Sketch of an Astronaut

NaPoWriMo #20: Mild Island

2011-04-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

On delicate sand I sing to no one
but myself who criticizes notes
missed, almost captured by the voice
which is lonelier by the minute.
The water is peaceful, no argument
with the wind. It's a waiter
who's prepared to let me order
whatever's on the menu for free.
The palm trees' leaves play softly
a lullaby I resist with all my strength,
because I know that the stars
will entertain by diving off the sky
into the soft, green sea. I want
no one to land near me, to ask
that I help him get rescued,
each of us in it together to reach
the crowded, broken world.
No, I'd rather breathe slowly,
not thinking, centered in my chest
which is a celestial cabinet, letting
spirit rise and fall perfectly.
If he discovers a boat, hails it
with fires, I'll consider strangling
him, extinguishing the sad lights.
Except I know the earth is not
an enemy, and my island lives
wherever I go. Even as rescuers
try to squeeze a name out of me,
I am on the spot where the sun
doesn't move for hours, the clouds
stand still, nothing but white puffs,
the animal shapes having run away.

NaPoWriMo #29: Pencil

2011-04-28T17:12:00.000-07:00

I thought about myself as a cartoon character
who was never seen that much, sometimes
in the background when the heroes walked
toward their dates with dynamite, or in a rare
episode where I rang up their hotel rooms,
in a nervous, odd way. I believed I could
find a way to tie the damsel to the tracks,
or rescue the chick from the mean coyote.
The animators would draw medals around
my neck, reward me with my own TV show.
Color would always fill me, alive on screen,
as I mooched off the eccentric millionaire
or beat out the cat or dog for pet of the year.
It would feel hollow to win, though, when
I know flesh and blood is out there, laughing,
only God controlling where they end up,
while a pencil moves us from cell to cell,
each one a square prison for our movements,
a place where we're not allowed to breathe.

NaPoWriMo #28: Eraser

2011-04-27T17:26:00.000-07:00

Last time you were the zero.
I was forced to defend you
against beasts in every cage
that wouldn't accept your whines
and the horn you used to fight
anyone who said you weren't real.
I could've told the people
who came to see you, that life
itself wasn't sure it should
back your heart in combat
against all the forces of hate.
The secrets of your origin
weren't hidden to us: a youth
who kissed every creature
in the garden until it received
his name, which meant proud
and weak depending on
how you slid your tongue.
We wanted the entire zoo
to be broken into, the gates
letting the clawed and spiked
to enter the ordinary world,
while you made up excuses
for why you couldn't help
the keepers gather them up,
behind fences where they were
understood by nobody but themselves.
Eventually, your fame will fall.
You'll be moved to the end
of a path, that's so steaming
in the summer you'll forget
what cool is: only those fools
desperate for prophecy come,
messages that you fail to give
that you feel are erased from
your head, what's left of you.

NaPoWriMo #27: The Song

2011-04-26T15:46:00.000-07:00

We thought about the song
we're not allowed to sing.
One that inspects our happiness
and gives it a gold star. The tune
our secret lives are wound
around, like unstoppable yo-yo's,
or python vines snapping trees.
The authorities are clear it's forbidden.
We've seen the singers return
without tongues, have heard
some were killed for their hearts.
There's no revolution in the lyrics,
which point to the four corners
of the earth, which celebrate coming
together for music, though the weather
is strong, though no one can see
beyond the storm. Some of us wish
to bury the words, to plant them
in a deep jar in our minds. But some
of us keep whistling it to ourselves.
We look at each other and we know.

NaPoWriMo #26: Shades of Blue

2011-04-25T18:42:00.000-07:00

In those days everything was blue.
The trees, grass, sun -- all shades
brilliant in their color, from light glass
to the darkest dyes of the universe.
We didn't want to see anything
else. We were used to walking
through this world by recognizing
the subtle distinctions between
life and death, a shark's hard fin
and the surface of a kiddie pool.
When other hues arrived we were
blinded, slipping into campfires,
going to sleep on top of volcanoes.
The best we could do was to stand
very still, and hope a bird soared
overhead. We could follow its call.
We could try and learn how to fly.

NaPoWriMo #25: Destruction and Love

2011-04-25T05:04:00.000-07:00

We introduced ourselves to destruction
which wore a tuxedo, handed us flowers
in the hope we'd continue burning, flames
dancing on the balance beams of our souls,
the scores high enough to earn us a place
in the dark. Love wanted to greet us,
but it came in sweat pants and a t-shirt,
barely listening to us talk, because
conversation wasn't all that important,
only the kiss of someone we wouldn't
expect, the embrace that was a secret.
The everyday world was virtually ignored.
It wished to show how the sun rises,
how the earth brings it forth from the brink.

Extra NaPoWriMo: The Complete Ghost Dictionary

2011-04-24T06:14:00.000-07:00

Late at night we attempt to find one
twirling itself through the cemetery
stones, swirling in the Fall mist,
silent, without cries to be recognized.
Our flashlights tag one, and we rush
forward to introduce ourselves, drag
it into our light with flattering words
about its ability to scream and fright.
When it tell us its history we record
the day when hell refused to take it,
and mystery inhabited it, at play
with a spirit that should return home.
That's all we need for the dictionary
that will define the history of ghosts,
so someone will find a phantom,
know his heart's completely done.
Each page will show how our journeys
discovered the essence of the dead,
how slow they rise and their defense
against the living; floating as spies
in last resting places, remembering
what they hear, but not getting too near,
just enough to mimic voices and faces,
to make us think about our awful pasts.

NaPoWriMo #24: I Should Have Been A Fire

2011-04-24T04:45:00.000-07:00

The reason I'm not fire
is God didn't know what
to do with me. Would I start
a blaze that would engulf
the animals and the trees
he had spent so much time
populating the world? Or
would I help humankind
reach their potential, make
the earth a lantern shining
across the universe? He
only knew about the human
form he had poured so many
souls into, how tough it'd be
to thread me through flames,
knot me into the inferno
that would either save or kill
this planet. I owe this flesh
to indecision, and I know
one day it will want to act
like a torch for you, helping
you see, but all there will be
are my own blind eyes, a night
that fears almost nothing.

Extra NaPoWriMo: Wait Till I'm Dead

2011-04-23T10:03:00.000-07:00

Don't measure me for a coffin.
Don't tell people my last words
were peanut butter. Skip reading
my will to homeless in the park.
Refuse to swear on my grave
when I'm not in it yet. Don't
ransack my closets for the shoes
you like, or show my property
to people who are interested
in buying. Stop asking the church
for blessings, hoping that I'm
in heaven. Don't speak of me
as if I'm past tense in third person.
Don't tell me to my face I'm a ghost.

NaPoWriMo #23: Crisis on Infinite Earths

2011-04-23T01:10:00.000-07:00

If I could've chosen one,
it would've been one
where the stars were closer,
where we could feel like
one big family. Where I
could've grabbed a hold
of one of the gods, planted
a huge smooch on her lips,
while being able to hide on
our globe from her revenge.
Our cousins the planets
would come by to play poker
or gossip about the moon,
how he romanced each girl
he met, striking her with light
which is inescapably romantic.
Better this than another earth
where we were painstakingly
formal. Silverware all polished
the tuxedos chosen, the china
tossed to the far corners
of the universe. I'd refuse
to come, except in my black
gag t-shirts, my unwashed shorts,
and slippers. The heavenly
bodies would get stuck up
within me, refusing to notice
or answer my questions. I'd
have to scream to get heard.
I'd quit when my throat hurt,
when all I became was noise.

Extra NaPoWriMo: Nightmare

2011-04-22T11:08:00.000-07:00

When I sleep I am a nightmare.
Stars don't know what to do.
The moon frowns so hard
it tilts over. I swarm across
the planet with my mouth
wide open, each individual
fang with a dreamer in mind.
They try to ask the tree
outside the window to eat me.
They beg for witches to cast
a spell on my horrid head.
They'll admit to every failure,
every sin, if I'll fly away.
Except I have to feed
the snakes in my hair,
let them torture my victims
with each strike of poison.
Is there a text they can read
in my face, a few words
that can turn me back?
It would matter if they
owned the Bible, recited
each chapter and verse. If
they wrote a hundred more
prayers, if they were chosen
as saints. I have a black
tongue that closes their eyes,
that licks their foreheads,
that leaves a last symbol
when they wake, visible
only to them. It means
I'm theirs, that each night
it glows, each time I taste.

