Poems.
After Taste
You stumble into morning
ritual, brush your teeth to take
gums straight off.
Do you wash
my name from your tongue?
Am I the bitter after
taste of a pleasant course?
Have I gone
stale? What is left
of me when you've gone
on?
You stumble into morning
ritual, brush your teeth to take
gums straight off.
Do you wash
my name from your tongue?
Am I the bitter after
taste of a pleasant course?
Have I gone
stale? What is left
of me when you've gone
on?
De(a/e)r Tick.
At my relative’s property, where I always
run to escape your face and hide
in the open arms of maple trees, heart sobs
mingle with the death rails of tall grasses
in transitional winds. I pull leaves
off my wool jacket, trophies from the balance beam
logs that double as termite motels.
I let the wind tease my hair the way
your eyes tease my stomach lining.
I found a deer tick, face nestled deep
within the curve of my shoulder.
And as I pulled him out, he was followed
by a translucent strand of my flesh
I didn’t feel a thing.
At my relative’s property, where I always
run to escape your face and hide
in the open arms of maple trees, heart sobs
mingle with the death rails of tall grasses
in transitional winds. I pull leaves
off my wool jacket, trophies from the balance beam
logs that double as termite motels.
I let the wind tease my hair the way
your eyes tease my stomach lining.
I found a deer tick, face nestled deep
within the curve of my shoulder.
And as I pulled him out, he was followed
by a translucent strand of my flesh
I didn’t feel a thing.
Brut
I nearly touch the altocumulus.
breath catches in my mouth,
sticky and thick.
I am caved in your hold,
scream into the cotton
of your sun beaten shirt.
Lavender, basil, sandalwood.
Your voice, deep as thunder, sprays
mirthful into an adolescent sky.
We teeter there.
I clutch your tree trunk chest,
my arms quake.
I inhale you.
Anise, jasmine, vetiver.
Shield me from the rise
of mechanical legs,
headlight eyes and engine
Oily roar.
Salt licked cheeks burrow
into your leather skin,
your avalanche laugh.
Vanilla, lemon, oakmoss.
I nearly touch the altocumulus.
breath catches in my mouth,
sticky and thick.
I am caved in your hold,
scream into the cotton
of your sun beaten shirt.
Lavender, basil, sandalwood.
Your voice, deep as thunder, sprays
mirthful into an adolescent sky.
We teeter there.
I clutch your tree trunk chest,
my arms quake.
I inhale you.
Anise, jasmine, vetiver.
Shield me from the rise
of mechanical legs,
headlight eyes and engine
Oily roar.
Salt licked cheeks burrow
into your leather skin,
your avalanche laugh.
Vanilla, lemon, oakmoss.
Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot
Penguin action figure, forced in chimney
crack, evaded dark knight justice. Melted
plastic: aromatic at the ritual fire
lighting. Synthetics congealed with the chiseled
dust, a masonry additive. Drill,
hammer dirges soundtrack six mournful eyes.
six hundred dollars.
Death is expensive
and inevitable.
Penguin action figure, forced in chimney
crack, evaded dark knight justice. Melted
plastic: aromatic at the ritual fire
lighting. Synthetics congealed with the chiseled
dust, a masonry additive. Drill,
hammer dirges soundtrack six mournful eyes.
six hundred dollars.
Death is expensive
and inevitable.
The Righteous Brothers Greatest Hits
This song goes out to Ted, picking up the ladies in his 1968 Volkswagen Beetle
How cold you turn, my love,
unresponsive to my touch.
Remember when you trembled
in my arms as I laid
you down?
Your eyes no longer close
when I kiss you.
Stiff to my embrace,
the heat of my breath
caresses split lips, warms
marble skin.
You are statuette.
Will you resist
vigorous affections?
What of our rousing foray?
I held life in shaking palms.
Your pulse was a melody.
You examine secrets from clouded conjunctiva skies
How I care for you, wipe
dirt from your brow, pull
leaves from silken hair.
This song goes out to Ted, picking up the ladies in his 1968 Volkswagen Beetle
How cold you turn, my love,
unresponsive to my touch.
Remember when you trembled
in my arms as I laid
you down?
Your eyes no longer close
when I kiss you.
Stiff to my embrace,
the heat of my breath
caresses split lips, warms
marble skin.
You are statuette.
Will you resist
vigorous affections?
What of our rousing foray?
I held life in shaking palms.
Your pulse was a melody.
