Poems

we donated

our love

to science

the night

we realized

that most

of the mass

of the multiverse

was made up

mostly

of empty

space

between

our lips,

that touch

like morning

dew

on spears

of grass,

 

and we finally

knew,

that all along

we’d been

obsessed

with silly preoccupations,

 

And we understood

That no one

Understood

The stars

beyond

 

Spent our days

The same way

As our nights

XI

 

Probably we’ve taken the same train be

fore into the city heading often

to the same place in different cars reading

 

the same dumb advertisements about food,

furniture, depression research, sitting

next to the same people on different

 

days when you feel the way you’ve always felt:

a dull pressure inside your chest

where I pressed my hands just months ago

 

and left a mark then promptly left your bed

for different cars on the same tracks going

into and out of the city, into and out of the lines

 

I wrote on little index cards and left

beneath one, two, three, a thousand different

seats that say in unequivocal terms I hope:

 

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry

I don’t know why

I tried to break your heart.

Sometimes

you need

to see

the one

you love

from far

to remember

why

you love

them

Energy is neither created nor destroyed.

There's enough

energy in the Universe for life to go on forever.

Death is just simple math.

And life is simple feeling.

La Joconde 2013

In an Instant

I became obsessed

With woman’s existence -

 

They are,

Labyrinths and paradise,

Foxglove in Spring and all,

Each one is a pair of dice,

Of calculating foolish will,

 

But, O,

The world

And every verse,

Is found in lady’s

Terse Joconda smile

 

And I would be a fool

At best,

If I were to pass her by…

Warm feels and chest

next to warm trails

of strung worms

that play

like proteins changing

shape like politicians

making carbonated debate

The day again so warm

the grass still crisp and dew

like big balloons that hug

the hungry phalluses

 

I'm palliative

accessible

and bad at it

I'm combative

and sensing lust to live

with it 

Her eyes wax unconscionable—

A weight lifted off her synapses;

Return to sender in stamped letters red;

This is what she came for,

And for the moment, it is just right,

But there is something else there, a doubt,

Small, yes,

But so heavy,

Like a planet pressed into black matter,

My mind wilters like post-tumescence.

1. Becoming a resource for your community

 

2. Building muscles to cope with the fact of existence

 

3. Exercise to tire/clear the brain

 

4. Knowing the limitations of your experience

 (when helping others)

 

5. How to artistically “clear your throat”, i.e., writing       garbage as a way to “mainline to goldmine”

 

6. Giving yourself permission to shut off to the world,

to not feel,

to put up the walls to existence

XIV

 

all dumbfounded and wet we emerged from

the ocean one summer night, and unthink-

ingly immediately entangled

ourselves in the sand, cool and sticky against

our backs, and in our lips were all the words

we’d never breathed, and all the times we’d ever

lay awake thinking of this very night,

and in our toes the sand scratched desperation.

but time spent right hardly ever feels like

good if already you know you’re only

rolling around for rolling around and

pitching for same old song, of lust

paraded around in love’s armor, singing

sonnets of drunkenness and fragments lost.

               i want

              to live

                           forever

                           in the moment

                           before

         a kiss

with you,

 

to die

                inside

                             and come

                 back

to life,

 

and see

             your eyes

                         staring into mine

 

IV

 

One

big tube

wanting balance

lacking satisfactory glances

from beside us bouncing off

the walls again I’m

taking to talking

to myself

Again

XII

 

December January,

gonna come

too long

too soon

away

from

April May,

 

when the sun

looks cold

behind

the fog;

 

your voice,

 

from the living room

window,

is my only

tether

when little

icicles

coat

my beard,

 

and

tufts

of air

cloud

my eyes,

your eyes,

only,

remind me

of spring

to come

Young dancer don’t dance too fast, swing slow

around the time signature always chang-

ing, relish in the soft tug of the under

toe playing at your heart, the ten same syll-

ables saying over and over again:

No one will ever love you like I do,

No one will ever open the gifts to your presents

With such care as I do, no one will--

A Seeming Beacon

 

This water is opaque, chopped and daunting,

rife with unforgiving tides,

and we humans are its meager sailors.

