to speak the names of our dead

we are foolish fellows

we amble and trip

over the grooves carved by our sadness

deep ruts cut through hard-packed earth

your grief speaks quiet and low

and i see the way it paints lines

on the backs of your work-worn hands

and drops your shoulders down

to become like granite

your loss is whispered and you

have found places to bury it:

beneath backyard mud, tangled in tree roots 

sliced among pieces 

of fruit

the dead grow up stubborn and hearty

so i pluck and

hold them whole beneath my tongue

grind their barbed stems and

 bitter petals between my teeth

i will swallow all these ragged pieces whole

if it will let our grief fall mute

i will make myself

split open, ripped

pulpy flesh squeezed out onto sidewalks

ribs cracked raw and wide

but if these stripped-clean bones make the 

bird cage that you nest in ,

then where is the room for my shrieking,

wailing ghosts? 

take them,

loud-mouthed, persistent

let our dead learn the words to speak their names

to each other

and we will lay silent on green grass

staring up into endless, empty skies

lines from The Time Traveler's Wife that make me feel things

"I hate to be where she is not, when she is not.  And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow." (Henry, x)


"I am suddenly aware of myself standing thin and upright in a Meadow where everything has flattened itself down and so I lie down hoping to be unnoticed by the storm which rolls up and I am flat on my back looking up when water begins to pour down from the  sky.  My clothes are soaked in an instant and I suddenly feel that Henry is there, an incredible need for Henry to be there and to put his hands on me even while it seems to me that Henry is the rain and I am alone and wanting him."  (Clare, 72)

then/now

once, i was a universe,
the expanses of stars and the intrepid explorer.
I was the newborn foal and the knock-kneed doe; uncertain, eager.
I was still, unblemished water, and long gulps of cool air after diving.
I was a dirt road, bare clapboard walls, rooms to be filled.
I was a phone call home, and the future wife, and the names of your children.

I gave it all.  I gave it all.  

Now, I am a filled-in map, no borders left unchallenged.
I am a burned-out light bulb and the fumbling that follows.
I am a picked clean, sun-bleached skeleton and the buzzards overhead.
I am feet encased in concrete and dirty bathwater circling the drain.
I am static, a dead line, the click and the dial tone.

I take it back. I take it back.

a poem about nick jaina

When he sings, his mouth barely moves

His mouth is a cracked slit, words eking out like

a secret he still wants to keep 

He interjects stories in between the verses of the songs he’s written,

and on this pressed plywood floor,

I am transported. 

We are standing in an alley. 

We are leaning against a brick wall. 

Our breath makes clouds in the air and he says,

quiet and self deprecating,

I don’t know if I’ll ever fall in love again.  

Sometimes I cannot sleep.  

I’m having trouble eating.   

I thought I was doing what men do.

And the music loops and his fingers slide and he is reading pages from a diary like we are all his closest friends. 

I do not feel like I deserve this. 

He sings, I have the same tattoo -   

Mine is black and hers is blue,

and I’m in Primary Ink leaning over with my spine exposed. 

Kai runs the needle over my back and I

hold my breath so that I won’t move. 

I hold my breath until I am dizzy, and the tattoo feels

like a slap on a sunburn. 

Jordan sits in front of me,

lets me squeeze his hands so tight his fingertips turn white and cold.

He kisses my head, tells me he’ll love me forever. 

He kept that promise until he didn’t have to any more.

Now I have the memory marked in my skin. 

Bold, black ink across my spine reads “Mea Maxima Culpa”: my most grievous fault. 

The voice at my back shouts, you are to blame. 

You are stained with guilt.

You are the one  mired in remembering.

I have the same tattoo - 

Mine is black and hers is blue.

And the music loops and his fingers slide and I

Do not feel like I deserve this.

first open mic in years and it's with something old and comfortable.