NaPoWriMo #22: Hungry and Unkind

2011-04-22T02:31:00.000-07:00

You imagined yourself breathing
underwater. You could see the sky
through a distorted mirror. Clouds
melted over you face, and the sun
was one big ray battering your eyes.
You could've paid attention to fish
swimming around you. To the feel
of their fins on your skin, the tickling
of their gills. Something hungry
and unkind could arrive to swallow
you whole. To make believe you're
a seal or penguin. Or the small boat
of a fishermen who don't know
what's beneath them, thinking the big
one is something they'll eat, not be
eaten by. You wear your own skull
comfortably. You understand it
carries your brain, but why can't it be
immaterial, spirit immune to dangers
of the flesh? You feel that you're really
a ghost, submerged in cells, the body
a form of chains tying you to the world.
You will haunt someone when you
pass away. Their breath will try to blow
you out, but you will be a wildfire.
Whole houses shall ignite instantly.
Neighborhoods shall drink from fire
hoses, but that won't slake their thirst.

NaPoWriMo #21: Terrible Moments

2011-04-21T05:11:00.000-07:00

I mixed myself up.
I traded my ghost
for the love I hid
under the welcome
mat with the spare key.
I thought too hard
about fire, found
myself running around
in flames, begging
someone to spit on me,
put me out. Even on
the airplane I wouldn't
look out the windows,
clenching so hard
on the armrests
I was the only one
left in the air. Life
needed sorting out.
For someone to grab
my toy chest, dump it
on the floor. For them
to group the desires
together, shove my
fears in plastic bags.
To teach action figures
to play together in one
world, to promised
stuffed dolls fun days
on my bed. I'd swear
to sleep until playthings
became alive around me,
preparing paperwork
I forgot, calling a restaurant
to schedule an anniversary
dinner, giving my therapist
rundowns on anxieties
that slip out of my brain,
sand from an hourglass
that counts each terrible
moment as my own.

NaPoWriMo #20: Swamp

2011-04-20T03:03:00.000-07:00

The will-o-wisps bounce their ghosts lights
across the swamp, attracting human beings
to investigate. With their first steps inside
they realize they've made a big mistake.
The appearance of ground sinks into mud
and water, their legs trapped by a mouth
that will not give up swallowing its prey.
Bugs, gnats and stingers, surround their heads,
peppering their eyes and cheeks with bites.
A large snake slithers by a swamp oak,
alligators splash into water, snap their jaws.
If only they had ignored the signs of life
coming from this bog. To let them survive
on their own, to let the stars live alone.

Extra NaPoWriMo: Subject to Fire

2011-04-19T05:09:00.000-07:00

Today I'm going to be
the destroyer floating
in my childhood's tub,
not a chance of sinking
under the water's tumult,
always there to fire
at my brother's animals,
made to float, to squeeze
out moisture like a sponge.
I will reenact battles
I barely recall, of ships
stomped by feet, monkeys
thrown on the floor, kids
chasing each other
as the tile becomes wet,
the rug soaked. What do
these miniature disasters
tell me now? We must
bear the swamped job,
taking on the ocean,
or the sunk faith, hit
by an unknown torpedo?
That the sky sees us
as a rainbow meant to come
soon, but not now, not
until we promise to color
our worlds again? Sure,
I'd rather be soaked.
I have my gun still.
Everything and everyone
is subject to my fire.

NaPoWriMo #19: The Person

2011-04-18T18:45:00.000-07:00

He was easy to recognize
with his two arms
and opposble thumbs.
It was said he wore
a coat when it was cold,
that mist formed
when he breathed out
winter, complaining
on a phone about its bite.
We couldn't look at
his heart, covered by skin
and muscles, an old symbol
of love's explanations.
We couldn't see into
his brain where symbols
piled up into car crashes,
forming a new wreckage
each time he spoke.
Whether there was
a soul was not for us
to ask: we'd have
to decamp to the local
church, and they'd sing
a hymn about sin
and the overcoming
of it, while we smiled,
not sure what they
were talking about.
All we knew was he
moved around for years,
his hair falling out,
his teeth loosening,
and he never stopped
going, until the button
was pushed. Then,
he was off.

NaPoWriMo #18: Banners

2011-04-18T05:26:00.000-07:00

Branches sway back and forth,
reflect the sunlight in patterns
that are untraceable. Each leaf
is interested in twisting in ways
that has never been seen before.
Wind, too, slides across grass,
wrinkling the hair of the earth,
messing with its natural combover.
I let fast breezes whip up
my shirt, spotlight my belly
in the sun. Although it's chilly,
I stay outside without a jacket
so I can count dandelions,
wondering if there's enough
to populate an imaginary world.
Across the street an American
flag snaps back and forth,
making a crackling noise I love
to hear. Nearby a bloody battle
was fought. The soldiers raised
their banners in the aftermath
of a storm. If I carried one
under fire, I'd have it be
of the earth, trees promising
pollen, insects carrying it
to where it needs to bloom,
saplings rising straight up.
I'd beg them not to mow us
down, promising them the faith
of youth, its impossible dreams.

NaPoWriMo 17: Into the Cave

2011-04-17T02:50:00.000-07:00

Following our selves into the cave,
we separated so we wouldn't get out
unless friends with our spirits
kissed them in public, swore an oath
in front of a philosopher, showed them
the book we'd try to write and fail.
The paintings on the wall moved fast,
told us our secrets in basketball
scores and videos of a man floating
away in a tsunami. They prepared
to show us as the center of a family
they called the human race, our genes
not far from Mongolian hunters,
the tribesmen of Tanzania. We bought
buckets of acid, melted the colors,
unable to keep attached to the chemicals,
their lights no longer what we wanted.
An entire bookshelf whines its words
at us, spelling out nouns and verbs
we used without pressing them in ink.
We took them down, felt ourselves
regenerate, their hands and limbs
down their spines. It was our belief
in language that flowed. It almost
felt like drowning in the sun.

Extra NaPoWriMo: The Sleep of Whistles

2011-04-16T21:19:00.000-07:00

In their dreams the whistles
wouldn't stop. They tried
to freeze criminals, who
continued hiding diamonds
under their vests, or punching
and kicking the president
of the bank. Dogs wouldn't hear
them, shaking their snouts,
and children kept walking
across the intersection, despite
traffic. What they wanted
was to be hung on the neck
of a lifeguard, who aimed
her vision across the beach.
Someone was drowning.
Someone raised his hands
looking for a partner to breathe
his lungs into. Except they'd
blown themselves too hard.
There was no air left to start.

NaPoWriMo #16: Moonlit Windows

2011-04-16T17:16:00.000-07:00

We pretended to be ghosts,
waving our sheets at friends,
making them run through halls
into torture chambers, where
the Iron Maiden hugged one
to her heart, and the rack
celebrated stretching their necks
and torsos, until even death
was impressed, showed up.
When that became dull, we
threw on old rags, thrust
our arms in front of ourselves,
moaning like zombies, actually
gaining a hunger for brains
we wished to pull out of skulls,
tasting blood for the first time.
It was only when we transformed
into werewolves that our pals
bought sliver bullets, when
all we did was wear thick furs,
when we didn't even follow
them, just lurked underneath
moonlit windows, howling
at a light we barely understood,
how the wounds that bore through
our chests formed the shapes
of stars, telling our future in
the way they moved their fires.

Extra NaPoWriMo: The Coast

2011-04-15T10:49:00.000-07:00

From here we could see whales
bringing down ships, harpoons falling
out, the captain sinking on the blowhole.
We also viewed nuclear submarines
surfacing, seeking a place to surprise
citizens with sailors in weird outfits.
Also, we noticed yachts racing
toward each other, rich men playing
a game of chicken, where one swerves,
puts up a J. Crew flag of surrender.
We'd like to tell, too, about picnickers
on shore who ate with sharpened
knives, the parents and children
aching to stab each other, given
a chance, a sign of disobedience,
or a bit of uncoolness. Even birds
marched on the sand, wearing bottle
cap helmets, prepared to combat
the fish waiting under the high tide.
And us, we didn't desire a thing.
We planned on burying each other
so the waves could drown us, the last
light of the sun cool, our eyes closed.

NaPoWriMo #15: Hollow

2011-04-15T05:22:00.000-07:00

In the city the wombs became hollow.
Women wondered who snuck
into their houses, removed
their one precious thing in the world.
Some fathers were happy.
Tests had indicated positive,
but now they were wrong,
and the men could flee into the wreckage
of the buildings, burrowing
like mice into new apartments.
There would be no naming of anything,
no unique moniker that would
label children through high school
until they tried to change it.
Cribs would be stashed in closets
filled with strollers and toys,
debris of the solar system,
the sun having closed down its heat.
Kids already here would write stories
about their siblings who disappeared,
Santa snatching them to be elves,
zombies transforming them into monsters.
None of them blamed God,
who was on vacation they believed,
sunning himself under a million stars,
when this could've been a punishment.
For what, no one knew? He didn't say
anything like he did in the old days.
A grumpy old man, he didn't wish
to talk, to separate himself
from his enormous wordless thoughts.