 

We saddle fraying boats and paddle with splintered oars,

tossing salty water out with buckets filled with holes,

unsure if we are better off above than far below.

 

And one day or night above the thrashing

waves, I saw your golden hair above the briny haze,

and though you did not wave, I hauled you in with me.

 

I wrapped you in my blanket, and gave you what I could:

moistened foods and flattened drinks, not much, I know,

but enough to garner a small smile from your splitting lips.

 

And we spent the nights together on the roaring sea,

Talking to the clouds when the sea was calm,

Or patching holes when it poured,

 

until, at last, you were mine and I was yours,

when you felt finally fine about the blackened skies,

and between the gaze of our eyes, there was something real.

 

Because this ocean is lonely, and this wind is harsh,

and I wanted to reaffirm that I at least, among the darkness,

could be a beacon to the boatless swimmers.

 

A beacon, yes—until I felt the boat grow small for the two of us,

noticed the salt turn your hair dark, and despite your accustomed comfort,

returned you atrophied and isolated in the chopped and daunting sea.

To wit

To life

To see

You

Dance

In the moonlight

By a pond

A winter night

Whatever

Wherever

To see you be

Only

Ever

Ephemeral

But here

So here

So real

And pure

And chipping

Grinding

Points

To a rhythm

Like big trees

Full-leafed with loose

Maracas in a heavy,

Wind

Supple like new pillows,

And soft,

Like the thought of you

Slowly bubbling

To some humorous

Rhythm

By a body

Of water

Some winter

Night

So here

Near the reach

Of my arms

Ephemeral

Forever

In my eyes’ light

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

 

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

 

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

III

 

Decision

is a question

of desire,

 

reaching out,

 

for you,

for hands

 

to clasp

to say:

 

I just

want

to be

held.

 

I just

want

to be

warm.

 

I just

want

to fuck.

 

I just want

to look

into

the night

sky

and say

hi

from

the other

day,

 

when

I saw you

and never

said:

 

Hi,

how

are you?

I’m sorry.

Even the heart

gets high

on its own

supply

X

 

Copenhagen

was no

consolation

 

the morning

after

i lost

my keys

to the hostel

where

i was

staying,

 

and where

               i saw you

              walk

to work

every

morning,

         briskly,

              with a coffee,

 

and listening

to music,

 

and I

was so happy

because

              i’d made

              it a thing

to go

outside

and wait

for you

to pass

by and smile,

 

               and one day,

        yesterday,

you stopped

and asked me

Where

 

i was from,

           and the way

            you said

       Where’s Boston?

with just a little

cock

to your head

made

my heart

           pump blood

           to my tongue,

and I asked,

when

you were

about

to leave,

if

i’d see

you

tomorrow,

which

is now

today,

and you said

 

    “I think so,”

           knowing

                    full well

 

you

would see me.


 

But now,

            this sunrise

             glowing

over

Copenhagen

square

is bitter,

 

when

i think

of you,

and how

       you’re walking

       to work,

right now,

 

and i’m

hungover,

in some

other

part

of town,

    because

      I got drunk again,

and lost

the keys

to the hostel

where I stayed,

 

and slept

with some

boy

for the bed,

 

and now

I have

to catch

a train

to paris

to get back

home

to boston

and I will

never

        see her

                       again

My chest crushes,

from weight

of the buildings

ladder atoms adam's apples

the weight of the hearts

clubs spades blades duvets

and diamonds

Sending sidelong glances

at all the pretty

women wearing makeup

battling locks of protein tresses

with short skirts

and long dresses

We have no choice in jumping through these hoops,

Nor opting out of learning to trapeze,

We’ve got to fall in line with all the troops,

And hope one day we figure out the maze.

So when we twist our way through all these rings,

Take note of all the graceful ways to fall,

And treat the wounds as ways of strengthening

More to Come

Thankfully, there are a lot of words to sift through.

We'll soon add a Fiction / Non-Fiction section

along with a diverse catalogue of editorial work.