November 19-26, 2009

The trumpet player tips his horn                                                                                                                      to let a thirsty listener lie                                                                                                                                     in pools of E minor meloncholy.

Molasses from a place above drips                                                                                                                 down and down, congealing                                                                                                                                in the silver space between.

A siren song of suffering sounds                                                                                                                      inside a bony cage – reverberates                                                                                                                 where bolder notes have failed.

Gabriel smiles.

I’ve written over 60 poems (that I’ve kept, countless other that I haven’t) in the past 4 years, and the reason why I am just now posting them for people to read is because I always hate the poems I wrote the month before. I’m growing as a writer (I hope) but I need a little direction sometimes.

SO…

Any feedback; good, bad or ugly, is welcomed, appreciated and sought after. Please let me know what you think, all feelings aside. I love to write, so a brutally honest comment isn’t going to change the way I feel about writing.

Your thoughts = help for me!

Thanks!

(February 3, 2009)

I

Second, I am a writer.                                                                                                                                        The ink in my veins doesn’t                                                                                                                               die with passing moments-                                                                                                                             only lays stagnant.                                                                                                                                                  It waits for the well to come                                                                                                                         swelling up, and flooding over-                                                                                                                          it rests, stewing in a hidden place                                                                                                                   and then the kettle hisses;                                                                                                                            sharp streams of solid smoke-                                                                                                                       steam vapor pouring forth from                                                                                                             cavernous rivers.                                                                                                                                                        Second, I am a writer.

II

Second I am a writer                                                                                                                                         because first, I am a child-                                                                                                                                    a child of something mysterious                                                                                                                           but internal, eternal and warm.                                                                                                                           I am a child of knowlege and                                                                                                                                 of something booming with greatness.                                                                                                         This I am first.

III

Finally, I am a lover.                                                                                                                                         Third, because the two before                                                                                                                               are unshaken while love                                                                                                                                           is a fickle villain.                                                                                                                                                 Finally, I am a lover-                                                                                                                                          I’ve reached for the stars and                                                                                                                         kept them captive in ketchup bottles.                                                                                                            I’ve laughed when I should’ve been crying.                                                                                                 I’ve slept when I should’ve been running.                                                                                              Third, I am a lover because                                                                                                                               life is love and being loved-                                                                                                                                 “loving with a love that is more than love”                                                                                                    in this kingdom, you and me-                                                                                                                               with all the stars that                                                                                                                                          can possibly be contained,                                                                                                                                 all the ink, all the tears, all the spitting                                                                                                        and dreaming and running-                                                                                                                                  all the stuff of love,                                                                                                                                               the gift of loving.                                                                                                                                                      Third, I am a lover                                                                                                                                             because daffodils depend on                                                                                                                           sunlight to thrive                                                                                                                                                   and the pen depends on the writer                                                                                                                  to write.

(December 11, 2008)

I never liked reading other poets                                                                                                                       but for the dark ones-                                                                                                                                              I could suck my fingers                                                                                                                                         like a little kid                                                                                                                                                             and lie in the dark                                                                                                                                                   reading about bashed in brains                                                                                                                           and cities in the sea                                                                                                                                               and I never wanted anyone to read me either                                                                                            but when I finally let someone…                                                                                                                         I didn’t write anything                                                                                                                                         for a long long time after that.                                                                                                                              I sure didn’t let them read me anymore.                                                                                                       But I read you I’m reading you and                                                                                                                   I can’t help but feel that I know you,                                                                                                                  I don’t pretend to understand                                                                                                                           what you wrote                                                                                                                                                          but I love it-                                                                                                                                                            the way I want to be read and loved.                                                                                                               Yours are delicate but powerful                                                                                                                        while my hands are clumsy                                                                                                                                   and my pen is still weak.                                                                                                                                                                       Yours are dandelions                                                                                                                                             in a thistle patch world                                                                                                                                       and that’s not bad-                                                                                                                                                     no one likes dandelions but me-                                                                                                                       but I think they’re beautiful.