Extra NaPoWriMo: Snow

2011-04-14T07:49:00.000-07:00

The snow would've rather fallen
on sand, suicidal flakes begging
to melt. Instead, it dissolved
on ocean waves, where whales
ignored chills, vessels feared ice
accumulating in their way. It
hoped to confuse the distances
of objects with a blizzard, force
travelers to forget where paths
led. To transform their bodies
into new human sculptures, ones
that terrorize rescuers walking
their way. It thought to amass
a bulk that with one wrong echo
slides down a mountain's slope,
burying skiers under cold's face,
its suffocating, frozen expression.
It wants to be one of many
that causes its death or another,
to share the misery of being,
the feeling of breaking up again.

NaPoWriMo #14: The Murder

2011-04-13T19:42:00.000-07:00

At the site of the murder
I wanted to summon birds
from the sky, make them sing
a mourning song for the woman
who spotted stolen goods
in her co-worker's bag, saw
nothing but darkness after.
Listing the bloody blows
one by one won't help, or
remembering how the killer
lied to detectives, tying herself
up, pretending to be violated.
The police removed each piece
of her jigsaw, lay the real
picture on the judge's docket.
I think of how any of us
can try to do right, pointing
out a theft of life. But death
doesn't like how truth
intrudes. It's a lazy criminal
who breaks a face, carves
a wound rather than recalls
what it was like to live in peace,
a snake not in her mouth
justifying fangs and poison.

Extra NaPoWriMo: Crack in the Light

2011-04-13T07:20:00.000-07:00

Erase the face with a space.
Fling the ring-ding through
a rose. Admonish the dust,
task it with rising and falling.
Blitz the hits with a fact-proof
weapon. Shock loyal troops
resting on stoops of presidential
mansions. Present large maps
to runners taking laps. Roll
the dice for spice in life.
Splice the film thrice to earn
an award. Whip the hip
with a crack in the light. Spray
hay with sugar for a horse.
Enforce the six-course dinner.
Sing the body with a ring
of flowers. Smell them for death
to make him quit stealing breaths.

NaPoWriMo #13: The Mistake

2011-04-13T05:24:00.000-07:00

We could hardly utter it, admit
we tripped over dynamite, fought
a heavyweight champion in disguise,
kissed a woman who turned out to be
a skeleton. A person would have to
drag it out of us, with a team
of horses, a box of sugar cubes.
Love was not strong enough. It
bashed itself against our citadel
but we hid our faults in dungeons
where the chains clanked together
in a language it wouldn't recognize.
If only laughter had arrived here.
It could crack a smile out of our
granite faces. Bodies would start
to break down, chunk by chunk,
each piece containing our shame.
People would grab them, use them
for fuel. Sadness would light up
the fireplace, the heat spreading
through the house, room to room,
where mistakes become useful,
warming the heart, the limbs, the soul.

Extra NaPoWriMo: Answer Yes

2011-04-12T11:25:00.000-07:00

We thought we were young again.
That our faces didn't crack mirrors,
that our eyes were strong and bright.
It was like we were reborn
without the tics and bad habits
that wore down our eraser, broke
the pencil as we started to write.
This time we stood by our desks,
ready to give the right answer.
This moment we gave to pleasure,
replied yes to the hotel room,
yes to whatever touch was possible.
This life we called our lovers
from the trees, watched them perch
on our arms and shoulders, ready
to lift us up into the atmosphere.
This minute was our best chance
to get the joke, get the hairstyle,
get the chance to hold someone.
We would have the entire history
of the universe to be old. We
were prepared to become stars now,
to disappear only when we burned out.

NaPoWriMo #12: Collapse

2011-04-12T03:16:00.000-07:00

We learn to collapse in a pile, to make funny
what people do on an ordinary day, to mimic

leaves that are raked up for children to fall in,
to show that people are interchangeable parts

that can fit together when comedy is needed.
Networks put us on, where we've become a symbol

of unpredictable friendship, of people who could be
enemies in other circumstances, who choose

instead to gather in a thick clump, skin and clothes
meeting like a bonfire that can't be extinguished,

too late for anger to rise up, to freeze us all.
We end when we remember we are separate,

that we should reenact love with our families,
not each other. We draw together one last time.

It feels like our legs are one leg, our arms
pointing in the same direction, our chests rising

to supply identical oxygen to everyone's bodies,
our minds stuck on one channel, soon to go black.

Extra NaPoWriPo poem: The King

2011-04-11T07:10:00.000-07:00

He slept in his palace with his dishonest advisers scheming, his heart too royal to care. If they told him to boil the fool, he'd snap his fingers for the cauldron, watch the atrocity himself. The artists really made him upset. Anyone writing on a piece of paper was subject to search, to make sure it was really a laundry list and not a poem. Sometimes it was a list -- soup, baking powder, pork chops -- and she'd still be brought to court to answer for her subversion. The dungeons below were filled with rhymes and sonnets, with laureates and outsiders shocked with electrodes, which made them laugh. Somewhere someone was picking up lettuce and tomatoes. Someday that salad would start a revolution.

NaPoWriMo #11: The Blue

2011-04-10T19:06:00.000-07:00

I try hard not to look at the sky,
to remove myself from its watchers.
Can you get a load of these clouds,
though, can you think about anything
but these stars when you see them?
The ground has interesting things,
cars and dirt, lovers and vomit,
but even the vehicles' exhaust
rises up into the atmosphere.
I can attempt to love the sea,
to gather its waves in my arms.
The reflections are what stop me.
Of myself surrounded by animals
floating above my face, in the blue.

NaPoWriMo #10: The Future

2011-04-10T05:20:00.000-07:00

Everybody’s always pointing to it,
even Lenin. It’s a great big bunch
of time on our hands that will end
up digging our graves as well as
claim the winning ticket. It’s a fire
that will erupt as soon as we’re
finished sitting inertly in a chair,
trying to keep breath from igniting
by being slow enough to freeze.
Meanwhile, historians are busy
counting dying heroes and villains,
putting events in their chronicles
like dropping candied apples and pears
in a fruitcake. They know days
will run faster than they can follow,
that a book will never appear that carries
everything that happens, its text
speeding by instantly when the moment
changes. We all want to find out
when we can stop reading, occupy
a solid block of time that begins
and ends, the only milestone showing
we were here, numbers and names
chiseled into stone, another breadcrumb
in infinity’s walk through its maze.

NaPoWriMo #9: No One Will Go Hungry

2011-04-09T05:44:00.000-07:00

You will be spotted
singing an obscene song
in an exquisite voice.
Angels will follow along,
the bouncing ball jumping
each word that accompanies
your performance, frying neon.
Splashing the biker movie
you can't stop watching,
blood will form credits
no one pays attention to
except you. The choir
behind you will explain
they'd rather be at
their own show, but
your subconscious
will pay too much
for them to separate
their lives, their spouses
asking them to repeat
the sounds of money
with their purple tongues.
Local churches will ban you,
a corrupt government
of secret chalices requests
you be tossed in the slammer
for not paying full taxes
on beauty. You will decide
that the pancake houses
need to hear you, replacing
the syrup as the stickiness
they paint blueberry with.
No one will go hungry
that day. No one will
remember what that was like.

NaPoWriMo #8: Thousands and Thousands of Bones

2011-04-08T01:30:00.000-07:00

When he began listening to the speech
he was confused: how did the man
in the sky get up there, did he leave a ladder
for us to follow? And all the prohibitions
which most people ignored, almost celebrating
each sin with parties filled with clowns,
their makeup running from tears, happiness
or sadness, he couldn’t determine. He wanted
to interrupt on behalf of science, but it
could handle itself. All the facts joined its club,
showing membership cards to reality,
constructing the battering ran to knock
down the party’s piñata, spill all the candy
forever, no other explanation for its fall.
He loved a well told story, though, how
these biblical figures fell into prophecies,
how God was only a trickster, changing
what he wished for on a crazy whim.
Somehow he learned things about humanity
that surprised him, which revealed a ghost
in his cells that pretended it wasn’t there.
How could he reconcile life and death?
He would have to both pray and cross
his fingers, knowing a strike could hit them
without sense or reason, while others think
they’re lifted out of their cars and wheelchairs,
brought up in a rapture he couldn’t believe.
Wasn’t it enough that the sun sticks around,
like a patient guest who will come in
when we’re finally ending the festival
of rising dead, a brand new civilization
ruled by a man who returned from his grave?
This guy told his friends you better believe him,
though it was impossible, a heart can’t begin again,
the body must keep its functions going,
not interrupt the cemetery with its recharging,
the breath misting the cold, afraid of the stars,
thousands and thousands of bones about to erupt.

(Early) NaPoWriMo #7: The Pledge

2011-04-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

Everyone was asked to stand up,
repeat words that should've been
secret, a mass colony of language
threatened by the extinction
of revelation. We also raised
our hands, which couldn't be
trusted, which aimed trigger
fingers at humankind and called
the ensuing destruction "good."
The only thing we could depend on
was the song we sung after,
at the cock fights and medal
presentations, blaring at circuses
before clowns in fatigues rose
out of their cars, played delicately
at the performance by the prodigy
who wore a flag pin on her lapel.
In our dreams we escaped these
notes temporarily, but they dragged
us back, too sweet for any to resist.
In this way we believed in an "us."
In this way we could call it love.

