquiet spilling over
with the joy of the world and teeth
that glow with knowledge he aches to share
with every stranger he meets tonight

but it’s early, the halls are empty and he’s stuck
watching television and waiting
for the right reason to leave until
accidentally
he turns to the mirror and says hey,
guys, look at me, i’m beautiful,
i’m Jimi Hendrix,
i’m John Lennon,
i’m Bob Dylan,
i’m Kanye West,
i’m everybody you’ve ever known and i’m
everybody you’re ever going to meet
and i just want to let you guys know
i respect you with every atom of who i am,
and i will forever, and i mean that.

and before anybody can thank him or worse
he gets his coat and walks down
the hall, humming a tune he’s heard before,
but isn’t sure where. he’s out the door and he can
see sunwhispers through the trees, and a circle
in the grass by the traintracks
where oneboy used to stand.

11.7.2006

What's More Important


is the kind of honesty where
I'm able for a fleeting moment to return
to the truth that lines and gives shape to the days
that make up the months that make up my life
as I live it.

what I want is to bypass entirely
the insignificancies that have attached themselves
to me with the passing years,
to know what changed within
the scrawny, rubbery figure

who watched television and, inspired,
told his mother that if He were to play football
professionally,
that after every down He would get up
and hand the ball back to the official.

has He forgotten that dream of kindness?
so soon, has He popped the balloon
that was only just tied to his wrist?
what does He need to accomplish
before He arrives at that place
He knows exists (or at least used to),

that place that He can only glimpse and find
reflected in so-called trivial moments? that place
he knows is a little closer when He stands up
too fast

and for half a second
gravity forgets to breathe
and the horizon and He lock eyes,

or lies bed-bound all day
following the ceiling fan, thinking helplessly
about Blair C; of how she disappeared
because her mom got fed up
with just about everything;

of her hair, and the way she always smelled
like watercolors, and the valentines she sent
carelessly to fragile hearts,
never meaning to break them,
never knowing she could;

of how He had loved her,
and what He’d try to say if He saw her again,
and those stupid, aching motions of the heart.

10.25.2006

Prayer

for Alice Wickes


Every morning, on the second floor of Somerset
I awoke to humming and the shuffling of feet
outside the door and knew she was there.
Often, by the time I rose
she had already mopped the bathroom floor,
made it brilliant in the morning sun and in dirty sandals
I walked across to get to the shower I liked.

One afternoon I entered through the main door to find
she was there, scrubbing the wall with a sponge,
unmaking the marks I had etched with my key as I passed.
She couldn't know I had made those marks -- still,
when she turned from them
hands dark and greasy with soap stain,
I saw in her gaze something like a judgment
and it followed me up the stairs to my room.

The morning after she died I awoke
to silence outside the door. Heavy with guilt,
I made my way into the bathroom.

The center stall had been taped off crudely,
and the whole place stank of shit and beer. The sun shone in,
illuminating the dirt that already had begun to settle
in the grout beneath my bare feet.
I stopped and fell to my knees, doing my best
to absorb the scum with my skin.

There I remain, afraid for myself,
and for the boys around me,
and for every boy I’ve ever known.

10.28.2006

For Will, Who Turns Twelve This February


When our grandmother died, I was strong,
And I held my corner of the family
With both hands, high over my head.
You reached, but could not touch.

Now, the load is lighter, but still you reach;
Stretching every inch, on the tips of your toes
For the weight that is not yet your own.
Someday the weight will return. Someday,

You will be taller than I.
Until then, Will,
Stay small.
I can hold it a little while longer.

10.28.2006

Timing


I

We are going to write a poem, you and I.
We will make sure it follows all the rules.
Side by side at your desk, we can make the
Words fit just right. Our punctuation will be
Faultless, and we will have the most brilliant
Rhyme scheme because we are reasonably
Intelligent people. Together, we will synthesize
An assonance that concludes the searches of the
Oldest scholars. Together we will engineer the
Pattern that can give speech to the dumb. We
Will do this because we know how. We can
Accomplish this because we can follow all the rules.


II

Glance.
Mary is watching

the computer screen.
We're sitting
side by side in her room,
and I'm

nervous

for so many reasons.
It's my poem
that she's critiquing.

Glance again.

The twin hummingbirds dart
fluorescent blue,
reflecting light.
Watching them,

I hope
simultaneously
that she will and will not turn to me,
twin sapphires incandescent
within perfect porcelain,

to scan my face
for inconsistencies.

I pray
that I can get
my timing right.

Glance.

Tense with thought,
her jaw is set
like a skydiver's
before the drop.

Eventually
she turns from the monitor
to reflect its glow onto my face, and

I wonder
if this is allowed
to be called love,

thinking of nothing but
the spaces
between her eyelashes,
seeing nothing but the strings
of her blouse
hanging
like the declaration unmade,
like a child's shoelace.