(June 29th 2009)

The mountains go by-

and farms and carcasses of cattle,

haystacks and forests-

all disappear behind starched

cotton curtains in a flash of light.

I’m aching from travel

and hurting worse knowing

that so many hours still

separate me from home-

from being clean, from real

sleep, ripe with dreams-

from gentle kisses on the scalp.

I haven’t been homesick

since I was seven. And

since I was nine I’ve been

adventure sick – itching to be

a Runaway baby – Queen of the stowaways.

I imagine myself now-

these strangers make good company

and dripping harvest for hungry pick-pockets.

Jeweled fists clasped around

the necks of cheap expensive wine-

easy targets for an innocent beggar-

but no. I am not a theif today-

I am a patron of the Burlington Northern

Santa Fe Railroad.

I am a passenger – a “valued customer”.

I am no runaway baby,

because it isn’t so bad

to have a home to ride home to.

And Mommy will be waiting with

kisses and new games.

And you will be waiting

with questions and arms-

and all the things I’ve been missing.

The mountains disappear and

the “Empire Builder” rocks me to sleep-

or what you call it when

your exhausted eyes slam shut

from 10 hours too many

on the railroad.

(August 14, 2009)

Hate sleeping with dog.

Smells like dead things-I do though

because I love you.

(August 8, 2009)

Companion to scrawny trouble-makers-

He makes trouble of his own

But cleans up very well

For an interview.

King of the soul siphoners-

He’s got secrets hidden in

Sandals that tell tales of the

Places he’s been.

Decendant of gun makers-

He shoots words like bullets,

Not the swiftest of weapons

But just as lethal.

(September 22-October 2, 2009)

I

Harpooned hovercraft of mangled

teenage heart hums

a tune, out of tune, crooked-

While the moan of a distant

motorcycle-god screams through

10 o’clock like insect wings.

Contemplated “godly-speech” confusion;

-shaken with one part Camel Lights,

one part black coffee,

two parts gravel- sends the delicate

machinery of the cyclist into a

cheese-grater skid, smearing face

and leather across pavement.

II

An awkwardness-

interrupted by starving moths

lost in a fog of

highway construction dust-

turns 315 into yellow

brick redemption.

My sailboat home on a river

of gasoline and the stale

over baked smell of city smog-

sweeps me up in the devastating

simplicity of loving one.

stupidly.

III

Should haves try to resurrect

the dying, interrrupted by

parking meter checkers.

Time to pay up. Time is lost.

IV

dig deep to pick off

badges of significance.

“I am a queen!” vagrant woman shouts.

The bus leaves without

her- the coach leaves Cinderella

behind.

V

Garage dreams return when

least expected-

Chain cranks to open panels

the inside lock is stuck again-

Spiders curling into

chemical heaps of extremities;

My stem breath on windows,

Door swings open.

Crowbar brain frothing

at the mouth with prose.

Skinny bow legs leave

the garage, leave tomorrow

hanging on the door.

Sunbath licks my skin like tub water-

I skim the surface of the sky and

watch a distorted horizon through

foggy reading glasses perched

on sunburnt nostrils.

Salt caked on milky white legs

scrapes off in sheets; the

gulls laugh at my awkwardness.

Usually careful not to overcook,

I do most of my writing behind

a window, watching from a

cushioned hiding place-

but usually the canvas before

me is still unmarked – whitewash

waiting desperately for imagination

in paint.

Today, cobalt is infused

in myrtle scented air. Magenta kisses

my cheeks and green reaches out

to embrace each traveler with

amnestic bliss.

Dreaming is reserved for daylight

and stars, like lonely nomads, wander

about the herds of cotton cloud life.

He watched the bees fly-

one after the other-

down the long slender neck

of a half empty Budweiser bottle.

They circled

around the top, as though

determining whether or not

the source of the warm, sour

aroma was worth their attention.

Upon deciding

the bottle was harmless

and worthy of investigation

they effortlessly

dropped down inside,

fell into the musty nectar below,

and drowned.