Wake, Work, Sleep: 2010

Friday, December 24, 2010

cross-legged--

cross-legged

pant-sitters

couch-sitting,

sipping and sipping

a lunar eclipse--

a lunar eclipse

and a frigid wind

on the winter solstice

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

you couldn't have been more than fifteen--

you couldn't have been more than fifteen

minutes, but the months passed so slow

so stopped here i am sitting, considering

how you let me leave and how you are

stepping inside of someone else and how

long their fifteen minutes will last for them

probably very long, too, like they were

for me and who will it be next for you?

Monday, November 8, 2010

new... (MORE)

He breathed in deeply, long and slow. He'd take one last pull before making his way to his spot on stage.

For now, he waited in the back. He would be announced last, he always was. The best always gets called last. And while he waited, he stared at the skeleton metal form in front of him, what was behind all the other competitors, invisible to the gathered crowd.

"Unbelievable," he puffed to himself. He wondered how the slim metal held up such a pile of bulky heft bunched up on stage.

As the smoke piled out of his lungs, he heard his name called at last. And now that it had been called, he suddenly wanted to hide right where he was and avoid all the noise and energy that was only a few feet away.

He didn't yet pay attention to the drug effect as he climbed the steps. So, as he climbed, his mind focused upon other things instead-- his breathing, the carefully timed opening and closing of his eyelids, the picking up and putting down of his two feet, the quiet roar of the collected crowd sounds, the heads turned to watch his walk on stage, the odor of their contest.

Oh, he was there-- on the stage next to his competitors, the announcer's voice booming in unison with his fevered pacing, the nervous volunteers arranging then re-arranging first chairs and tables then frivolities of plates, cups, and napkins-- but his mind, which in turn worked his equilibrium, eyes, and ears, at last began to settle with the clouds, which now drifted more and more slowly over the buildings beyond the stage, and the air, which now sat right above the crowd.

For no more that twenty seconds, perhaps quite a bit less, he remained a motionless planet, around which buzzed tiny meteors, gassy furnaces, and spinning moons. The stars popped and sizzled, whipped and roared-- the planet sat and faced the brick buildings, which were visible only to those on stage, and even then only to those not so engaged in their task.

Then he realized it-- he missed or ignored it on the slow walk up, forgot about it during his surveillance, but it was clear that the drug had him at last.

The event's progress lurched forward, a bell sounded, perhaps a whistle blew, and he thought for a moment that he could fall asleep. With this, all eyes were on him and the other bodies on stage-- it didn't matter if they really were on him or not, for, in any case, they felt as if they were. And so he grabbed his tool and worked, too aware to turn and dash away.

my squeaky, metal vessel;

swiftly boarded, shaking--

a ride home, at least.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

these thieves

they would have

loved to have found

this box of hats

the longest poem ever

begins when the ride does

down the small wave

tucked against the barrel

of an oil-tanker,

having rode in 12 miles

of salty, warm water

in a small, wooden bucket

amidst barrels of ice and beer.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

A worse suburbanite? No,

I split myself

between trails cloaked in oak, pecking birds,

and deer shit,

and the odor of concrete, garbage cans, broken bottles,

and piss-stained shit-stalls--

I shut my eyes and exist

inside the middle, in neither,

urges to cut solitary cabins,

to rent one-room basements,

but my shut eyes open

and slam my head on my desk--

my shoes keep untying,

I keep dropping my things,

stacks fly off my hands and out of windows--

could I be eaten alive

do you think? could I be chewed?

decompose? be compost?

could I be mugged, raped, and shot?

could I be surrounded by yellow tape

and flashbulbs? dead on broken glass?

Thursday, July 22, 2010

I will never understand--

I will never understand
this person behind me--
seated, hunched,
cross-legged on grass,
shade-hidden, spilling her soup,
squawking above birds--
me on metal bench,
shifting for comfort, sifting
through pages--
not her language, more
her tone, abrasive,
more: loud--
me on metal bench, arms
stretched, soaking sun,
odor alive, pulling pages
from pockets,
more: quiet--
hers a ground zero,
bombed, disturbed--
me writing
(do they hear my scratches?),
waiting, watching--
"What is she saying, and
why do I care?"

Monday, March 8, 2010

I hear the phone call--

I hear the phone call.

A message left, water-logged.

I re-read the sent message,

feel the anticipation

of a non-reply.

I see her face, disgusted,

and am embarrassed,

but will call again

until I undo what I've done.

I avoid music,

shutting it all off,

if it is happy or sad.

I get cold in the mornings

and too hot come nights.

I am losing sleep

and so I begin to drink,

the old, rough habit.

Spilling my guts

over all these things I've done,

I am a martyr.

It is sad, sick, and tired,

silly and embarrassing.

I will forget what time it is,

crawl to the floor,

drag myself to the bathroom.

When I brush my teeth,

I will gag myself

and vomit in the sink.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Go play in the trees, she told her--

"Go play in the trees," she told her,

"and narrate everything you do."

And so the child grabbed

and snapped and jumped,

slid and crashed,

muddied and climbed,

scratched, cut, bled.

But mostly, the child talked

and thought about what she said,

choosing her words carefully.

Words like, "The trees are tall"

and "When the wind blows,

their leaves fall on me."

Friday, January 22, 2010

peace love whitey

peace love whitey peace love whitey peace love whitey

Wake, Work, Sleep