Left
unwrapped,
the joy we had
yesterday before
your mom called
to say your father's brain
tumor is cancerous
has staled
and must be thrown out
//Locals w/Tom//
11 years ago
12.10.2009
11.24.2009
11.23.2009
Crumbs
for three-quarters price, marked
down for clearance, making room
for something more relevant
this is my love, bought on a whim:
gifts, cheaply tendered
by the drug store, chocolates
offered sheepishly in the bag
with the coupons that bought them
and this room, when I open the door
first and take lead, dropping clothes
to their piles, takes stock of me;
crumbs buried in the carpet, small
plastic pieces of garbage, soda
tabs dropped, unpopped kernels, bits
flicked and brushed, long strands
settled invisible under foot
for three-quarters price, marked
down for clearance, making room
for something more relevant
this is my love, bought on a whim:
gifts, cheaply tendered
by the drug store, chocolates
offered sheepishly in the bag
with the coupons that bought them
and this room, when I open the door
first and take lead, dropping clothes
to their piles, takes stock of me;
crumbs buried in the carpet, small
plastic pieces of garbage, soda
tabs dropped, unpopped kernels, bits
flicked and brushed, long strands
settled invisible under foot
11.09.2009
11.09.2009
Spitwad
this is your revelry -- Christmas light lit,
all bodies in clothing unmoving and jostled,
cupping the sound like a hand on your ear,
a hand on your heart
but a hard slap, a hot Cuban hand on the head
of the drum will unstick like an arrow, stick like
a spitwad on a chalkboard, stick and peel off
all flat and impressed
this is your revelry -- Christmas light lit,
all bodies in clothing unmoving and jostled,
cupping the sound like a hand on your ear,
a hand on your heart
but a hard slap, a hot Cuban hand on the head
of the drum will unstick like an arrow, stick like
a spitwad on a chalkboard, stick and peel off
all flat and impressed
8.05.2008
7.1.2008
Cork
so this is pilgrimage. a can of coke.
some crisps. cigarette butts. the smell of fried
chicken. the sun behind a cloud. the light
turns red. I cross. a girl my age touches
her face and looks away. an older man
kisses his girlfriend while she's on the phone.
the brick is black. alone. guitar. the sun
blinks down. it's afternoon. a father has
no patience. for a moment there's a man
with coffee contemplating sitting down.
he looks at me. a smile. he walks on.
a language I don't speak. the sun again.
unless I raise my head I won't be seen.
a woman leaves the city council library.
Tourettes. she shakes her head. again. she takes
the corner. ducks into a run. the wind
blows trash and leaves. a car horn blows. I look.
so this is pilgrimage. a can of coke.
some crisps. cigarette butts. the smell of fried
chicken. the sun behind a cloud. the light
turns red. I cross. a girl my age touches
her face and looks away. an older man
kisses his girlfriend while she's on the phone.
the brick is black. alone. guitar. the sun
blinks down. it's afternoon. a father has
no patience. for a moment there's a man
with coffee contemplating sitting down.
he looks at me. a smile. he walks on.
a language I don't speak. the sun again.
unless I raise my head I won't be seen.
a woman leaves the city council library.
Tourettes. she shakes her head. again. she takes
the corner. ducks into a run. the wind
blows trash and leaves. a car horn blows. I look.
6.28.2008
Valleysong; or, The Ascent
the late Mrs. Fitzgibbon would have turned
sixty-eight this year, if I heard right.
your way of life changes, Fitz says, not lightly
but with life, as someone who has heard
the still, sad music of humanity
and greets the day with hale voice – and they
would have been wed forty-four years today.
that song grows soft in age, the melody
is stretched to fill the lonely twilight hours.
the choice presents itself: to brave or cower
from that music, which is itself the choice
to live or not, and Fitz raises his voice
over the howl of mountain wind, back bent,
and breathes deep, ready for the long ascent.
the late Mrs. Fitzgibbon would have turned
sixty-eight this year, if I heard right.
your way of life changes, Fitz says, not lightly
but with life, as someone who has heard
the still, sad music of humanity
and greets the day with hale voice – and they
would have been wed forty-four years today.
that song grows soft in age, the melody
is stretched to fill the lonely twilight hours.
the choice presents itself: to brave or cower
from that music, which is itself the choice
to live or not, and Fitz raises his voice
over the howl of mountain wind, back bent,
and breathes deep, ready for the long ascent.
