Today is the Day

Today is the day. I am dying, I could go at any moment, but I still have time to be angry. I'd like some juice; the last taste of juice in my life most likely, so where is the goddamn nurse? I've been feebly pushing this crocked button baton thing before Death comes in the room and rips my soul from my body -- and no goddamn fucking nurse. And I hate the view.

In Love with Everything

We go outside to have a lovely cigarette. The night is trembling ever so softly, like a snare drum. I can see the light from the streetlamp, and how it seems to make the leaves in the trees curl, intense, dusty and faded green. You say something to me, and I reply automatically, still wondering at the night and the light of the streetlamp on the leaves, as we sit on the fire-escape 3 floors up. We smoke and smoke the lovely lovely cigarette, in love with everything.

The Guy in the Red Suit

Every time something special is happening in my life, some event that I know I will be remembering for a long time afterwards as a rare and precious moment, this guy in a red suit shows up out of nowhere with his _____ ______ hanging out, babbling loudly, breaking things, throwing up on me. Now I live alone, bereft of companionship -- disowned even by my own family, all because of that weird guy in a red suit. With his ____ ______ hanging out.

break up poem, remembrance of things past

i.

i was fine
but she wasn't

because
she was a jerk

ii.

she was fine
but i wasn't

because
i was a jerk

iii.

do you remember those nights
when we were fascinated
with each other

there seemed to be no end
in the moment we inhabited

seeming solid

we were as delicate as two origami
poised by a window

with no idea how fragile
how transitory things are
through time

The Secret of all Secrets

I heard a disjointed conversation, sitting at the pub, from around the corner, but I didn't dare look. "Shhh. Here is the password, or even, the secret or all secrets....like two guys walking down a road with a mirror. EVERYTHING IS A STORY."

Just a Matter of Time

We were eager to go off to war. Mostly eager for Protecting Home and Country with God on Our Side and Kick Some Ass, why not? That is how it usually starts. Then you have your first mortar round, which was not that bad -- BTW. Boom! War is hell! Ha ha ha. What if I did get killed that day? Nah, then see your friends get shot -- a finger shot off say, or shot in the face, or shot in the groin & head -- or you see a few people get disemboweled on a rum tumm tummy day by high explosives. Laying dead on the roadside, sunny blood black in the dust with a dead goat and a few dead birds. ("They eat their own...", you said almost inaudibly about 300 or 400 times, keeping the mental tires on the concrete of your brain.) Later, you get that sentence out of your head by listening to the "Little Drummer Boy" -- as a joke going back to elementary school. One morning you wake up and turn around the points of the compass, messmates laughing. You know it so sure, you know it's nature now so purely, you will not speak it. It isn't a Great Adventure, this isn't really a War, but a Place where eventually you'll be Dead, too. And the Kicker of all Kickers -- Dead or Alive, you're coming outta this one Dead. And when you know that, what do you do? You write long emails, and you know for sure -- it is just a matter of time.

Sorry

It starts with Sorry
And then they write an Opera

Where they Sorry Sorry Sorry
For at least an hour

Only this time when you hear it
You cry every time

And you forget how angry
You were when you heard the news

For June
2006

When I was the Moon

I dream I am the Moon. I am at once all these things: weightless, radiant, cool, serene. Looking fondly down at Earth, I also find I have a very busy schedule -- lowering and raising the Oceans around the World, ducking for the Cow to jump over me, influencing Lunatics and Lovers, spicing up the lives of Crustaceans, Children, Owls and Wolves...but please, do not "Shoot at the Moon". Howl all you like, but no more "Shooting the Moon"!