POEMS

 

Sam

 

                                                   For Sam Sax

 

This new generation of penis loving poets

whose tongues do push-ups on the floor of my mind,

 

say welcome to the gym of love as linguistics

where bad boys with brains pump iron into Twinkies.

 

This locker room is for florists who bleed,

for married men crippled on the treadmill to nowhere:

 

Olympian fathers whose athletic obsessions

with fiction and fallout and failure’s forgiveness,

 

turn today’s man into yesterday’s boy.

They understand why Daddy’s not home.

 

He’s tied to the page with leather and verbs.

He’s breaking like wheat in their heart’s

 

parched field, begging the ground to not silence

the grain, to not take for granted love’s interruptions,

 

come as they do between breath’s little blackouts,

names written on glass in the steam room.

 

 

 

 PUBLISHED IN LULLWATER REVIEW

 

 

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Farwell Paradise Empire

 

                                                                                                                                     

To the field’s black eye whose lashes of corn

                                                     flirted with me at dawn,

to Main Street’s murmuring eighteen wheels

                                                    pulsing to the Port Townsend Ferry,

to the dented cushion shaped like my ass

                                                     holding me silent as a tombstone,

to the hardened veins of Virginia Creeper

                                                    bloodless on the barn’s gray face,

to the frigid sea whipping castles at night as

                                                     I dreamt in the language of driftwood,

to the Olympic Mountains hypnotic call

                                                    to rise above the poor in spirit,

to the Pear tree’s brown arthritic hands

                                                    praying for morning’s red glove,

to the distant symphony of Trumpeter Swans

                                                   making music of mud for my ears,

to the coyote’s shrill of you could die now

                                                   on the prairie’s acres of hunger,

to my senses dazed and vulnerable state

                                                   that grew soft, tender and strong,

to letting go of a world that was born through me

                                                  and refused to return unnamed.

 

 

 PUBLISHED IN GYROSCOPE REVIEW

 

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At The Corner Of Heavy And Acquaintance

 

Somewhere, someone

                                    is so tired of you,

the sound of your name

                         makes them heavy with acquaintance.

 

Heavy as in a metal jock strap

                            protecting them from longing.

Heavy as in when hearing hello

                           their spine becomes a cobra.

 

Remind me, again, why my hand

                              cut a hole in your throat:

object removal, a flower vase,

                      a window your heart could

escape through at night

                             to teach the world a lesson?

 

Tenderness rarely occurs to me

                    at the hour you shame the moon,

turning it yellow as a caution light,

                       where you decide you can’t decide

if you have the power to shine.

 

I wish the end were different,

                        beauty blooming instead of rocks

in a grave beneath your chin,

                       words falling down the stem of your neck

in the window of a store on a street we loved

                                            where faces stopped to listen.

Published in Sheila-Na-Gig

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If

 

the best year has fallen upon us.

 

If we believed this was it, if certain conditions prevailed.

If all inclinations toward harm were removed.

 

If the finger’s need to measure the distance

of flame to skin minus night’s toothless grin was gone.

                                     

If the space between lips was you, asking me

to hold my breath the way night does the sun.

 

If blue was my face, the sky set free from

the back of your hand’s red glove.

 

If we burned the first day of the year. If I

told you to soak every regret in piss and gasoline.

 

If a matchbox coffin made for two makes baby Jesus cry.

 Published in The American Journal Of Poetry

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Elegy For Better

 

Most folks knew him as Better, son of Never Enough.

Born and wrapped in a denim shroud, a broken down

blue-collar babe in the world of masculine monkeys with

piranha minds who raised their boys to excel at the game

of shame for their first birth and death for their second.

 

Enter Jesus the backwoods son: his body a book

on religious repair studied in a kingdom of dirty garages

with tools that wailed like weeping mothers. And so

the boy learned to change tires like worlds with crosses

of cold, black steel, what others would hurt him with later.

Published in Badlands Poetry Journal

 

 

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The Architect’s Son

 

Every boy is an architect’s son.

Every son’s neck is a skyscraper burning

a hole in the heaven of fathers. In time

the rain will come, but tears will only

extinguish the rage for maybe a day

that feels like a year, or until

the skin grows numb to the light

and darkness puts on a baseball glove

catching everything his mouth throws at you,

one hard word after another.

 

Leather is the love, you thought was a hand,

she said was a dragon’s tail.

No mother in her own right mind

would dare break the architect’s pencil.

Lead poisoning, God poisoning,

a rattlesnake’s song humming loud in my foot.

If only the grass would have told me,

that earth is a refuge for pain,

I could have used the venom in me,

instead of the ink in my pen.

 

Publshed in Assaracus Review

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Eleven Hours

 

 

Darkness is nothing

                               if not expectation

turning its back to the light.

 

Rarely does the spine agree

                       to the fingertip’s shadows,

so sheer and blue,

                        climbing the stairs

to your mind.

 

Which is why

                       when you rolled back

toward me with your hands

 

tied behind you, telling me

               that the smoke in your eyes

meant the tunnels in flames,  

 

I lingered there,

                     dropped the coal and

let the engine sing.

 

Eleven hours

                   from Berlin to Paris

 and nothing caught my eye,

except the smoke in yours.

Published in Dewpoint

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