A change is coming

and it's good because i've been method acting

the sad mick on the corner selling

stories of my childhood 

to any stranger looking to be inspired for years

shaking my cup made of blank folded pages

waiting to hear the din of a city's bent phrases

picking up words off the asphalt dropped

by the drones skip jumping from one stepping stone

to the next, i'm just waiting for the right hand

ciggie burn, camera click and scene switch

i'm not alone here though, 

because two can play this game and play we have

acting the supporting roles in eachother's lifelong

tragedies but when painted faces and 

costumed days become the typical we don't quite know 

what to do when it's: good show, old friend, take a bow and take your leave

you were the one who first

pressed my spine to the sky and dusted

cobwebs off chakral catacombs just to see

what kind of bugs we'd attracted

and it worked out for the best because this

light never shined as bright as when your fingers

did the striking

i was dull and flickering when you found me 

 cross eyed and tongue tied

living in empty crossroad romances 

shouting over screaming tires into

blank universal expanses 

looking for a deeper meaning

in the psychedelic trance dances

with pen calloused hands you

pulled me up from the tumble down rabbit hole

alligned my body with my mind

rewriting the lines i'd been confined to for decades

and gave me purpose

since then we have been greek marathon athletes

running tag team through muddy streets living in

our shared racing heartbeats

we complete the pattern,

good things for good people

trailing behind it's your back that takes the most

familiar shape, but it's your back without the voice to tell

your feet to do the waiting, 

my soles met your soles on suede and soaked soil

and we're tired and battered but the race is

far from over

so we keep on forward, one foot in front of the other

chasing california dreams and sweet sunshine cover

until we can drop, bruised and sweat soaked

and be still for a while

in laying here, i could count your vertebrae

and write poems on your retreating

but this leaving is a burden, bone 

breaking and beloved and i don't know

how to spit when the fire from my lips only knows

enough to sink war ships

and i'm doing my best just to keep this afloat

it would be so easy just to let ourselves sink

join the rusted ruins at the bottom of the sea

but our need to breathe is greater than our

need to sleep

so fill your lungs and hold it tight

we have so much further yet to go

a change is coming and it's good because, 

for a second, this was a love song

one of those puppy dog eyes, sweating palm songs

one of those thick-tongue, can't find the words songs

but don't be mistaken, this is our swan song

one last epic testament to the babel tower 

we have built, rising it up from the muck and

the mire stretching stacked calendar days

 to the heavens and higher

knowing this prison of cracked bricks

and sticks is the best platform from which to jump

beyond ourselves

a change is coming

but please don't be scared, i know the gyres are turning

and we're counting down moon phases 

until the cities start burning

and the lesson we've spent the last ten midnight's learning

is that crossing our fingers won't stop the tides turning

this is happening whether we like it or not

so take one last gasp in, approach nirvana

in the inhalations

let that calm reach your head

reach your body

reach your lungs

pray for flight, blind leaping into the sun-rising sky

and until our colliding plot lines

decide to star cross eyes again

it's good luck, godspeed, goodbye

the lover is childlike

the lover is childlike

made more innocent and fearful

by the certainty she feels

she hides her tired face in his chest like

she once hid under her mother's skirt

clinging to her legs

the man will be the beginning

and the end of her

the definition of all things

so she throws herself to the wind

like only a child can:

reckless, limp-limbed, made buoyant by love

and faith that she can fly

• This poem was apparently written by an anonymous writer after hearing me read on KDVS.  mr./ms. poet, if you're out there...thanks for the homage, i am quite flattered!
  
  
  
  Homage to Ashley and Dr. Andy
  
  She, the Lady Godiva of the skit
  reads over the air waves lickety split.
  Grit verse voyeurs tune the broadcast, get it?
  
  Her censorship is inequitable.
  Candid eloquence is negligible.
  
  Hence, "Upon the very naked name of love."
  Riding a horse, on a deserted cove,
  the sole poet bares all, in the name of love.
  
  Bold, her breasts in words, yet taxed to inspire?
  Peeping Tom, verse voyeurs, brave to perspire.
  
  In awe of Professor Jones for his gifts.
  Presents, an array of poets, who don't gyp.
  Praise to the good Doc this is all a trip.
  
  Her poetry red in a Turkish bath.
  Verse voyeurs would steer off the primrose path
  
  let's surf the violet sky upside down
  kissing words, like a jester stealing frowns.
  Ashley! Tear off your mask you are renown.
  
  -- the anonymous poet