Invisible Things

Hour 1

I'm near a young couple

that reminds me of us,

when you and I became we.

They hold hands in the back row

as fishermen depend on fishing

line, but really, they're not

fooling anyone.

They sit close, touching heads

now and then, or kissing lightly

on the lips, mouthing

I love you, back and forth.

How young they are, I think,

and look for something else

to criticize.

Hour 2

I spend time noticing the shadow

of the chandelier on the wall, then

the reflection of its light

in the dark window,

and finally, the chandelier itself.

It's golden, golden

like you'd imagine the Golden

Gate Bridge to be

if you'd never seen it before,

and I remember, for a moment,

that you're colorblind.

Sometimes Explosive

Invisible collisions of star

and star create electric-tar,

swallow acres

of galaxy from one

violent stone into another.

Like dust particles

and their pixie explosions,

we shed these stars:

pieces of gold

thimbles of sky.

One by one, and magically

another, finer than grass

we combust.

Like Smoke

We burn in this fire

our thick bundles of papers--

ink dissolving with wasted thought.

And it scares me to think

how many ideas dissipate in sleep,

in reverie.

The Forgetfulness of Living

for Rock

We have tiny quarrels,

around 1 or 2pm, when

the simmering clouds begin

to boil. I'll shift weight in my seat

while you go on about it all.

In the evenings we enjoy a fire

and our small company.

We'll tire of tea and find new

inspiration in the bottle,

everything becomes reflection,

revision-- the forgetfulness

of living.

Discussing the lamp shade,

first drafts of long

distance poetry,

where we're going to go.

I've spent so much time

with you today, you

who should have become

bothersome by now.

Best Man

Only once I've seen

my father weep

and kiss my mother

on her cheek--

You were there

all dressed up,

your casket

like a chariot

swinging peacefully

off to battle.

It's Ours

Every night we lie awake in your bed,

facing each other, looking,

with the urgency of cocaine addicts,

our eyes- smoldering red traffic lights

on opposite sides of the intersection

daring the others to turn green.

Before I grab your hair, soft as green

September grass, before the bed

sheets tangle like drunkards at an intersection,

before skin feels skin, before looking

at your face one last time under fluorescent lights,

my fingernails digging into you like recovering addicts,

right before I surrender my lips to their parallel addicts,

before the sun melts into the moon behind the green

and red of the sunset out the window, before the lights

dim with the horizon, the shadows on the bed

go with the dusk, the intensity of the darkness and looking

at you is too much, before our bodies find their intersection,

there is this perfect moment. The intersection

of our thoughts, the way addicts

know other addicts just by looking

into their eyes, the understanding that green

means go, that this bed

is our vehicle, our flashing breaths- its headlights.

Do you remember how my lights

took so long to change at that first intersection?

How I never touched you all those nights in your bed,

your stare burning through the back of my head into the attics

of my selfish mind? Do you remember the green

in your brown eyes when you knew I wasn't looking?

Forget those moments. There's no looking

back. Nothing matters but this moment now. It's ours, and it lights

the room from black, to white, to green,

and back to black again. It's the blinking yellow at an intersection

on a cold, dead night, and the tormented addict's

overdue suicide. It's ours, until the shadows reclaim the bed.

Like not looking both ways at an intersection,

ignoring red lights, befriending hitchhikers and drug addicts.

All the colors sink to green, there is nothing before or after this bed.

Think of the Brain

Think of the brain:

glorified, vulnerable--

a snowy field

without footprints,

a glass bell hanging

in the library.

We've forgotten the palms,

the soles, the lips, the eyelids.

Victims of air,

of calloused mistake --

these are the doers, the knowers.

For to know is to try,

to touch every page, to stroll barefoot

through clean snow,

the bat of the eye,

to have kissed you.

When the glass bell tolls,

it shatters, delicately, and

everyone looks up to stare. See!

The brain is not for knowing, but

for remembering.

Dear Julia

Nearing November now,

sweet Julia, are you still

biting your nails?

The tea has become

interesting to study--

the charcoal of your face,

dusting cold off the page.

Oh Julia, my mind's

not right, is yours?

Are you up with your birds

too worried for words,

for weather, this time?

Let us drink tea again,

let me draw you while

you draw me now. Smile,

Julia, I want to sketch

those wrinkles around

your tilted eyes.

Exposed

I feel like a pocket

turned inside out, caught

empty-handed

outside of its pants.