6.26.2008
Whitby, UK, Low Tide
Fell Asleep Hard
by 215 Woke Up
Harder by 730
Hot Brick Heavy
in the Head I
Pulled It Together
in a Cold Shower
Hit Whitby Sour
and a Bit
Cramped North
Sea Air Sucker
Punched Back
Almost Knocked
Out and I
Descended into
the Village Like
a Fog for Coffee
and Fried Fish as
a Gull I Circled
but I'd Seen It
Already Bored I
Waited For the
Others and
Together We
Ascended to the
Abbey Past
Cheese Stands
and Street
Guitarists Up the
Steps Halfway
Until We Turned
Around and
Whitby Fell
Apart Soft Like
an Onion
Fell Asleep Hard
by 215 Woke Up
Harder by 730
Hot Brick Heavy
in the Head I
Pulled It Together
in a Cold Shower
Hit Whitby Sour
and a Bit
Cramped North
Sea Air Sucker
Punched Back
Almost Knocked
Out and I
Descended into
the Village Like
a Fog for Coffee
and Fried Fish as
a Gull I Circled
but I'd Seen It
Already Bored I
Waited For the
Others and
Together We
Ascended to the
Abbey Past
Cheese Stands
and Street
Guitarists Up the
Steps Halfway
Until We Turned
Around and
Whitby Fell
Apart Soft Like
an Onion
6.19.2008
The Orphan, pt. II
Earth fills her lap with pleasure and yearning;
I'm above them both, staring into world's end.
there is no smell here, no sound, the taste
only of teeth, two-day-old coffee burn.
the crown of stone bears up –
each step reveals another half-mile –
fighting the clouds, glorious and terrible,
borne on the wind, which enfold and blur;
rough turning hands tilting toward the descent,
hissing, whispering welcome
to my temporary heaven.
Mist lingers behind the gale
to hold me in her long arms.
she chills, settles in drops on the backs of my hands –
evaporating, now in my capillaries,
tracing her way back to the source.
I won't say I love her, but she stays in my heart,
which is how love works anyway
the way I learned it.
it's not in the tongue, the tips of my fingers,
but the occasional heartbeat –
once every couple hundred, I guess –
that takes the taste from my tongue
twice as well as any cup of coffee.
Earth fills her lap with pleasure and yearning;
I'm above them both, staring into world's end.
there is no smell here, no sound, the taste
only of teeth, two-day-old coffee burn.
the crown of stone bears up –
each step reveals another half-mile –
fighting the clouds, glorious and terrible,
borne on the wind, which enfold and blur;
rough turning hands tilting toward the descent,
hissing, whispering welcome
to my temporary heaven.
Mist lingers behind the gale
to hold me in her long arms.
she chills, settles in drops on the backs of my hands –
evaporating, now in my capillaries,
tracing her way back to the source.
I won't say I love her, but she stays in my heart,
which is how love works anyway
the way I learned it.
it's not in the tongue, the tips of my fingers,
but the occasional heartbeat –
once every couple hundred, I guess –
that takes the taste from my tongue
twice as well as any cup of coffee.
6.16.2008
The Orphan, pt. I
the Orphan, ascending – abandoned for
hundreds of years, left to his own devices –
the devices left to him, packaged
and mailed across the ocean – the Orphan
today was reunited with the makers,
lifted up, replaced atop the crown
that still adorns his fair ancestry (not really,
not even his people's, but human –
so his) to find not some reflection to
reveal truer self in waters foreign –
anyway, the orphan feels too old
to reinvent – but anonymity
instead, and strange comfort therein; knowledge
that great men walked these giant stones and stumbled
not, but shook them into place, to fashion this
expanse by noble molds their own; and hope,
that he'll be one to shake these stones – or stones
back home – to recreate the world for
himself, if not for anybody else.
the Orphan, ascending – abandoned for
hundreds of years, left to his own devices –
the devices left to him, packaged
and mailed across the ocean – the Orphan
today was reunited with the makers,
lifted up, replaced atop the crown
that still adorns his fair ancestry (not really,
not even his people's, but human –
so his) to find not some reflection to
reveal truer self in waters foreign –
anyway, the orphan feels too old
to reinvent – but anonymity
instead, and strange comfort therein; knowledge
that great men walked these giant stones and stumbled
not, but shook them into place, to fashion this
expanse by noble molds their own; and hope,
that he'll be one to shake these stones – or stones
back home – to recreate the world for
himself, if not for anybody else.
