Alive In 85

look back in anger, look back in anger, look back in anger.

Lookout at Noon  

My hands are not shaking


               they leave, and


I can assure you they do,


               but only for a moment


this moment, when I am unsure


                  I am very unsure


of anything else


                    so violently beautiful


corsets of steel bearings


                   that hold together


that hold the highway over

                 that river.


We may even be carried home,


                      by these little bugs


that are swept into blue highway


                  and never have to do anything




                and we will be held


to that conviction.


                           Now, while right now


they do not come

                       they may.


This is why it makes perfect sense


                      that I have hid from you


but I cannot hide.


                       I note two beetles fighting over


a brush of dead grass


                         they hold each other


and they look as if they are playing

                                  but I am unsure.

About Last Nights Dream 

I feel crowded.
Something in the air raises
and she hears me across the city.
But ignore that sound.
I acted like a child
when she forgave my hands.
We walked in the street
men in the windows
and in the wake of her legs
I joked about eating
unshaven pomegranates,

Reenacting The Cover of ‘Freewheelin’ 

I can invent that morning so well
when I walked with her home
and I pushed her hair west to
learn how hands can beg.
I was Dylan. She was Suze.
But what is the six o’clock sun?
Now that there is no snow here
and every gladioli lives, reluctant
that I had not met you sooner.
I do not know why it was her

talking to you now in the night shade
of your porch,
and it really is a shame that
we wake up in different parts of the city,
offended by the glare in the window
every morning.
Ideal painted branches covering everything and
while Carver will never be the West Village
I can hold on to your arm
sometime soon and look down,
We can adapt, you
who I should have known would come
And every woman who lives in a southern town
with the eyes of my mother
that I have not had the pleasure of knowing.
We all could stutter our legs
down past the first second lovely bird.
But it is never you.
I have always stumbled,
afraid of my own two feet
wanting angels
to twist my head only toward moonlight.
My head does not know
the body that moves it.
grab hold of the shade
of her body that is desire.



Over the course of three days we crossed our legs while fourteen advertising men talked about loneliness in bathroom over the fan (which is a total fabrication of everything that has ever happened), however it is true that, there is not much to do anymore. At least I don’t want to think about it. Yellow eyes of my angel, her angel, her mother’s perfume that becomes the perfume of my mother. What is not mine is mine, you know? What a stupid question. Of course you know. How dare I even be unsure about your knowing? Can you forgive me as I continue to insult you with questions?

Of course you will forgive me. Everything is forgiven. But this is not done because we are kind hearted. Because we are not. We just do not have the strength to keep thoughts of you, thoughts of me, around. She forgives me but she surely doesn’t. Maybe I am using the word forgive when I should really be using the word forget. You know the saying, always forgive never forget? (of course you do.) Well that is not a truism and it is not true. I actually don’t believe forgiveness is real. I don’t know why I have been using that word. I should stop using it. Everything is about the forgetting. For example, those advertising men, they have no names. Not because they were never given names. Because they were. I know this because they told me their names but now I don’t know them because I forgot them. So now they never had names. They are insulting by nature (because of their trade) and deserve no forgiveness. But I forget them. Its alright, I forget you.

However nasty this may sound it is not my fault. I have been forgotten before. Do you forget me? One time she forgot my name. It was actually very funny and we laughed because we had known each other for years and it was so absurd that she forgot my name that the entire situation had to be forgotten. She is a nice to look at. I enjoy looking at her very much. We never talk about much because we have forgotten what we had to say. Her hair is quite bushy and I like it. I forget what color it is but she is getting in the way of people I have forgotten. But who are they anyway?


But now I have entered a trap. The ‘she’ now becomes the only ‘she’. What can I do now to be ambiguous. I do not want to slander people I have not even insulted yet and it is not slander if they have no names. They have no names and they have not been forgotten (which is not entirely true) but there are only so many pronouns I can use to cover these ghosts. I suppose I can use ‘her’ instead of ‘she’ to hide two women that I still want to insult, but I shouldn’t because that is terribly confusing and not actually very kind at all. Maybe I should have more courage. Maybe everybody deserves to be named. However I would rather everyone named themselves, and I am positive that ‘her’ and ‘she’ both were ‘named’. Those names that I have not forgotten but hid, are surely are not their true names. When they name themselves maybe I can say their name. But I cant bear to do that now.

too much new order, too down.

Jun 10th at 10PM / tagged: zine. poetry. / 3 notes
a peak at the cover.

a peak at the cover.

im giving making poetry zines a try. first draft for a prose poem

im giving making poetry zines a try. first draft for a prose poem

My Dream Girl Forgives Me At 9:43/Revision 

Should I grow fearful of myself, wanting, if you will—
that light, through the window, that we both observe now?
In mourning, we watch golden girls walk slowly outside.
Their feet light, you laugh and lay on me—we listen to
Poncho & Lefty, and we know, neither of us hurt like
poor Poncho. But I look at you, and feel I deserve more
of the dust. I abuse you. I rub my hand down your leg.
I have insulted you a hundred times, and it persists.
You adjust yourself and I blame you for Poncho’s death,
taking your hair, and watching the shades in morning air
shaking from vents on the floor. We make use of our hands.
I hardly feel deserving of his inheritance. Not when I
treat you so terribly, without even knowing, grasping
the slight of  your ankle. You used to be repulsed by me.
I hear the base of your foot with my palm—and
you forgive me, when you shouldn’t have
by smiling, and saying that I tickle you.