NaPoWriMo #6: The Answer

2011-04-06T05:21:00.000-07:00

The answer was discovered at the bottom of the well,
a child tied to it, who was either lost or a ghost,
who said it was okay if we left him there, life
had passed him since the 1970s, he couldn't survive
outside them. When we read the solution, we knew
it would take a team of disgruntled clowns, a crew
of heavyweight fighters on their last bouts, a group
of angels who had knowledge of our secret lusts.
They began building, punching out the abode
we'd live in, where we'd install our high-powered
microscope and place a telescope on top to see
the stars and what promises they gave to others.
Meanwhile, we sketched out on paper our scheme
to defeat those who'd wreck our strategies,
the old man in the valley who sent smoke signals
to rampaging rattlesnakes, the lady with a rat
tattoo who summoned vermin to do her bidding.
When the hurricane came knocking on our door,
it was part of our caper, not an obstacle to it.
Its wind helped us float to the top of a skyscraper,
where we pretended to be UFOs, probe every
person who was left inside the building. We found
the old stock market ticker, and replayed 1929
in slow motion, this time with exquisite knowledge
of the market's fall. When we had made our dough,
we slid through the glass to our Batmobile,
which directed us to our new mansion, where
the circus had opened up, the acrobats flipping
on our roofs, the fights happening in rings, halos
glittering over our new heads, which could feel
the body now, which didn't have to pretend
they were skulls without motives or sense.
We understood when we opened the front door
that no butler would be there to welcome us,
just the cobwebs and skeletons wound in chains,
some of them wearing our watches, set to our time.

NaPoWriMo #5: Wolves

2011-04-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

Wolves should've snacked on someone else.
They should've identified the perfect victim,
crunched her bones, or tore off her skin.
Instead, I'm a pile of scraps by the cave,
the warm memory of meat inside them.
Even in my agony, I can admit a thrill,
to be part of the muscles that leaps fences,
that tears apart chicken bodies, swallows
brown eggs without pausing to taste them.
Or to form the ear, which hears a rifle
crack, the bullets right behind hind legs,
which impel the beast to run faster
from danger, to no longer recognize
the sound of ammo firing through icy air.
Even I can imagine being part of its voice,
discovering myself in the solo howl rising
toward others which join in, telling the dark
there will be nothing that can conquer them,
when fangs and speed propel them towards
blood. What I can't remember is my love
who hiked these hills, wandering somewhere,
who never knew what became of my life.
She can't kiss what's become of me, we can't
make love in different shells, my consciousness
buried, soon to be burned off in attacks.
Another person who had little to live for,
a house sinking, a lover dead, a job denied,
could be devoured instead, an improvement.
She could wake up in the canine's skull, recall
she was always a hunter, a ripper of hearts.
I would be freed to race toward my beloved
who has already tromped herself through ice,
where polar bears greet strangers with hugs
that crush them with the passion of their hunger.

NaPoWriMo #4: Forehead

2011-04-04T05:20:00.000-07:00

I looked at my tremendous forehead
in the mirror and decided that love
was impossible if I crushed the faces
of my dates when we tried to sleep.
A monstrosity, that's what I was,
the beast in that movie, though I did
nothing wrong, wanting to shave off
the layer of flesh I never needed.
It wasn't always like this: once
my head was puny, it hung
on the sad stalk of my neck.
I wished for a more important look
that others would be inspired by.
I woke up in the morning feeling
hurt, as if someone had stapled
stone on top of my weak body,
as if my time for a grave
came early, and I was going
to have to say my own eulogy.
Now all I do is seek out
a hammer than can break
me down, that will not be
too noisy for the neighbors,
but will perform the job quickly.
I desire more human contact
than being brushed next to
on the subway, passengers deep
in their gadgets and newspapers
so no one notices my suffering
at all, as if I was a natural
wonder that had become mundane,
my geysers of pain spraying each hour,
constant enough for life to ignore.

NaPoWriMo Day 3: The Machine

2011-04-03T11:34:00.000-07:00

I added on to my body
In the most mysterious way.
Attached a microwave
to my chest, an electric
toothbrush to my hand,
a pair of waxed skis
to my desperate feet.
No one knew I’d do this
until I showed up
in the morning, a burrito
cooking, my incisors
frothing and clean,
seeking out a long hill
to speed down, arrive
at the bottom refreshed
and happy to do it
again. My friends
were willing to go along,
they put in frozen meals,
borrow me at close
of day for dental health,
helped me climb up
stairs to reach my room.
Others took photographs
so they could show
strangers how I spent
my time, to post online
for me to join the weird
and the wonderful.
If I could say anything
it would be to watch
the phone, the TV sets,
the door and widow,
every piece of your home.
They whisper, “Take me
with you. One day you
won’t be able to say no.”

Additional Day 2 NaPoWriMo poem: Ray

2011-04-02T13:00:00.000-07:00

Help me form one solid ray of light
that the people will recognize me in,
their eyes staring straight ahead at what
can't be denied or diminished. Let me
be the one from the sun that's stopped
for its beauty, that has stained glass
made for it, or a diamond that waits
only for my power to pass through it.
If I can be this laser for creation,
allow me to glorify everything here
and not here, visible to the child,
invisible to the most far reaching science.
If I can do this I ask for no pleasure,
only for the fire that inhabits us all.

NaPoWriMo #2: Spacecraft

2011-04-02T04:37:00.000-07:00

When I offer you a light today
you don’t even look at me, staring
at the concrete steps near a door
that leads into the pressroom,
your name stinging the air, stapling
their lips together. It’s a seismic
shift of your losing your love,
the editor who now destroys
both your heart and your stories.
I’d like to give you some advice,
but I always drift away from
personal issues, crawling
in a Viking boat to hope they
won’t spot me from the shore,
wade in after me, burn me up.
We could have been lovers, too,
if I was the sort of man
who ripped wings off butterflies,
or whipped a group of reporters
with the backslash of his voice,
and you were type of woman
who boarded a spacecraft
with no knowledge of why
you decided to soar, but felt
it was worth it for those stars
that came closer every day.
When you finish smoking
in silence, I want to give a hug,
but I push by you instead,
to clack on my keyboard, to make
that bird fly with my words.
If only I could’ve written you
a ghost letter that would haunt
you at night, so you’d be forced
to open it, to read how I feel
in the blue ectoplasmic light
of my affection, making you wish
you could become a phantom,
join me in the world of the dead,
chew the pomegranate, discard
spring, let me be your only touch.

Day 1, NaPoWriMo: Blue

2011-04-01T05:12:00.000-07:00

What your eyes used to be, before worry bled them out. How the sky behaved each time you faced another winter day, almost bleached of color. Where you located your body's music, in the ancient guitars of old southern gentlemen who sang to fill the heart with falling wings. Who hid in the spectrum I selected from the rainbow, thinking he could lose me in the battered brains of clouds. When it followed me around town, volunteering my personal information to strangers, and I had to shut it up, no matter how much it suited my mood. Why the ocean is so confident, why it blasts through obstacles in green, red, and brown. Why it understands every soft piece of me that folds when her voice arrives, drops into her arms.

Paper

2010-11-18T06:32:00.000-08:00

We think about disagreeing a lot. You're a tree without leaves. You're a face without lips. Back forth, in a motion like the waves, where one evil is followed by another. If only we could split the argument with song. You take the soprano part, I grind out the bass. Then this would be noise that is truly holy. It'd make the churches give up their roles, tell the guardian angels that they will no longer be needed in this world. Would we become a temple for new gods? You and I the altar, where the animals are sacrificed, and the latest commandments are posted electronically, the changes to good and bad popping up faster than people can live them. A Samson would break us apart. He'd crush the computers. Give back the paper to followers who listened to us too closely, allowed us to choose the sole path they were walking on. Our ruins would attract the lonely. Those who didn't know what happened, who let imagination animate our bones.

Face Cards

2010-11-12T08:51:00.000-08:00

I never think about beginnings anymore. I keep my cards upside down, smiling at the gambler inside. You can think about me anyway that you want. As the fool who wants to start with nothing in the desert of consciousness, planting palm trees in the frigid wastes. I remember endings. How they spell me as "coffin," recognize my identity as "mausoleum." They want to take questions from the audience. What is it like being pronounced incorrectly? Do you like to scratch yourself? What flavor is you tongue? I catapult myself toward the witnesses, who must be eliminated to get away with this crime. If someone could tell me what it is, I would be grateful. This trial will be decided by the best in juries, who hang themselves in a row when approached by my evidence. I have a speech to give from the witness stand. How the last time I tried to win a game, the dealer told me I should learn to kiss the face cards. How I drowned on the river and didn't take it personally. How this is a secret I'm giving to everyone, who could paint pictures of my birth, who could force me to learn that I breathe again. How a map of Siberia will locate me on the frozen tundra, crying, shoving my nose and mouth into the snow.