6.06.2008
5.28.2008
You Fell at Night,
and by the time I found you
the sun had dried up everything
but your soft petals
in a heap on the patio
with the broken glass
no one heard, no one looked
out the window to you
or else you would have been
swept up and thrown out
recollected and replaced
on display, and I would
never notice until someone came
home to tell me what I'd missed
but I found you, and came to you
and in the chill air the sun
felt good on my goosebumps
while I gathered you into my hand
to shake the glass from your stems
as I carried you in you cried
petals all over the carpet,
all the way to the sink
where I put you in
a tall glass of water
and when I carried you back
to your place on the patio
careful not to spill
and gathered up your petals
from the floor to the sink
I only had a little trouble
washing them down the garbage disposal
and by the time I found you
the sun had dried up everything
but your soft petals
in a heap on the patio
with the broken glass
no one heard, no one looked
out the window to you
or else you would have been
swept up and thrown out
recollected and replaced
on display, and I would
never notice until someone came
home to tell me what I'd missed
but I found you, and came to you
and in the chill air the sun
felt good on my goosebumps
while I gathered you into my hand
to shake the glass from your stems
as I carried you in you cried
petals all over the carpet,
all the way to the sink
where I put you in
a tall glass of water
and when I carried you back
to your place on the patio
careful not to spill
and gathered up your petals
from the floor to the sink
I only had a little trouble
washing them down the garbage disposal
3.12.2008
3.12.2008
Gobbledygook (Protest Poem)
for Professor Price
where I come from the plant is growing
I see it
at night
from my bedroom window
burning the sky's red glow
I inhale black smoke hot
like a cigarette and hack
caffeine arrogance
streetlight poetry
see
when I walk by they all flicker
like birthday candles: how I know
this is my neighborhood
my town
my polluted sky
see
my friends and me
we sip beers in basements
we cliff sit and smoke dope
we watch the clouds
see,
we drive 95 and 202
'this is romance,'
we think but don't say
over homecoming shakes
at the Charcoal Pit
see
in time
the creek will lead to the ocean
for now
I catch tadpoles in the slime
see
gobbledygook wins every time
see
where I come from
I am the power plant
this is my polluted sky
for Professor Price
where I come from the plant is growing
I see it
at night
from my bedroom window
burning the sky's red glow
I inhale black smoke hot
like a cigarette and hack
caffeine arrogance
streetlight poetry
see
when I walk by they all flicker
like birthday candles: how I know
this is my neighborhood
my town
my polluted sky
see
my friends and me
we sip beers in basements
we cliff sit and smoke dope
we watch the clouds
see,
we drive 95 and 202
'this is romance,'
we think but don't say
over homecoming shakes
at the Charcoal Pit
see
in time
the creek will lead to the ocean
for now
I catch tadpoles in the slime
see
gobbledygook wins every time
see
where I come from
I am the power plant
this is my polluted sky
2.21.2008
2.21.2007
Breaking Up
God through you is doing this,
must be,
because He's the only one
who will ever know what He did
we both knew i'd have to pay for it
over time
yeah, i knew
not by anything He told me but
by the look i saw on His face sometimes
in the evening, before bed
in the mirror while i washed up
God is doing this
because when God was in high school
He messed around and hurt some girl
real bad, so bad
that after she had that car accident
she had to wear that big neck brace
and she stopped talking to her friends
and she didn't go to Senior prom
and she never applied to college
and she wouldn't look Him in the eye
whenever He came back
and walked around the high school
like king shit, like everybody does
when they come home from someplace
unfamiliar, when they know something
everybody around wishes they knew too
He always knew
He's got a job to do,
and God knows i don't take it personally
i just wish He'd been a little more careful
in high school,
so you didn't have to hurt me now
without even knowing why
God through you is doing this,
must be,
because He's the only one
who will ever know what He did
we both knew i'd have to pay for it
over time
yeah, i knew
not by anything He told me but
by the look i saw on His face sometimes
in the evening, before bed
in the mirror while i washed up
God is doing this
because when God was in high school
He messed around and hurt some girl
real bad, so bad
that after she had that car accident
she had to wear that big neck brace
and she stopped talking to her friends
and she didn't go to Senior prom
and she never applied to college
and she wouldn't look Him in the eye
whenever He came back
and walked around the high school
like king shit, like everybody does
when they come home from someplace
unfamiliar, when they know something
everybody around wishes they knew too
He always knew
He's got a job to do,
and God knows i don't take it personally
i just wish He'd been a little more careful
in high school,
so you didn't have to hurt me now
without even knowing why
1.31.2008
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
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
1.17.2008
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.
"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.
1.07.2008
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
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
1.03.2008
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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