In Your Tree House Dream

You could see everyone. You could see Patrick planting your eyelashes
In the shriveled mud flats. Even if you didn’t want to.
You had tea parties with a turquoise hippo, the stuffed-animal-kingdom’s
Fat, gossiping friend. Sometimes you two would kiss suddenly,
Invariably draw yourself away resisting more than a gentle ambush
Of lips and tongues sipping on tea you only had to believe was there.
The wooden planks were rotting, the tree struck by lightning. You look at a picture
Of a former boyfriend while gulping down coffee, and taste tea.
You cough old smoke, dust sand off your thighs and ass
So the ass-sand catches an ocean breeze and stings someone’s eyes. You say
Sorry, “I didn’t see you there.” The victim broadcasts the news
Across seaweed wire, in spite of your thighs and ass. You tell him, in response,
Building safety codes must be strictly enforced
And no more than ten Cyclops are allowed at the bar at one time.
You look as confused as he does. He clutches your abdomen
With his great jaws and you are submerged in the river.
You start laughing panic oxygen bubbles.
You get it. You laugh some more.
You hear some classical music on the radio and a sultry voice
Tells you that Handel’s servant came to his master’s door as awestruck
As anyone with a gun in their face. You watch the birth of a symphony
Until the hot chocolate cools and then freezes.

Letter to Uncle Pat from Syracuse

Dear Uncle Pat: If it isn’t too late, I thought you ought to know
that I keep a little glass by the sink. First, I fill it for my two potted plants,
then I, too, drink a full glass. It could be colder but, hell, it sure is invigorating.
I also admit here that my showers still last too long and I’ve taken up smoking
On occasion. Do you remember when I was younger, as were you, and I shared
some of my first poems with you? Though I knew they were terrible at best,
you read the frivolous efforts with the verity of a seasoned doctor, as you were,
and the cunning of a truly wise poet, as you also were.
Lately, North Carolina is everywhere.
Does that sound crazy? In poems, in radio waves, and now you, Uncle.
I don’t usually admit to these intuitions but, strangely enough,
I decided yesterday, your last day, that it was finally time
to send you some of my latest poems. The ones I’d grown proud to show you.
I never did get the chance. I think a neuron from each of our brains closed the synaptic gap, right before yours hemorrhaged, and released a sputtering chemical signal.
Did you get mine? The Sooner, The Better, they always say.
What they mean is, well, it means write like mad. Make a concerted effort
to write like a fucking madman. And I think it means no hesitation, too. Listen to me,
am I, a 21-year old fool, actually trying to lecture my dead uncle about living life without faltering? The same dead uncle who drove a race-striped Winnebago
cross-country time and time again through sandstorms, serpentine tornadoes,
a mobile hospital with M.D. Patterson as a service to all. Reminds me of a Crane poem,
short, chiseled to a sharp point, he wrote about the Book of Wisdom. Some punk kid,
like myself, thought he was capable of reading from it. Turns out the words
in the book blinded the little shit. I really believe I’d go blind too, at times like these.
Does this mean I’m the only poet left in the family?
Do you listen to classical music? Recently, during my nightly readings,
I’ve been religiously listening to WCPE broadcast from North Carolina, naturally,
And then today my father called to inform me of your passing. Either way,
I’ll still send you those poems if you wouldn’t mind sharing your thoughts on them.

Ode To A Pot of Burnt Mashed Potatoes

Still fluffy and white on top but burnt on the bottom,

A black and brown scorched landscape on the bottom.

Plumes of smoke bubble up from the inner walls of the pot

Like an ancient volcano awakened from a cold coma

Ready to spew clouds into my kitchen and I must

Weather the acidic ash as it rains down on the laminate floor,

The yellowed fridge, phony marble countertops, and the uneasy faces

Of my guests cross-examining the rest of the stove,

But Pompeii will not rise from Roman ruin tonight

Because we will live to eat the salvaged spuds,

We will rejoice in the whipped velvet unblemished,

The top of the pile deserve this much to be enjoyed.

Let those on the bottom suffer at the forgetfulness of my hands,

Those smoldered by the stirring spoon of circumstance,

And let none of my guests distinguish between the real thing

And these fake flakes I threw in the pot and forgot.

Two Sides of a Butterfly

One:

Are butterflies blind?

I like to think they are.

They fly so haphazardly,

As if two gentle pushes

Up on the air are worth

Half a second of soaring.

Two quick and gentle pushes,

To float in every direction.

Just imagine how lovely

It would be

To find a flower by chance.

Two:

Are butterflies blind-

Servants to the wind?

I like to think they are.

Wherever the wind wants

The butterfly is pushed along,

Dragged in her loveliest dress.

Two struggling flaps

Aren’t enough to break free.

Two struggling flaps

Can’t help her now.

Imagine how terrible,

Cursed with

The mandate of the wind.