Workshop

2010-02-23T07:40:00.000-08:00

We worked day and night. We assembled Barbies for girls, made actions figures for boys. We threw rejects in the trash, ignoring the dolls' crying voices. In the toy workshop we knew Big Red was watching us, prepared to fly down if we slacked off. Our pointy ears could hear his clopping feet. Outside the window reindeer practiced jumping in the air. Our hands burned from the hammer's touch. We coughed out tinsel. We were blinded by strings of lights.

My Escape

2009-09-04T06:43:00.001-07:00

Well, if it's freedom I'm going for, I won't neglect the sun's and planets' participation. I will gladly thank them for their patronage of the solar system, but I have to fly away. It's nothing against heat, oxygen, or the power of life. I don't hate the moons of Saturn. Where I'm going everything is written in codes I don't understand. I'm looking forward to it. Not being able to understand a simple thing, until it throws its tentacles over me. Come here, pal, its monster will say. You can do anything you want and be eaten, too.

The Rambler

2009-02-03T09:33:00.000-08:00

At last the midnight rambler had had enough. Too many thorns and locked windows. Too many fortresses he couldn't sneak into. All he wanted was to leave saliva on folks' toothbrushes and to poke around their book covers. It's not enough to be a creepy stranger anymore. You have to get training to invade other people's property properly. He was too old. Outdated techniques were all he knew. Now he just hangs out in apartment building elevators. Touches the button you pushed for the fourth floor. Licks his fingers. Eats the grime and dirt.

I'm In No Tell Motel This Week

2008-11-24T02:19:00.001-08:00

I'm in No Tell Motel this week -- thank you Reb for putting my work on the site. www.notellmotel.org.

Election!

2008-11-05T03:58:00.000-08:00

YES WE CAN!

I Laugh

2008-11-03T19:39:00.000-08:00

I began with crying, which people felt was dramatic but not really the thing they wanted. Too salty, too Lifetime movie. Barfing didn't do the trick, either. Though it made everyone sick, which was exciting, it didn't rid life of its ennui. That's why I yelled, "I'll laugh." People put me on a pedestal and readied their ears. I did a jig first, to warm up, massaged my jaws, prepared to hear my own giggles. When I did what they wished, everyone clapped without relief. They hands broke and their skin bled. I would've stopped. Even the clowns said, "no mas, no mas," running their unicycles into cars and walls.

The Disagreementing

2008-11-02T21:34:00.000-08:00

We disagreemented the revolutackdown. It forumulationed the earbutton in our foreheading. We were scarified of what would happenate. Knowlating the papers in our briefcasement, we fulminaned our cariboots. Plent of disagreementing then in the lastfirstbasicexpert villagity in the univerounty. You can readabout itusyou in the magazinenewspapergraveyard on our tombmoodrings.

David Foster Wallace Passes Away

2008-09-14T12:52:00.001-07:00

This is very sad news that David Foster Wallace committed suicide at the age of 46 on Friday. I took a graduate creative writing course with him at Illinois State University in 1995 and talked with him occasionally in 1996 when Infinite Jest came out. He had a big influence on my writing, and my favorite story of his, "Good Old Neon," hit me like no other piece of fiction has. I was not successful with fiction writing at ISU, but the fact that he liked a poem of mine (as a faculty advisory for the ISU literary journal Druid's Cave) helped move me toward writing and publishing poetry. His work went to some pretty dark places, and he wrote the best story ever about depression (The Depressed Person). In the class he spoke about addiction and success, how they can eat someone up (like they did Kurt Cobain). We read from Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet" and talked about balancing experimentation/difficulty and accessibility/pleasure in writing. He wanted to write for the right reasons, to hit true feelings rather than just be ironic and funny. I hope that wherever he is that he is at peace. He has had a giant influence on writing and on the world that won't soon be forgotten. RIP DFW. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/15/books/15kaku.html?_r=1&no_interstitial&oref=slogin

An Old Poem, Revised

2008-08-04T08:23:00.000-07:00

Let by Donald Illich your house burn down from a guerilla mix of chemicals let a mad capped truck driver roll his wheels on your toes let a girl you’ve loved for years take you home in her Plymouth let the department stores close lose her gift, you’re not Araby let her beat you in a quiz show let her offer you a neck to kiss you must you own these dreams

A Letter Turns Into a Ghost

2008-05-06T12:54:00.000-07:00

It's terrible when the post office turns against you. Nothing you can do but assemble a robot pit bull to chase the mail deliverer around. You'll congratulate yourself for the shreds of blue uniform on your lawn. You'll always be brought to the front of the line by nervous postal clerks. You'll be whispered about in rooms filled with Christmas packages and boxes of sex toys. Your metal beast will turn against you someday. It will realize that no one was going to send you a letter anyway. You pretend to have friends but those are only mannequins, dressed the way you like. This letter that will never come will turn into a ghost and haunt you. It will cause the robot's circuits to misfire. To chomp you and chew off your legs.

If Poetry Journal Seeks Poems for Second Issue

2008-03-14T12:35:00.001-07:00

If Poetry Journal is now seeking poetry for its second issue. If you would like to submit 1-5 poems, please e-mail them to me (Don Illich) at ifpoetryjournaleditor at gmail dot com. No attachments, please put your poems in the body of your e-mail. Basic cover letter preferred. No previously published poems. Each contributor will receive one contributor's copy. The deadline for poetry submissions is May 1, 2008.

Prose Poem

2008-01-24T20:19:00.000-08:00

Dynamite allowed itself to be misused by the harp, which wanted to become an angel. The explosion sounded much sweeter than its simple strumming. The angel wings would fit over its body very nicely. Dynamite, on the other hand, knew it was on the side of the devils and loved this fact. So many other instruments had passed on to its fiendish, despicable known, all for the benefit of their self-image and the truth that we're always more loved when we're gone.

Sandra Beasley's New Book

2008-01-15T20:19:00.000-08:00

I encourage everyone to advance order Sandra's new book, "Theories of Falling," which will be out this Spring. See http://www.sbeasley.blogspot.com.

More Publcity for If Poetry Journal

2007-11-15T10:04:00.000-08:00

More publicity about If Journal from one of its contributors, Greg Luce: http://enchiladasblog.blogspot.com/2007/11/publication.html

2007-11-13T18:42:00.001-08:00

The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel - Second Floor,
edited by Reb Livingston & Molly Arden
ISBN: 978-0-6151-6437-3
Publication Date: December, 2007
216 pages

Available at Lulu for $16.99: http://www.lulu.com/content/1191170
Available Soon at Amazon and B&N for $16.99

Featuring Sexy By:

Eric Abbott * Deborah Ager * Malaika King Albrecht * William Allegrezza * Molly Arden * Cynthia Arrieu-King * Robyn Art * Sandra Beasley * Aaron Belz * Erin M. Bertram * Mary Biddinger * Ana Bozicevic-Bowling * Timothy Bradford * Joseph Bradshaw * Jason Bredle * Jenny Browne * Jenna Cardinale * Bruce Covey * Phil Crippen * Susan Denning * Michelle Detorie * Laurel K. Dodge * Mark DuCharme * Peg Duthie * kari edwards * AnnMarie Eldon * Jill Alexander Essbaum * Julie R. Enszer * Noah Falck * Michael Farrell * Katie Fesuk * Adam Fieled * Alice Fogel * Elisa Gabbert * Eric Gelsinger * Scott Glassman * David B. Goldstein * Dean Gorman * Anne Gorrick * Lea Graham * Kate Greenstreet * Piotr Gwiazda * Shafer Hall * Josh Hanson * Nathan Hoks * Donald Illich * Salwa C. Jabado * Charles Jensen * Jim Kober * Ron Klassnik * Jennifer L. Knox * Dorothee Lang * Sueyeun Juliette Lee * David Lehman * Reb Livingston * Rebecca Loudon * Justin Marks * Clay Matthews * Kristi Maxwell * Gary L. McDowell * Erika Meitner * Didi Menendez * Michael Meyerhofer * Steve Mueske * Gina Myers * Cheryl Pallant * Shann Palmer * Alison Pelegrin * Simon Perchik * Derek Pollard * Andrea Potos * Cati Porter * Laurie Price * Jessy Randall * Kim Roberts * Anthony Robinson * Carly Sachs * John Sakkis * Allyson Salazar * Christine Scanlon * Margot Schilpp * Morgan Lucas Schuldt * Patty Seyburn * Peter Jay Shippy * Evie Shockley * Alex Smith * Hugh Steinberg * Nicole Steinberg * Alison Stine * Mathias Svalina * Erik Sweet * Eileen R. Tabios * Bronwen Tate * Molly Tenenbaum * Chris Tonelli * Letitia Trent * Jen Tynes * Michael Quattrone * Ashley VanDoorn * Fritz Ward * J. Marcus Weekley * Betsy Wheeler * Theodore Worozbyt * Kim Young

If Poetry Journal Is Out!