I wonder
if this is Hell
and she is holy.

I'll wait
to be sure.


III

We are writing a poem, you and I, but it's
Harder than we first thought. It's not that we
Haven't followed all the rules. We have meter;
A simple pattern to organize our thoughts and
Guide the reader. We have alliteration, like all
The best poems must. We've used everything
Our teachers ever told us we should have. Still,
Something's missing, I wonder if it's a question
Of timing, of intimating what pictures never could.

Maybe, if we can't get it now, we never will.

10.28.2006

Homecoming


she isnt hungry so
i drive her home
in my parents car when the dance ends

we listen to the radio and together hum
my favorite song
and as i navigate lamplit streets
she tells me where to turn before i have to ask
gently
like a pair of fingers on my wrist

we pull into the driveway next to her fathers car
but shes puzzled
‘home early’
so i exit the car cautiously
crunching leaves under my scuffed leather shoes
and follow her up the walkway toward yellow porch lights

hes waiting
with a grey moustache and a black stare

but she calls him ‘Daddy’ and
because she loves him he lets me in
and walks up the stairs

we can hear him
marching around above our heads

i smile no teeth
she giggles
my feet are made of lead

until suddenly
finally
her fingers find the back of my neck
her lips find my lips
her tongue finds my tongue
and i sway
unstable
absorbing the force
inhaling the fragrance
remembering my feet
remembering her fathers footsteps
until she pulls from me
laughing

and tells me
‘goodnight’
and watches as i walk back to the car.

1.9.2007

Countdown (To a Birthday)


miles above the ants of Times Square,
a pane of glass doubles tumblers
and masks December’s chill.

tumblers double and blur the face
of a familiar friend with a heavy head
but I know better than to ask why now.

a familiar friend, whose birth date
coincides with countdowns round the world,
has grown wearier with passing years.

round the world breath is held. in a room
scraping sky, I forget my contentment and wonder
where sour thoughts guide a familiar friend.

in panes of glass I see the weight of the world.
head down, he breathes deep artificial heat
as I reach for another drink.

breathing – grieving? – we wait.
for new beginnings, second chances.
the forgiveness of familiar friends.

second by second – we wait,
oblivious to the world below us,
for our world to change.

2.17.2007

Barely Legal


everything felt too small
that night at the high school dance,
or perhaps just real for the first time.
the ceiling hovered low,
the lights flickered dimly on the walls;
echoes of the days we lived in caves.

we stood there, and despite the rainbow-
colored mats that hung on the walls,
we felt grown-up, in-charge,
worthwhile to ourselves and to others.
that was the night i stood
the same height as you, though it was a fact
that you were an inch taller.

that was the night we stood in the doorway,
smiling quietly at each others’ ankles,
and you surprised me for the first time
by placing yourself in my arms.

i had my coat on, unzipped, and your arms
slipped inside it and around my waist.
you called me Warm, and
for the first time, i think, it was true.
you smelled like butter and cinnamon,
and we stood together on the threshold.

it didn’t occur to me then, but i suppose now
that to the parents waiting in their cars,
outside, we must have looked a portrait
of young lovers, silhouetted
in the yellow light of the gymnasium,
taking our sweet time in each other’s arms –

though i was sixteen, new to love,
while you were seventeen,
and already into college.

6.17.2007

Staten Island Ferry 6/17/07


you’d think the sun would burn the clouds away. but it doesn’t
it just hangs and as we pass islands the whole scene seems to line up
like a mural or a painting signed and framed on the wall
grey and orange: would look nice perhaps in your four seasons

meanwhile the islands take turns to line up and the clouds don’t burn
the waves rise to kiss the dying light before they fall
the wind blankets my ears and it all seems so distant, and real

stephen wants to see the picture i took of the statue of liberty,
doesn’t seem to realize that she’s right there in front of him
still he could catch her if he could only look up but he’s looking at me
and before long, frustrated, retiring to his seat on the other side

i wonder if i’m not the guilty one for having taken it to begin with
now that i look at it, i can’t help but admire the angle the contrast
how the statue lines up she seems to be reaching pointing to the sun
or maybe above it, placing it; the puppet-master from below

it’s the coincidence that occurs every half hour of every day
Asian businessmen fix their hair and smile tight-lipped
kids in hoodies clutch their girlfriends and don’t smile at all
so distant, all you can see is her silhouette in the sun, but they all rush
to capture themselves in her context, a point of reference in time and space

maybe it’s our attempt to live forever, if not in our actions then in our footsteps
our secret way of writing on the bathroom wall I WAS HERE.
maybe we just like to take pictures, and show them to our little brother once the sun’s set.