And those earrings--

were a gift.

the hold up

my Mexican novio,

straight out of Mexico City.

we dated for the second week

of my two-week vacation,

we got naked and rolled

around in bed downstairs

he was no bueno at kissing

i thought i might lose my virginity

to him, then i thought no,

i'm pretty sure i shouldn't

lose it to a Mexican.

tomato, potato

i spoke english to him,

he spoke spanish to me

we understood each other

sometimes, but we tried not to do things

that involved talking

we mostly just made out.

some nights we'd go with friends to the local pool hall,

held hands down the cobblestones,

one time we went ATVing

i drove, he couldn't understand

the concept of shifting gears.

he showed me what to do if i got held up in the street

you say, soy tuya.

that's it, you say i'm yours and they take your money

and you don't get shot.

he put his finger-gun to my head

say, soy tuya

i said it, we made out for a little

and kept walking

he slept over the night before i left

i had a really early flight.

when it was time to go,

i was squirming like i was ready to fuck

he had bad breath per usual

he begged and begged:

no quiero que te vayas!

we made out

okay bye

Ghost.

I stayed

out too late

because of him.

Because I was thinking

about you.

The triangle is

the strongest shape,

like Father like Son like Holy

Origins

for PHB

It's about a boy who was raised by lions and tigers

in the jungle, all his life knowing nothing other than ultimate

intimacy with the natural world. One day, when bored and

wandering, he finds himself on the outskirts of the jungle, intrigued

by the stream of sunlight peeking through the outer-most layer

of vegetation, beckoning to him with its luring aroma of unknown

territory. The light sucks at his eyes, as though magnetized, and

his feet loyally follow, under the same trance, bringing him to

the other side. Stepping out into wide open spaces - he points

toward the horizon, it's flecked with tiny buffalo (to us, this

scene might resemble a picturesque postcard on which someone has

sneezed chocolate). The jungle boy is confused out in the open,

for growing up in the jungle's tight, crowded quarters, he is

unable to perceive such depth of field. The buffalo out here

are the size of ants, how strange, this big world, how

impossible! Satisfied, the boy turns, laughing, steps back into the jungle.

There is a Noise

I

Painters are creative,

they say, novelists,

even architects. You,

Becca. You write poems,

you're the creative one.

II

There is a tragedy.

Ice crackling, lonely

sticks stuck in ice falling

like frozen birds

from these dying trees.

Please, somebody tell me,

what is creativity, if not

the ability

to put pearls on a string?

III

I shiver.

Bundled on the porch,

admiring my thick breath,

that solitary lamppost,

an orange twilight.

This sky will create snow.

I say it aloud,

This sky will create! Brother

Sister, Mother, Father:

listen. There is a noise.

I write for you, and the trees

will live again with spring.

Sophia

Thoughts of Sophia come

like mosquitoes after a rain storm --

the compost pile ripens and I'm

finally writing down what I've been trying

to ignore. Feels like home,

but you're here -- what is it

to long for someone who sleeps beside me?

New bites adulterate our bodies, we scratch,

we break skin, and Sophia's

mother tells you she's still counting the days until

you love Sophia again.

My shadow doubles

like a rainbow across a puddle

in the driveway -- guests are fashionably late.

I look to my right and the trees turn black

against a faded sky -- there could be stars.

Airplane tail-lights

flash through a far off cloud, invisible

passengers smiling, waving.

I wonder, does Sophia look the same

on land as she does in the air?

Don't Touch Me, I'm Smoldering

I might not know a starling from

a mockingbird, but you don't know this:

Sometimes the sound of your voice

makes me want to eat cigarettes.

Eat and chew and show you

the crunched contents of my mouth.

Be flattered. You're foolish to think

I don't love you, to believe

this is replaceable. Addiction:

Is it really so wrong? Do I smell bad?

Consider being considerate,

for once. If love takes time,

what does time take? More

time? An empty suitcase?

Yes, and a hotel room

and a cheap alarm clock in my ear

that only turns on when I sleep.

Wake up! You torture me.

So spare us, dismiss me. We

are rotting, with the broken

umbrella under this sour porch.

I wanted you to call when you didn't,

you called when I didn't want you.

Go ahead, blame me, tell my mother--

it's all the same. But when it passes,

think of the silence in your absence.

Think of that candle, sex molten pulse

on our bedside table, snuffed

in its prime. I'm fine if you are.

Fall

Silly whiskey. Glass

breaking like dominoes,

but don't worry

it isn't the whiskey.

Just watch it happen. Play

those games, wind.

My moon is piss test yellow

tonight, so what.

Someone's got to

take the fall for everybody else:

the son of god, autumn,

Bukowski. Tonight, it's my turn.

But don't worry,

just watch it happen.

Daybreak

Daybreak and Jake

is ready for school.

Screen door slaps

Jake makes his way

to the car. Mother follows

looking down. Sad eyes

widen, a creeping omen

at their feet,

the snake.

Mother screams

Jake looks down,

smiles.

The snake slides

between his sneakers.

Mother calls the dog

and grabs the rake.

Together, mother and dog

slaughter the snake-

the teeth of the rake

then those of the dog,

they take turns.

Jake cries, he weeps,

Mother looks up.

For heaven's sake, what Jake,

what makes Jake cry?

Mother reaches for Jake,

Jake pulls away.

That snake, Jake wails,

that snake.