2007-11-06T08:46:00.000-08:00

See my new Web site for If PoetryJournal, which is now out at www.ifpoetryjournal.blogspot.com. Please e-mail me at ifpoetryjournaleditor@gmail.com if you'd like a copy (41 pages packed with poetry), which is $5. Poets in this journal include: Reb Livingston, J.D. Smith, Grace Cavalieri, Amy King, Jack Martin, Jessica Piazza, Kim Roberts, and many others. I think it's a good mix of traditional and experimental work with an emphasis on humor and the surreal. Thank you!

Burlesque Poetry Hour Tonight

2007-10-29T12:15:00.000-07:00

If you're in the D.C. area, don't miss the Burlesque Poetry Hour Reading tonight. Jennifer Knox, an incredible, funny poet, is one of the readers. http://burlesquepoetryhour.blogspot.com/2007/10/its-poetober-at-boolesque.html

Hirshfield Reading

2007-10-26T20:37:00.000-07:00

Rumi at 800: A Sufi Celebration Saturday, October 27. 11 am-9 pm Freer Gallery Join us for a day of music, poetry, special tours, and Persian and Turkish food celebrating the eight-hundredth anniversary of the birth of the poet and mystic Mevlana Jalal-ad-Din Rumi, born in 1207. Rumi inspired the founding of the Whirling Dervishes and remains one of the world's best-selling authors in any language. The day's events conclude with a reading by award-winning poet Jane Hirshfield. Poetry Reading: Jane Hirshfield 7:30 pm, Meyer Auditorium In this finale to our daylong Rumi celebration, Jane Hirshfield reads from Rumi's work as well as her own poetry. Hirshfields poetry has appeared in such publications as the The New Yorker, The Times Literary Supplement as well as in two of Bill Moyers PBS television specials. In fall 2004 The Academy of American Poets awarded Hirshfield the 70th Academy Fellowship for her distinguished poetic achievement, an honor formerly held by such poets as Robert Frost and Elizabeth Bishop. Don't miss one of today's leading poets as she shares her deep appreciation of Rumi's spirit and legacy.

Coconut -- New Poems, Coconut Books Opens

2007-10-26T06:47:00.000-07:00

Coconut 10, new poems by Norma Cole, Carla Harryman, Ange Mlinko, Emily Kendal Frey, Ben Mirov, Caroline Crumpacker, Chad Sweeney, Donna Stonecipher, Lily Brown, Andrea Rexilius, Srikanth Reddy, Erica Anzalone, Ann Stephenson, Carley Moore, Daniel Nester, Paula Cisewski, Paul Siegell, Kristy Bowen, Ben Doller, Dorine Preston, and Morgan Lucas Schuldt. http://www.coconutpoetry.org Coconut Books has opened with Reb Livingston's new book, Your Ten Favorite Words: http://www.coconutpoetry.org/books1. Thank you Reb for the announcement here: http://cacklingjackal.blogspot.com/2007/10/coconut-10-has-cracked-open-revealing.html

Happy Birthday

2007-10-03T13:41:00.000-07:00

Today is my 35th Birthday. Next week I'll be in Disneyland (for real).

Confirmations

2007-10-01T10:13:00.000-07:00

This is just to say I have confirmed your reservation with Hell Life Airlines. We're going to swoop you up really high, so the clouds develop their own personalities -- bashful, grumpy, ineffable -- and your fingers sweat burn victims on the armrests. Once we've reach our cruising altitude, we'll pour drinks down your pants and play pinata with your mouth. When the teeth explode we'll be around to pick them up and eat them like candy. The descent is when things get really exciting. We'll throw the pilot out the door and force you to land the plane on the runway. Never mind that the yoke is your ripped tongue and the instrument displays all point to boiling temperatures. The window fogs up with whipped cream and your face grows red as a prisoner cherry. You'll expect to crash immediately, but we'll delay it by taking you back to the playground of your youth. The other kids spin you on the merry-go-round, splash sand in your hair, call you the scared-iest scaredy cat ever. Its your fate to sit in the center and take everything all in, going around in circles to nowhere.

I Haven't Posted in a While

2007-10-01T10:09:00.001-07:00

Hi, if anyone is reading, I haven't posted in awhile because I've been busy with a book manuscript, submitting, job stuff, Jenny McKean Moore poetry class, etc. I'd like to add some appreciations/critiques of specific poems (not mine) to the site; it might help to get some practice in writing critically. In any case, I intend to post more regularly, at least a few times a week.

Disagreement Angel

2007-09-14T13:43:00.001-07:00

When things are getting too cozy the Disagreement Angel's always on hand to make things crappy! I love you, honey bunny, for the rest of my entire unnatural life! I want to tunnel into your insides and make a furry love nest for two! Then, trumpet blaring, flapping its massive wings, the Disagreement Angel breaks the couple in two like a communion wafer. Then he feeds them to the Gods of "I Have a Headache" and "I'd Rather Watch TV," who spit the two out like warm, flat seltzer water. While they're a puddle on the floor, DA zaps a spark of eternal argument into their spines, like a surgeon shooting patients with chemical fire. Then, after two days of hot baking solitude, the former lovers can now be free to ignore each other at the supermarket or decide not to take the yoga class the other person is in. The DA is satisfied, its mission is done. It gets on the bus and borrows a quarter for fare from a guy in a suit. It eyes a woman and man sitting next to each other. One of them is about to talk.

Failure at all Costs

2007-08-16T12:49:00.000-07:00

We would make sure we'd fail. We took every precaution against success that we could. Since the age of one we have sucked at everything -- spoke gibberish until we were 12, kept breastfeed until we were 18, wore a diaper till were 24, slept in a crib till we were 30. Our school report cards sparkled with iridescent Fs, minuses studding them like diamonds. Employers paid us to not work for them, closed their blinds when we looked in their factory windows. Significant others wished we were insignificant; insignificant errors turned into significant problems. Heaven wouldn't let us in its pearly gate, hiding its angels from view inside blackened clouds. Hell didn't need one more screw-up on its solid gold road, doing paving work. We were disappointed, after all this effort, to discover we'd succeeded. You might've heard of us, the object lessons, the morals of this story, the hypothetical example that proves to be obvious after all.

Omnivore

2007-08-10T12:55:00.000-07:00

I had a tooth ask me for breakfast yesterday. I said, toast and jam, coffee and laxatives, as usual. The mouth is a weird instrument. It plays beetles and worms when I'm asleep. I'm not surprised that bugs slip through the windows into my dreams. The eyes let it happen. Connected to the brain by delicate spider strands of bullets, they shoot nightmares into my lungs. Ten times a night I wake up out of breath, wondering if God has shut down existence forever. What would it be like to be inside a coffin, dead but alive, knowing there was no way out? I promise the tooth it will also eat dinner. Carnivores love their flesh, omnivores like me understand that they are that.

Hey, We're Getting Close

2007-08-10T12:52:00.001-07:00

If Poetry Journal: I have accepted my submissions, designed most of the journal on Page Maker, and am waiting for contributors notes. I also need to send out proofs (.pdf files via e-mail.) early next week. Contributor's will each get a copy and my undying gratitude (worth very little on the open market). Blog: http://ifpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

Withhold

2007-08-10T11:05:00.000-07:00

As the last sunlight destroyed itself in the universe, I had a chance to debate with myself the meaning of the word "withhold." Experts told me that it's about keeping things from someone beautiful. What things, I asked, flowers, bananas, Chiclets, charm bracelets, children, life-saving medicines, love? They explained it was complete, that not even a smile should be given, so that the galaxy would collapse into a black hole named after your hate. I sat on the last comet zipping toward the last pinpoint of collapsed matter, and I remembered the park where we walked, its trees and ponds full of birds, and I crushed an ant in front of you, and you frowned. It's times like these that I wish I could have that ant back.

Freezing

2007-08-01T13:41:00.000-07:00

The temperature inside your body must be zero degrees Celsius. You see me swimming in a quicksand lake, yelling "I'm dying! I'm not kidding! I'm dying!" and you quickly turn the corner to buy a newspaper from a blind man. Or you notice me being mugged by a fifty foot tall revolver, a bullet as large as my body, the trigger finger being rubbed by poison ivy, and you take a call on your cell phone instead. I can't cut you open to be sure, because that's against the law, I've heard, or acceptable only during surgery to replace malfunctioning organs. Perhaps I should hide in your closet with a surgical mask and a scalpel. When they find me over your form, frozen solid like a fudge pop, I will tell them I'm a professional who knew a blizzard was contained in you. I will them I had to be sure.

Turncoat

2007-08-01T13:39:00.001-07:00

At last we found him, hiding inside the mirror.

