at best

at best we are heros without capes
looking towards the clouds,

for rhyme, for shapes to move us
and chances to plug

whatever makes us feel important.

at best we are the opened books
being written on windshields,

before it rains. and the street cars
hum; itching for speed.

our songs collecting in ribbons
of water-like veins spelling stories

that always blame the weather
for directions lost. at best

we are a bridge, tunneling through
the wind, repenting to no one,

breasts exposed-fucking
the tide below.

at best we are sexy spring, growing
tall the smell of newness

we are lazy summer, to hot to care

we are fetid fall, killing what can not
endure the labor of winter.

at best we are augment, with nothing
but the past to set us free.

a kiss

a kiss stays trapped, composed, ambiguous
collecting wait

like elephants grazing-but we can not
accept the touch

or breath its air
until there's room in it for the both of us.

there is a first kiss and a last,
ones that lead us to our death

and past, hiding middle ones
on the neck

to be remembered on mondays.

and there are others of course
less interesting kisses. forgettable

moments easily paid for, played for
thrown away in vain for

a cup of accession.

a kiss, tasting like december
and carmax. or cigarettes,

or vodka cranberries, or both.

and morning air kisses, warming
toes in woolen socks,

with you
wiping cold nose off you cheek.

Poetry

Poetry, the effectual lover. She will leave you
for your brother;

drapes torn, while the taste of her is
still on your tongue.

Poetry knows your lies,
collects lies,
makes you believe.

Poetry is a plastic bag in the wind against August.

It is the unkept self in the morning;
with nothing to do but rhyme.

It is the weed pushing, drawing air
deep into its lungs, corrupting,

assuming parking lots.

Poetry makes love in the dark after fucking all day.

It will lame you, lead you,
find your most intimate words,
then leave you.

Poetry is the blind man singing beyond his sight,
a song made for everyone-

and some will not understand.

morning construction

I awoke this morning to the sound
scaffolding makes

against cold hands and sidewalk.

Dimpled backs carried graffitied blocks
both

old enough to remember the days
when Unions gave a damn.

They moved fast, screwed fast,
hanging the nets and blinds before

my coffee boiled, naming it
Tuesday. I always ask

them about the weather; no one
knows it better then a day worker.

They know it like a baker knows yeast;
using their noses and
the feel of the air.

I watched as the new kid awkwardly
thumbed a hammer. Dropped it, in front
of a cute skirt wearing train wreck, walking past

them all-teasing us all. He'll get it
for the rest of the day,

but he had it coming,

the new one always does. When your new
you get it twice as hard, taking the shit
the rest went through,

all the days before you arrived-
just so its even.

Their always trying to make it even.

unfiltered communication

I dreamed my father lived in a hallway,
painting clothes; hiding prose and

a cell phone between lucky strikes. counting
down the hours spent awake, and not

counting at all, days spent asleep.

he was younger then, stronger then, eyes opened
at the edges then.

I saw him planting tones, speaking vowels, reading
words everyone loved to hear. but he stood there,
showing me and

only me his knuckles- painted red like a sound
that covets the tongue; displacing meaning,
displacing thoughts.

displacing what it can.

I turned and stole his pack of smokes-
his words they could not see me-
and, plugged them into the

wall for a chance at unfiltered communication.

parades

a toast to parades. I feel the noise.
the awkward setting arranged to let one stare
unmoved, watching life behind fences,

and catching free candy.
a movement of time,
like shitting on the street but with flowers,

or masks,

or plastic cigars

or elephants

shitting where ever they feel like it.
people dress in franchised clothing,
rented, appealing to fever-

colors, bent by the Sun and group think.

everyone waves. i see you. look at us now.
its fun because its true. its fun because
it doesn't last.

the imagination, the power to speak,
type, create and walk using just two
appendages is what separates us

from them. yet sometimes i'd trade it
all for the ability to shit and fuck where
ever and whenever.

i found it hard to practice care

i found it hard to practice care, even though
the night was young, the tricks, flowing

like the bay to the next mouth awaiting
ruse.

there is mistake in practice, and no one waits
for leaning to curve; leading, persuading entropy-

but you can call it mingling.

i'm good at lighting cigarettes, playing
games of chance and creating holes that

loop, but i'm not good at you, or
me rather, and i've forgotten the cross streets

already.