It’s a record

isyouisorisyouaint, Threats

Give it a listen:

Making this record is how I spent this cold, frozey winter. I hope it resonates with you.

It’s a record

Kansas City, come hear poems while drinking the best cocktails in town

Sunday, March 10th, 6-9pm

Swordfish Tom’s

210 W 19th Terrace, KC MO 64108

I’ll be sharing the podium with the inimitable Silvia Kofler.

Kansas City, come hear poems while drinking the best cocktails in town

(some things left untitled)

My love, where you are not
All else is dark and cold
All is toward an ice-ringed end

My love, I hide my eyes and cheeks
Behind a borrowed shawl
Behind your borrowed name

My love, I never told another
Because it was an interrupted dream
Because I could never prove a thing

My love, did we really exist
Side by side, the lonely ocean
Side by side, the empty sky

My love, all
My love, behind
My love, because
My love, my love, my love

You tasted of the bluest salt
Your every word a floral form
We were so lucky to bear witness
To one another’s tears

(some things left untitled)

Sometimes the pillars of the temple stand apart

They rehearse the wedding details
In the middle of the arts fair.

Someone’s selling handmade pipes
While the groomsmen stand in line.

The wedding planner wrings and wrangles
And a jewelry-maker works a deal.

Many random people block the bride
Unsure of where and if they fit.

I’m watching all this with my poem.
A half-full beer within arm’s reach.

Random people weave around me.
No one’s sure if this is it.

Sometimes the pillars of the temple stand apart

Tearing Away From The World

I told my son
About your dirt road
And how we’d drive too fast
Just to kick up dust behind us
Like a demon’s sandy sneeze.

I told him about the graveyard
Across the rocky road
And the long-abandoned church
With its broken stained-glass windows.

I told him about the dull lights
And the squalling caterwauls
Late nights on your back porch.

I told him what we found there
Among the crooked, sun-sprayed tombstones.

I told him all these little things and more.

He responded with a shiver, “Oh, Daddy! Daddy, why?”

Tearing Away From The World

The Vulgar Mistake of Dreaming

Come up, come up

Let us show you the attic

Easy now, mind the dust

Mind the dust everywhere

Stand up, stand up

Tall now, look around now

There’s a box of old books

Too fragile to read through

Those cobwebs in the corner

The prior owner’s condition

Gaps in the insulation

A real character builder

Now step over here

There’s something to see

Look down, look down

Yes, that hole at your feet

You see? Sleeping soundly?

Not knowing you’re up here

And oh! how you’ve wondered

And held your suspicions

How easy we’ve made it

For you to never stop watching

Never stop, never stop

Who’s she dreaming of now?

The Vulgar Mistake of Dreaming

Give sorrow words, not antacids.

We were all so arrogant, yes,
     to think it wouldn’t happen to one of us
     though all of us are dying a little every day.

A maudlin fog grips the city
     that you’ll never see again.
A million icy particles suspended
     right in front of our noses,
     too tiny, too gray to make out as individuals.

Your son and wife are in Florida.
Only they know why.
In Florida, waves of melancholy
     lick the dirt-sand shores.

In Florida, seagulls gripe about their diets
     so the children feed them Alka-Seltzer
     and watch them fly away.

The children hope to pop the birds
     like balloons past their prime.

In California, children also hope to pop the seagulls.
The children have turned toward a cruel science.

Where will we be when the fog and the cold lift
     and all homes but one are warm and lively;
     when the ladybugs think they’ve found holes in the windows
     then spend the rest of their lives
     in a pane-centered community;
     when the rainwaters drop and the rivers brim with water poisoned
     by our desire for more life and our desire to grow,
     grow as fast as we can?

Where will we be when the woods
     call us back to make love in the forest,
     to make masks of shed bark
     and clothes from fallen logs?

Where will we be when you won’t;
     when you won’t ever again?

We were all so arrogant, yes,
     and arrogant still.

Our children are ignorant and growing.
The trees promise a wild, quiet fog.
Ice hangs from the leaking gutters.

Give sorrow words, not antacids.