Jack the Elbow

2007-07-27T12:56:00.000-07:00

Jack the Elbow is a big man, in stature and in girth. He can eat more flapjacks at one time than anyone on the planet earth. His beard has its own space station; his blue ox is named Jesus. His body is a temple he's defiled many times. Ladies love him, come from miles around just to smell his ink. His poems are undeniably the work of genius, said a kindergarten class taught by William Gass. If he was a tree, he would be a mighty Redwood with the heart of a weeping willow. Men also love him, he's secure in his sexuality, he lets them kiss him and that's all. Children read his collectible cards, his publishing credits on the back, along with choice editors' opinions. Lemons grow sweet when he's around; onions stop making everyone cry. He bought the world a Coke which caused acid reflux disease. He's a danger to the environment; one day the world will be drowned in rejection slips. In the Bible he is known as Daniel, in Greek myth as Pan, and the Pacific Islanders called him "He-Who-Can-Eat-Thousands-of-Coconuts-Without-Throwing-Up." His new book is being published in heaven, along with "Howl" and "Chicken Soup for the Poets' Soul." His biography is being written as we speak.

Let Us In

2007-07-27T11:25:00.000-07:00

The door refuses to open. Unless it's delivered a new knob it'll continue to stick itself to the frame. We send in negotiators who promise only thin people will try to enter and offer new paint and lacquer as rewards. Through megaphones we yell that we have to get inside or the gypsies will steal our children, angels won't give us their wings, babies will rule over adults, tentacles will grab our bodies, the national debt will continue to go up through the roof. The door explains that our home is just an illusion. The house is made of death row dreams, the windows show only executioners. If we look through our cage we'll see the poetry we've scattered into the world being injected with poison. No, no, no, we moan. If we push our shoulder against it hard enough the new lives will eliminate the old. The door asks for reinforcements, the sofas and tables line up behind it, the floor and ceiling merge, obstructions turn everything we know into a massive stone. We have no sword to pull out of it.

Mystery

2007-07-26T12:14:00.000-07:00

Mysteries shatter on the kitchen floor. We had carried them carefully from the stove, popping hot gossip burning through our mitts, improbable fantasies bubbling in the murky broth. Our nerves shook our fingers, dropped the steaming bowls of secrets. They splash into each other. Nothing we have can clean them. Your unknown conspiracy for murder collides with my long lost son in the Tropics. They mingle together, web strands sticking together so even light can't penetrate them. We beg them to open up, give us their pearls, spit out their secrets. They whisper their regrets; they would destroy us if we knew. A fresh grave in the Bahamas cradles a body, my only child grown up to fill it.

Sony Reader -- Need More Poetry E-Books

2007-07-20T16:13:00.000-07:00

I just bought a new Sony reader, and it's actually working out nicely. It's not any harder to read that screen than a book. I also have the new Chuck Klosterman book, which is pretty good. Unfortunately, there aren't really any contemporary poetry e-books available for purchase. I think this is the direction where people are going, and it wouldn't hurt for some publishers (like Graywolf or University of Pittsburgh Press) to consider selling e-books. Just a suggestion.

Unresponsive

2007-07-18T13:30:00.000-07:00

Tripping into the house, I banged my head on the oven, then the refrigerator, then the chandelier, then the ocean. I wondered why an ocean was in my dining room, taking up way too much space. The squids and sharks poked their heads or tentacles from the water, saw me, and attempted to eat me. I ran toward the living room, where a jungle had popped up, spreading out into the backyard. Pythons and tigers spotted me right away and slithered and stalked toward my shaking body. That's when a great idea burst in my head. I stepped out of my skin and looked for the stairway to heaven. A bunch of people stood below it, as if waiting for someone to show them the way. They said, "I wonder if we're supposed to go up there. It's not polite to go somewhere uninvited." Heavy metal music played when I ascended the stairs, everyone below me shaking their heads, thinking I was a goner. How wrong. St. Peter slapped me on the back, showed me the globe I'd be running. A little more administration work than I was used to, setting this side against the other, popping souls in and out, but I'd manage. I peeked down and saw that the paramedics in my house had failed. The person they'd tried to help was unresponsive, lifeless, gone.

The Heart

2007-07-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

I don't let my heart in the house enough. Last I heard it was flopping around in the backyard, spilling blood all over the roses and dandelions. I can't have a major organ deteriorating like that when I have the power to place it on my canvas, surrounded by cherubs and chocolate valentines. A dealer might come and buy the whole thing, relieving me of a body part that's been nothing but trouble, only slightly less dangerous than the mischievous turtle bouncing between my legs. An attack on the heart would be worst. Gangsters could block its ventricles with lead. Cops might mistake it for an armed assailant and beat it with a stick till it stomped pumping in defenseless blood. I'd have to move to another house, cold and drafty, that I won't be able to complain about. My neighbors and I would be the quietest watch you've ever seen; people could leave flowers and offerings on our lawn, and we'd be unable to get up to take them inside with us. Someone could even steal our bodies, twitter with our innards, find out how we lost and bought our final real estate.

Unrealistic

2007-07-06T12:42:00.001-07:00

A picture won't do it this time. We need the real flesh, clothed in velvet, eating cheese on a cracker on top of the Empire State Building. We want saliva delivered to us by a clueless 14-year-old on his first exploratory kissing mission. A chicken with its head cut off reading the dictionary. Stomachs mouthing the words to the Fat Albert theme song with their belly buttons. Geniuses stymied in an experiment to cure baldness in chihuahuas. A dismal song performed by a down-and-out school marching band that was unable to raise enough money for its trip to the Rose Bowl Parade. A school bus exploding from the methane build-up from Jason and Dylan lighting farts in the back. All of this is required to do true justice to the filthy habit we can't stop -- existence. The doctors tell us we can't quit, and the advertising on TV makes it seem like so much fun.

Sick

2007-06-19T17:24:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted lately for a few reasons -- 1) I was trying to figure out some new things to do with the blog but hadn't come up with anything 2) I was at a writer's conference in Penn. 3) After the conference I cam down with a bad virus, and I'll probably be sick for a few more weeks. I may try to do an entry or two, but I probably won't be posting that often until I get better.

Unpleasant Event Schedule Poem

2007-05-24T06:24:00.000-07:00

Today one of my poems is here: http://www.unpleasanteventschedule.com/ Thank you Dan for publishing it; it looks cool!

50 Love Poems Chapbook

2007-05-16T07:54:00.000-07:00

I've printed out a limited number of copies of my chapbook, "50 Love Poems," that I'm selling. I could tell you all kinds of great things about the book, and that you could spend $7 on other products that wouldn't be as lasting, but I'll let a few poems below speak for themselves. I will also write you a unique four line love poem that will be yours alone on each book. If you're interesting in buying one, please e-mail me at floatnotswim@gmail.com for more purchasing information. (My printer/designer: www.BookWyrmsArt.com) I Every rock show I’m standing alone by the bar, sipping a cheap beer, kissing goodbye to all the dollars in my pocket. The bands might be surprised, though, if you slipped behind me and wrapped soft arms around my hyperventilating chest. They might stop playing, throw a spotlight on us, and dedicate a new song to our love, made up then and there as if we telegraphed words and music through the way we touched beneath blinking string lights. We’d dance past concert posters and paintings of skulls on the wall. We’d rub our nose rings like Gothic Eskimos. The punk rock girls would catch the bouquet of thorns. Security would escort us. Upheld lighters would guide our way. VI After leaving your place the world became a living cartoon, serenading birds flapping on my shoulder, pesky bunnies so happy they make everyone sick. When the super-heroes arrive they ask me to rescue you from your ex-boyfriend who wants to destroy the new universe and put the rundown dump back in its place. I try to use my kill-asshole-laser-beams, but he has a bigger-than-you-force field and the Hall of Beer is broken apart, the girl’s disappeared amidst the fray. For whistling squirrels and your safe return I’d let him escape, fight evil another day.

You Are Boring

2007-05-10T20:42:00.000-07:00

You are boring. The world is grateful. It doesn't have to listen to you. It doesn't have to pay for your chapbook. It doesn't need to pretend your readings are interesting. Yes, you can just go to sleep now. In those dreams you aren't dull. You aren't sitting in your chair typing these words. You aren't scratching your nose or ass or both. You aren't thinking of making love with someone who'd be embarrassed about these thoughts being shared with the public. You aren't really anything, you're a figment and an angel, and that's when you're really real.

Damnation

2007-05-09T08:38:00.000-07:00

As he walks through hell's gates, he can't believe all the stories were true. Pots of boiling water, lava, excrement, devils with pitchforks, people yelling for help -- all real as can be. He could have attended church more often, not embezzled money from the company, saved his friend who "accidentally" drowned. Sure, there were all kinds of things he could have done to prevent the eternal torment to come. Except, he knew he was just too lazy. He'd promised himself over and over he'd be a better person, but when push came to shove his fellow co-worker in front of his boss' rampaging train, he couldn't help giving the necessary tap in the back. To do the right thing he would've had to stand in front of a million locomotives, smoked last cigarettes for tons of firing squads. He's not totally unhappy, now, though. Despite being astounded by Hades' existence, he'll submit pretty willingly to the torture, like a dish soaking in hot water. The alternative, to believe he was suffering for a reason, one he had to rectify, would be worse than the pain.

