Wake, Work, Sleep

Saturday, October 23, 2010

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
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

Monday, December 21, 2009

--not because I am faster than you

--not because I am faster than you,

but because these gloves

have signified change in weather

for countless seasons,

because the inches of snow

mean I claim the streets

again for myself,

because I know the morning's dark

and the night's dark,

and my senses are pushed to their limits,

because I will run in layers

or remove them as necessary,

weighed down or stripped to my skin,

because I know the taste of mud,

and woodchip, and pine, and sand,

the earth spits at me,

because I am of the first,

of the middle, and of the last,

know each and am known by each,

because I run splinted, bruised,

beat, and torn not for glory

but for devilish need,

because it is not glamorous and

I let it become too much

and I have lost some from it

who won't understand,

because I have gained others from it

who know too well, knowing me

as much as I know them,

because I have touched their palms

at ends of long toils, trails, and treks,

and forever am linked with them,

because each mile logged matches

one thousand unlogged

and they have both built me and broken me,

because my shoes and a watch follow me

where I go, a friendship unlike another,

because I have never looked the part,

too tall, too stiff, too slow,

because it keeps me up at night,

a loud, noisy, unrelenting lover,

because I have thrown up

and held my vomit in,

because a small beep can signify

death and failure and birth and success,

because I have been through countless batteries

but run on through them,

because of the recognition of the pack

and the shrug, the grunt, and the look,

because of sundays together,

alone in the woods,

because of adventure and being lost,

because of storm clouds and rain

that find me wet, waterlogged,

headed for home,

because of the time away,

angry and bitter, forced to heal,

missing every painful step,

because of a need to create,

compose, and leave an impression,

because of the small jog,

the satisfied shakedown with friends,

because of anticipation,

what makes our nerves stretch,

what reminds us to be good,

because of the crack,

the tense, terse, careful steps,

because of the elbows, the bumps,

the shoves and nudges for space,

because of all the spots,

the memories, the smells, the sounds,

because you beat me

over and over again,

because you believe that it even matters,

because you give up when you are tired,

sick, or slow,

because I am always tired,

sick, and slow,

because I am made and unmade,

because when it comes down to it,

when you are spent and I am spent,

I will beat you, but

not because I am faster than you--

Saturday, December 12, 2009

she sat on the book--

she sat on the book

and covered its words,

passed a coffee

between her left and right hands,

switching between my left and right eye

while our neighbors stop with us

to listen and we don't care

because it's that real and that okay--

I feel in touch with humanity tonight,

without Walt's help for once,

since I never asked her to sit,

yet here we relate while it's cold outside

and the world files in to warm,

distracted by each other or happy to be alone,

seeking out the light, not pretending in either case--

my friend never showed,

but tonight, the night is so dark,

and we are drawn to all kinds of light,

making it okay to drift and be content in drifting--

the Homeric connection will bind us

and close the gaps of seas,

touch together banks of rivers,

old hounds again on the hunt,

fresh scents in their noses,

forever linked to one another

even when separated.