Nine Normal Boys in a Normal House

Nine Normal Boys in a Normal House

“What it boils down to is that parenting a child with autism is a difficult job; writing about it is far easier.”
- Elizabeth Moon

One sits like a Buddha on his bed, with a toy guitar

He erupts toward the ceiling,

Stretching hugely-tall into a voiceless black bear.

His roar is the loudest whisper, a charade of danger.

Two is smiling because he knows not I, you, or anyone else

Will ever, control him. His blistered esophagus,

His teeth imprinted purple on girls’ arms,

His inability to spell his own name without pounding his skull

At the sound of the last letter repeated over and over

Three is a giant with professor’s glasses,

Crossed legs and a buttoned-polo. Expensive cologne

And plenty of chest hair.

After light’s out, the television dazzles through his smeared lenses,

Even sings-along all the songs for him.

Four can do so many things for himself, he has so much

To say that it all comes out at once

Like an avant-garde poet’s attempts –

Words stolen from newspaper articles spew out

Without hesitation and are caught by a fly trap.

Five’s appetite can’t manage much more than Triscuits

And prune juice. His body points, pokes,

and prods through oversized shirts

Like dead twigs underneath a plastic grocery bag.

He is standing en Pointe, curiously inspecting my face,

Maybe to kiss me on the cheek with stiff, crusted lips.

Six looks like a normal kid, drinks Coke like a

Normal kid, laughs contagiously like a normal kid.

Some normal-looking kids have fits they can’t control

And wake up in the morning in bloodied sheets.

Seven is captivated by water, but never for thirst, never to wash.

When he is allowed, he engulfs the sink pulling his

Sleeves to his shoulders,

Running his arms under the flowing faucet in ecstasy

Of wetness, marveling at this form.

Eight has a blue chew toy and chews so much that the color

Of the rubber begins to mix with his drool down the front

Of his shirt. Without his toy, Eight will chew on his hands

So much that the color of his blood begins to mix with

the drool dripping on the old rug.

Nine never makes a syllable of a sound and never will.

At Nine O’clock sharp,

Eight of the boys are sleeping wordlessly in this house,

Just as they would be awake,

Only now is the silence something of a miracle.

I can still hear Two, always awake, persevering

On his favorite phrase;

Babies are crying

Babies are crying

Babies are crying.

He knew that, too.

3 mo' fo' ya

In Downtown Bar Harbor, Maine

A successful withdrawal of forty dollars

from the ATM

folded in half, stuffed down the side pocket

turning around with my receipt

a small brown bat

dives in an exhaustive flight

misses my face by inches

Did you see that bat fly right by me?

Yeah, it was a bat.

But did you see how close?

Yeah. It was a bat. Let’s go.

flapping like a heavy moth

the bat flew out over parked cars and

any remaining trees.

And we were gone too.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Peach Pit on the Painted Yellow Line

On the steps of somewhere

white and concrete,

somewhere where important

news is broadcast from,

must be a man eating a peach,

sucking, slurping the juices

like a lip-smacking bear

with a sticky honey-comb

before the juice runs down his fingers

and soaks into his shirt sleeve,

just so he can toss the pit

into the road

and watch the possibility

for life implode

under the pressure

of the camera lens.


~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

We Followed An Owl

until it was content with

a suitable branch, out of our reach

though we were just as content with

our imaginations;

were its feathers as soft as a new expensive

sweatshirt? how

would a finger feel pinched off by

its porcelain fish-hook beak? how many licks

does it take?

meanwhile, it sat perplexed, watching us

watch it.

was this bird truly a spectacle of nature

or had I been desensitized to the real thing

so much that I was helpless to stare?

like a crash scene in a film,

or a white electric orgasm flashes

across the glass screen and intensifies the rate

at which your heart beats and you couldn’t

remember the rush of the real,

the blunted orgasm of the symbolic.

we watched it sit perfectly still,

shit a quick stream, and stare

one hundred-eighty degrees behind

as we walked away still

wanting more,

we knew it could only be wondering

what we were so fascinated with,

because it surely was not

impressed with us.

couple more today

To Not Wish Upon A Star

I decided
to let this one go,
and all the rest too.
Why should this or
any other shooting star
be left with
the burden of
my wish,
or anybody’s wish.
This must be
a conspiracy
to have us rely
on stars,
instead of human
decency,
maybe I should’ve
wished
for such
a thing
to exist,
first.
And then we
wouldn’t have to
rely on stars
for what wishes
needn’t not be wished.


~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

I fed
my girlfriend’s old cat
yesterday,
it cannot see
and it cannot hear
so I held the wet food
underneath her nose
which I assumed
could still smell,
and I watched it ignore
the aroma
of beef and liver juices.

She walked by the food
and around in sloppy circles
letting each step
tell her where she was.

She knew she’d eventually
find the food to taste
much sweeter
after pressing her paw
into the bowl and
finding it herself.