NaChaWrMo: (

2007-05-04T09:38:00.000-07:00

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NaChaWrMo: _

2007-05-03T09:49:00.001-07:00

National Character Writing Month (NaChaWrMo): #

2007-05-02T08:32:00.000-07:00

Top Story: I'm Not God

2007-05-02T08:19:00.000-07:00

"Some of the biggest cases of mistaken identity are among intellectuals who have trouble remembering that they are not God." -- Thomas Sowell My friends told me I wasn't God, and I was very disappointed. I used to think the sun rose because I willed it, but now I understand it's a result of the solar system operating like normal. My car doesn't run on magic sparkle dust I sprinkle on its wheels. That's why I have to pay for gas, I thought it was performance art, a pantomime of what other people have to do. Co-workers don't speak the dialogue I've written in my mind; they are autonomous beings with their own desires and personalities. Even sleep isn't in my control. When I dream it isn't a fantasy where I only pretend to be subjected to anxieties and fears: my boss giving me work I can't handle, donut cream bursting from my expanding stomach, a hotel clerk forcing me to climb to the highest floor of the building. Instead, it's a random collection of images from the waking world, melded into true nightmares. Now I wonder who God is and where he's hiding. I check the seat cushions, question everyone I know. I look into the clouds. I inspect the stars.

National Character Writing Month: A

2007-05-01T19:29:00.001-07:00

Bad Dream or My Life

2007-05-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

Every morning someone wakes up screaming and I disappear.

I Write Bad Poetry

2007-05-01T12:56:00.000-07:00

From CNN's/Sports Illustrated's Web site, by Kelly Dwyer: "Washington wrapped up a disappointing season with a seven-point loss to the Cavaliers on Monday, a four-game playoff sweep that revealed next to nothing about these Wizards. With the team's two-best players on the pine, all we learned in four losses to the Cavs was that Antonio Daniels never turns the ball over (that's been apparent since 2001), Antawn Jamison can score with the best of them (you don't say?), and that this team's big men just can't be trusted to do anything besides get in fights and write bad poetry (assuming that there's such a thing as good poetry, of course). " Shall we be mocked, or shall we send Mr. Dwyer some bad poetry (which is apparently all poetry)?

Explaining Things

2007-04-30T13:38:00.000-07:00

The problem is I like to explain things. For example, if a door hits someone in the face, I forcefully describe the events that led to his or her being cracked. First, you were in your own little world -- a nice enough one, yes, with all your exes frolicking naked in a meadow -- but you weren't paying attention to the heavy wood thing in front of you. Second, you forgot to put your hands in front of you to stop the speedy motion of the door. Your instincts for self preservation had been temporarily turned off when you noticed a twenty dollar bill on the ground, one I had placed to test you. Then, lastly, you were unable to dodge the impact. If you had played football for many years like your father had wanted, you might've been able to jump away then score a touchdown. Or if a basketball player, your dad's second choice, you might've been able to dunk the doorknob into the room. So, now you sit, bloody and unhappy, and I'm telling you your faults and my mission: to test every human being's special reflex skills. If I run away fast enough, I'll be able to quiz the travelers in the Metro; I'll input my own messages and times into the display, see who's fooled and goes in the wrong direction.

Similar

2007-04-26T12:54:00.000-07:00

I am similar to major weight lifters in the world. They can toss a mountain at a bad guy, while my language can stop an English professor in his tracks. They are able to impress Olympic judges, while I can come up with pick up lines that charm beauty pageant contestants. I can insult anyone and make them cry, while they can prove their greater strength by lifting an automobile. I can perform songs that disable female warning devices, while they can instill fear in nerds running on the beach. It would take too much time to go into the differences, but let it be said that we both pray for deliverance at night, and we both think we could be so much better if we weren't ourselves.

Babies

2007-04-24T10:19:00.000-07:00

Her babies were handkerchiefs. When they cried we wanted to blow our nose. When they were burped we wished to put them on our laps. She would have rather had bed sheets or tablecloths, but the doctor said her genes determined their fate. She washed and dried them daily, singing to them as they rolled in the dryer. They loved bleach, their favorite flavor, but hated the taste of fabric softener. She hoped they'd grow up to work in a fancy restaurant, wiping the mouths of rich princes and princesses. Their chances were small, though. Somehow she knew they'd serve in a T.G.I. Friday's or a Red Lobster, the places we enjoyed. We'd wipe fiesta egg roll stains and greasy butter from our middle class faces. We'd sometimes forget they existed, leaving them abandoned and cold to rub the gunk on our pants instead. If they fell on the floor we'd step on them, crunching them down. Waiters wouldn't find them unless they crawled on the floor.

Figure

2007-04-20T07:47:00.000-07:00

I sketch out a face that resembles mine a little. The eyes are eggs, but I've been cracking. Teeth are chisels I've used to make a sculpture of fate. Cheeks resemble the wings of jumbo jets, roaring for lift off into faith. The hair is falling out, even as I try to stay in line, thinking I'll get something good if I'm patient. The teacher says that's a nice art project, a B grade; I'll have to try a little harder if I want an A. I never believed that was possible, although perfection was the scary twin who badgered me down the halls, whispered the secret I wasn't going to exist. If my hand drops my from my body, I don't know whether I should pick it up again. Hasn't it done enough damage? The lines on the paper are misting. Pencil marks become gas, the face sparks into a ring of fire.

Charged

2007-04-20T07:30:00.000-07:00

There's such a thing as electricity. You didn't believe in it until the fork in the outlet, the mascara on her face, her blue sun that destroyed you. There's also sun power, which you should consider for your day needs, not your night ones. You do feel its rays are real, because you can see the spots on her skin that want to be leopards, roaring down your throat into your heart. Disagreement about gravity, though, is the kicker. If you forget it exists, you'll peel from the planet, be prominently displayed on a comet's album cover, discard yourself in the moon's trash can. Will she wave as you soar past her, helpless to stay grounded in her presence? There are theories that shouldn't be debunked. Houdini and his E=MC2. Faith and her love equals you.

Memorial

2007-04-19T12:33:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if I should post this. It's not completely right yet, and I don't think anything can get at the sorrow and grief people are feeling right now. If you feel this isn't right, that I should take it off the site, please let me know. Memorial Poem I am heartbroken. It tore my heart out. She was one of the victims. His head sticking out above the crowd. Smiling and dancing. One of the best teachers. This is still a shock and still sinking in. Classmates are dead. A leader was shot. Let mom know that I'm doing O.K. Kids were safe playing. This horrific, senseless, and cowardly event. Happy, good-natured, always ready with a joke and a smile. All of the campers were surrounding him. I miss him in my professional world. Looked so beautiful in the gown and cap. This woman loved. We’ll all get through it.

Famous

2007-04-11T11:13:00.000-07:00

The most famous man on the earth had a problem. He couldn't get anyone to change the light bulb down in his basement. As soon as he approached someone for help, they screamed and peed on random light posts. They wore shirts with his face giving the expression he was most famous for: dour recognition of life's fleeting nature. Some people even wanted to eat his liver and intestines, so they could become him, therefore earning untold riches and celebrity-status. Not being able to do this task had tortured him since childhood. His father, now dead and not famous, used to time his attempts and denigrate him severely when he failed. "You are nothing but a washed up sitcom character. 'Entertainment Tonight' will never feature you on its broadcasts. Someone else will have to pick up that Oscar, right?" The man holds the bulb again, before the socket, knowing all he has to do is turn it right, right, right, and then he'll see light. His hands twitter, sing, perform an evasion. He's never wanted to look in the coils. An electric pulse, a chemical reaction, might tell him he's not important as he thinks he is. He sits in the dark, doesn't speak.

Terrible

2007-04-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

The apples we ate were terrible. So were the swordfish, the cat-of-nine-tails, the asbestos insulation, and the spirit of the age. We told the waiter. He offered us, free of charge, beetles, scars, blustery winds, damaged children, and figuration. None of these things pleased us. On our comment card we wrote this: A time will come when babies walk the earth. Not now, later. When that happens, a chariot of water will drown the stables of an unemployed cop. We will declare victory. Singed, Flame On. Then, we banged the door, biscuit, greeter, and bucolic lake shut. No one has seen us since.

Irony

2007-04-09T20:59:00.000-07:00

"Hipster irony has run its course. The next time I hear any white male schlub murmur a self-deprecating remark or grunt a reference to pop culture and expect me to laugh, I will beat him almost to death, bring him to the hood, and leave him wrapped in nothing but a confederate flag." -- Marcia Brady from "The Brady Bunch," who also doesn't love my pale, out-of-shape body.