You examine secrets from clouded conjunctiva skies
How I care for you, wipe
dirt from your brow, pull
leaves from silken hair.
me without You
A shy attempt
at conversation, fell off
trembling lips, in that two car head-on
crash. Did I stumble
in or out of the consumptive
flame that turned me into
fire? A question of a shadow,
that wreckage. Swept
away garbage in the alley, collected
ash from the coals that consecrated
my lips. I am a cup
of borrowed sugar, never given
back: used up with no returns,
dissolved on a fickle tongue.
A shy attempt
at conversation, fell off
trembling lips, in that two car head-on
crash. Did I stumble
in or out of the consumptive
flame that turned me into
fire? A question of a shadow,
that wreckage. Swept
away garbage in the alley, collected
ash from the coals that consecrated
my lips. I am a cup
of borrowed sugar, never given
back: used up with no returns,
dissolved on a fickle tongue.
Every Love Story Involving Me, Ever.
Dimly cast yellow by the kitchen light.
In the other room, the soft murmurs of your friends
and the whirr of the fan compete above silence.
My thoughts bubble over
as you focus on the ramen you stir.
It’s unseemly how shoelaces can be so interesting.
We met as you folded down beside me in interest.
Your invitation to the bonfire’s flickering light,
a flattery, but I wasn’t stirred.
I maintained an investment in beer and friends,
which trumps the male sex over and over.
I prefer to keep that realm of life silent,
Here in the stifling, August dusk I choke on my silence:
the result of feigned platonic interest.
The soup boils over,
stretched beyond its means into a frothy lightness,
reaches a cathartic release which I have not befriended:
a poor balance of prudency and too much emotional stirring.
As we stood in the entryway, tears stirred
your eyes, and you held me silently,
tighter than friendship.
Ear pressed to your heartbeat, I couldn’t discern your interest,
but in the afternoon’s waned light,
red duffle at my feet, I knew it was over.
God, will it ever be over,
all these stirred
emotions? That scar on my thumb has grown light,
so why do I still silently
hurt? It’s been the lifetime of a wound since you lost interest
in anything other than friendship.
I would embrace you as a friend,
if it means we can laugh and eat soup. If I can still come over,
even to hear about your love-interests.
I don’t know how to settle affections once stirred
and fondness hates being silenced.
I can’t bring myself to take you lightly.
It’s silent now; the ramen gone with the waxing moonlight.
Words stir on my tongue as I meet your eyes. “I really consider you a friend.”
Aw, fuck it over. I guess love is never self-interest.
Dimly cast yellow by the kitchen light.
In the other room, the soft murmurs of your friends
and the whirr of the fan compete above silence.
My thoughts bubble over
as you focus on the ramen you stir.
It’s unseemly how shoelaces can be so interesting.
We met as you folded down beside me in interest.
Your invitation to the bonfire’s flickering light,
a flattery, but I wasn’t stirred.
I maintained an investment in beer and friends,
which trumps the male sex over and over.
I prefer to keep that realm of life silent,
Here in the stifling, August dusk I choke on my silence:
the result of feigned platonic interest.
The soup boils over,
stretched beyond its means into a frothy lightness,
reaches a cathartic release which I have not befriended:
a poor balance of prudency and too much emotional stirring.
As we stood in the entryway, tears stirred
your eyes, and you held me silently,
tighter than friendship.
Ear pressed to your heartbeat, I couldn’t discern your interest,
but in the afternoon’s waned light,
red duffle at my feet, I knew it was over.
God, will it ever be over,
all these stirred
emotions? That scar on my thumb has grown light,
so why do I still silently
hurt? It’s been the lifetime of a wound since you lost interest
in anything other than friendship.
I would embrace you as a friend,
if it means we can laugh and eat soup. If I can still come over,
even to hear about your love-interests.
I don’t know how to settle affections once stirred
and fondness hates being silenced.
I can’t bring myself to take you lightly.
It’s silent now; the ramen gone with the waxing moonlight.
Words stir on my tongue as I meet your eyes. “I really consider you a friend.”
Aw, fuck it over. I guess love is never self-interest.
Birthright
I am born to strive for
a birthright that is not
mine, to grasp
after the accomplishments of my
brothers, to grapple
after mice.
I am gone blind in wait for visions of ladders and angels
and God.
I am born a wrestler that fights
through the void,
always backed into
corners, always my wins are
compromise. If I could champion
myself I would tussle with God.
Jacob, you cheat. What swindle did you in?
What lie faltered on your tongue?