It could have been

somebody's mother.

Doppelganger

It never occurred to me

to look on the other side

of the street, into that car,

to inspect everyone on

the elevator, in the subway.

It never occurred to me

that I might find you finding

me and that we might be

wearing the same clothing,

have the same part in our hair.

It never occurred to me

that you hadn't occurred

to me and I may never

occur to you, but you

occurred to me today,

when I swore I saw Mitchell

driving someone else's car.

He was smiling at nothing,

then red light turned green.

The Sign

It was a Tuesday morning and the bird shit on the top of my pack of cigarettes suggested that a bird had shat on my pack of cigarettes.

This, I thought, must be a sign.

That afternoon, I shared a handicap loveseat on the subway with a fashionable, thirty-something woman.

I figured, why not tell her the shit story, why not have a warm moment with a fellow human-being? Maybe she could use it later, say, to show off at a cocktail party:

"...I assure you it was a female. Obviously not a New Yorker," she'd boast, the Chardonnay kissing the rim of her glass with each emphatic gesture. Whatever.

As expected, after telling her my story and showing her the dried shit on my cigarettes (it must be a sign), she darted her eyes about the train car for several moments, visibly uncomfortable that I had the gumption to address her on the subway.

In the end, she said nothing. She pursed her lips and stared down at our feet.

I didn't mind. I turned back to myself, settled into the seat, and imagined the two of us, right then, praying side-by-side in an empty church somewhere - I for her, and she for her mother, or maybe for rain -

when suddenly, she erupted from our subway seat as a filthy, New York pigeon. Swooping down, she perched on my shoulder, and murmured, to everyone, "I'm Sorry."

weber street

alone, walking by

my ex-lover's place

is like coming

upon a playground at night

the red slide glowing

in blank moonlight,

the monkey bars

darker in the shadows

the swing creaking

as though it was

just barely dismounted,

its novelty lost

Metamorphosis

Somewhere, a man is

undressing in front of a mirror - his

butter skin, carved with wrinkles,

blood, green and swelling inside

wormy veins. His cold lips, deflating

as their stale breath drains out from

his eyes, and I've been sitting in my

study for hours, not writing, just staring.

First at the air, then the dust, then at my

drinking glass, which is empty but for

a few kindred ice cubes at the bottom,

silently growing into water.

the things we put into our heads

I don't know you

you don't know me but I never have to

wonder what the snow looks like

in a sunken New England sun

because I already know -

the things we put into our heads stay

there forever - it's pink when it's fresh

as if it wasn't ready to be fallen

you died in Chicago on a Saturday night

while I lay sleeping

and we all came to see you off-

you should have seen your father

well done, son, he kept saying

job well done

we were all there to see you off

but I wonder and to wonder is to lose -

if we cut into you

would you be pink the white snow

pleura

what's a poet

to do when

her lover writes

her a love poem?

I don't want to hurt you

but your tense here

is wrong

your last stanza

fizzles and

what is a pleura?

here I am

workshopping your love for me

and for what?

a revision?

birthday

Death is the mother of beauty.

--Wallace Stevens

every time she

goes to look

in the mirror

she's expecting to

see her seventeen

year old face

but if death

is the mother

of all beauty-

mom turned fifty

four on sunday

she made blueberry

blintzes we drank

fine champagne and

I laid her

body naked on

the bathroom floor

spreading my fingers

over her skin

learning each wrinkle

scar and regret

how beautiful she

was she is

she will be-

I Was Sober That Night

I was sober that night, straight as Sunday.

My proud father's house burned down to the ground,

Midnight on my sister's sixteenth birthday.

Old wood succumbed to fresh, flaming waylay,

Wild wind smothering thick smoke without sound.

I was sober that night, straight as Sunday,

Deafened by sleep- a breath-thickened hallway-

While the house swam in flames, soon to be drowned.

Midnight on my sister's sixteenth birthday,

Ashes painted the late-August sky gray,

Buried prized fortunes that never were found,

I was sober that night, straight as Sunday.

After the fire, the whole house burned away,

A skeleton hunched on a black background.

Midnight on my sister's sixteenth birthday-

It was my fault, I lit those candles wind-way,

My father in tears, his ship run aground.

I swear I was sober, straight as Sunday,

The night of my sister's sixteenth birthday.

Sunset View Cemetery

Yes, the air is clean. Yes,

It's warm and wide.

Yes, the door is latched. Yes,

The dog's inside.

Yes, your father loves you. Yes,

Your lover might.

Yes, you can go left. Yes,

You should go right.

Yes, the road is open. Yes,

Your eyes are closed.

Yes, this is the way. Yes,

Yes, yes, sings the quiet echo.

And when you reach the break

At the top of that first hill,

Yes, Snake Mountain will

Spread out before you. Yes,

Kayhartt Farms will be there,

As will Sunset View.

Yes, the grain will sway and bend,

Waving goodbye all over again.