I wait for that
struggle, the breaking of
bone and sinew and pride. There
must be truth in those
wounds, victory
in that surrender .
Tell me what tremulous plea brought you a new name?
When will that ladder ever descend.
I am born to strive for
a birthright that is not
mine, to grasp
after the accomplishments of my
brothers, to grapple
after mice.
I am gone blind in wait for visions of ladders and angels
and God.
I am born a wrestler that fights
through the void,
always backed into
corners, always my wins are
compromise. If I could champion
myself I would tussle with God.
Jacob, you cheat. What swindle did you in?
What lie faltered on your tongue?
I wait for that
struggle, the breaking of
bone and sinew and pride. There
must be truth in those
wounds, victory
in that surrender .
Tell me what tremulous plea brought you a new name?
When will that ladder ever descend.
That Time The Beach Boys Collaborated with Lisa Frank
When I was six I fell keds first down a window well and played a game of red rover, rivaled the gravel against my neck. My consolation prize: months at the physical therapist where I stared up at the Lisa frank poster: a dolphin that rode a tidal wave of hearts and stars and told me to imagine. I did imagine; I imagined a world where I had never known the pains of a nearly broken neck. I filed the incident in the folder that holds the evening I saw two UFOs loop-de-doo across the black backdrop of a Michigan sky, and when I discovered the tooth fairy was really my dad in his whitey-tighties. But I could not imagine away the throbbing ache in my neck with each temperature shift. In these instances I would fall into a spiral of neon and the toothy grin of a dolphin face. Dolphins remind me of The Beach Boys music, vintage fade summer days, windows down, hair stuck in my mouth as I drive an endless waver of pavement, where my folder of nonexistence is nonexistent. That is the simultaneous beauty and evil of Surf’s Up. I want Pet Sounds to stands for the happiness of a pack of puppies, but reality proves time and again that Summer in Paradise is merely an opiate. The withdrawal reveals that if The Beach Boys symbolize anything, it’s my constant desire and inherent emptiness. There must be a special ring of hell for people like Lisa Frank and Brian Wilson. A level Dante skipped, where it’s surround sound Miley Cyrus music and projections of unicorns barfing candy corn. That aside, I think The Beach Boys need to release another album. They can commission Lisa Frank for the cover art and title it Constant Desire (And Inherent Emptiness!!). I’ll play it on repeat as I massage my neck.
When I was six I fell keds first down a window well and played a game of red rover, rivaled the gravel against my neck. My consolation prize: months at the physical therapist where I stared up at the Lisa frank poster: a dolphin that rode a tidal wave of hearts and stars and told me to imagine. I did imagine; I imagined a world where I had never known the pains of a nearly broken neck. I filed the incident in the folder that holds the evening I saw two UFOs loop-de-doo across the black backdrop of a Michigan sky, and when I discovered the tooth fairy was really my dad in his whitey-tighties. But I could not imagine away the throbbing ache in my neck with each temperature shift. In these instances I would fall into a spiral of neon and the toothy grin of a dolphin face. Dolphins remind me of The Beach Boys music, vintage fade summer days, windows down, hair stuck in my mouth as I drive an endless waver of pavement, where my folder of nonexistence is nonexistent. That is the simultaneous beauty and evil of Surf’s Up. I want Pet Sounds to stands for the happiness of a pack of puppies, but reality proves time and again that Summer in Paradise is merely an opiate. The withdrawal reveals that if The Beach Boys symbolize anything, it’s my constant desire and inherent emptiness. There must be a special ring of hell for people like Lisa Frank and Brian Wilson. A level Dante skipped, where it’s surround sound Miley Cyrus music and projections of unicorns barfing candy corn. That aside, I think The Beach Boys need to release another album. They can commission Lisa Frank for the cover art and title it Constant Desire (And Inherent Emptiness!!). I’ll play it on repeat as I massage my neck.
The Presidential Fitness Test
Sprinkle the cracked concrete with the holy
water of sweat and tears.
Labored heart beats, the prayers
which drown hurled insults.
My Golgotha, to run this tedious
mile around the school block. Hands
pull down the worn t-shirt to cover
bouncing stomach fat.
One day I will rebuild this temple.
Those fuckers won’t laugh then.
Sprinkle the cracked concrete with the holy
water of sweat and tears.
Labored heart beats, the prayers
which drown hurled insults.
My Golgotha, to run this tedious
mile around the school block. Hands
pull down the worn t-shirt to cover
bouncing stomach fat.
One day I will rebuild this temple.
Those fuckers won’t laugh then.
