while you still can

you see
one red

and then you start to see

them all

breathe:

cool in

then a sigh

narcotic

  (confusion

  (convenient

habit

start to feel yr heart

on other than high alert:

horse-drawn Havana

calling out the names:

tiny fruit

red fish

sweet coffee

poured by ancient women

in a tiny window

back in the U.S. you

     (gotta laugh

dream room in a real house

what to keep inside

I guess nothing heavy

chapbooks and linens

dried fruit

and myself in this moment

washed out of plans

I am really airy

being a Libra

taking pictures and posting

trying to float above

jaws offered

as I've noticed

from this past catastrophe

anything that seems to save me

takes me

if it seems to save me

it takes me

opt instead to float above

I decide

where to sleep for now at home

Diminishing Returns

A flattened shopping experience feels like a symptom of
malignant narcissism.
I'm just trying to make small adjustments now,
I've got to be careful of rationalisations
they are the pathology, overspilling.

So one week I think I'm being haunted by home,
that a JD Sports will open round the corner,
be shuttered by autumn,
another and I think well, whatever informs my opinion
is just a constellation
and so my friends and where they live,
are a constellation and getting where they be
is of little consequence,
the arrival shall bleed off annoyance.

But diminished returns I keep referring to:
when the narcissist is borough bought
and sold on the town tale
to interpolate-

-that being surrounded is enough,
an elevation

but in the end dominion isn't
improvement, right?
If it's just a wrench to something familiar
if I accept JD
if I'm not running from the fire sale
I have diminished the return,
ready for the new wave
to churn the scatter,
toss out the cockles,
to wash us over.

Nu yu

Each spring I hopefully begin my to-do lists
which always includes some variation of

"have herb garden,
in kitchen?
in window box?"

The ghosts of mint and basil plants past
do not hover over me when I buy a new crop
at the farmer's market.

I want to try again and again
to remember to do something with care
to grow my thumb green
to be the version of myself
that pops up in fantasies
over and over again.

Last day on earth

Every cell in my body has a
last day on earth
then maybe floats somewhere else
past the smog
and ozone layer
and burns up
lovingly
out there somewhere

carbon love

ok so we know
it all begins with
one, two, three (that’s you)
four etc (others too)

one: held aloft above the rushing
trout stream, birds chirp, bicep
warm: my nose shoulder torso forehead
all fit there

one b, one c, one d, one e
this is how they say it goes

one f, one g…
teacher, shrink, friend, actor,
actual lover here and there

i know the theory.
here’s what i see:

i see my wish to stop
and let the copies copy
one after another onto
your body, your words
your aspect

let them come layer
like dirt becomes rock
heavier and heavier
solid solid solid

though you are a
rainbow
and can never
be mined

Front & Centre

Stepping behind this

grabbing its wrist and pulling its own punch

if I squint, or if steeped in coffee

and redding out a sphere encloses

perhaps this looks like

look at me

it's historic grandstanding

I haven't seen anything like it.

I'm in the seventh year here

and yes I'm from a place

where events are

knots on a 

cat o' nine tails

may as well be a

cat o' no tails.

The cat of, where?

History is not better served as the lego of facts.

And this is my observation here,

the endless hope that those knots

could be slid off like in a magic trick

scooped into a pile

vs the childish impulse

to start flicking them at those

still writing,

still perfecting their pen grip.

DOWN WITH DOMINO

Moon. Dagger thin.

Midnight mistletoe over Bruegger’s Bagels.

If these nights were video art

that moon and all defense smiles

would flash in blurry filtered

procession – the God of guilt would

smash the family tree farm

with her resin mallet:

down with the domino

of everything –

SWEET ONE

The sweetness creeps up

in the costume of a lecherous joke

rooted in lust

or maybe just –

what would happen

if we showed our fondness.

In this case, if I pinned my hair

for the better part of a winter,

learned liquor, kept weapons in my belt.

Sweet one in his velvet suit,

walking home from jail.

Old wolf at it again but

more kind

this time.

Medieval Troubador Songs and Dances in Upper Manhattan

without a top-floor

southern exposure

slice of pie in

evening light you might as well

give up, why be political

without a clean apartment

why be anything when you

only have 40 years to decide

to be a tambourine virtuoso

a weaver, or luthier

a piper or whatever the shorter

your life the higher the stakes the

longer the life the harder the choice;

will you remain radical if you

start now, will someone yell at you

is your home too dark to look outward

your problems so small you can't choose

from among them the dinner you ate

too late at night and not with family

the way the screen looks when you want to work,

the work too worthless to inspire,

responsibility for a life expectancy blessedly

going down, not all of us will live 

that long, so

make a choice, the right one, which means

never

january 30 2017 poem

It’s so hard to write poems when I can’t feel my feelings

one year ago this morning someone I loved
last breath with my hand on their shoulder
someone who made someone who made me

shouting things and feeling like we won

in arms on a sofa
in arms in the kitchen

sitting on a bench in a stairwell
where the biennials used to be
wearing a skirt from that era
holding a three month old who held
my fingers in their mouth
our posture like a painting
for the people on their way from 3 to 4 to see,
impersonating living my idea of a perfect life
and feeling…?

shouting and cheering in the plaza
the night warm for this time of year

today i didn’t read the internet for hours
and then when i did i read someone
very intelligent saying that some people should
in fact start to make exit plans and that this is
a rehearsal for a coup and…

what we’re doing on thursday
isn’t a date thought it may look like one

the baby’s not mine

yet history is doing what it appears to be doing?

he was conscripted by the occupying army, was a police officer when the dictator was in charge
got out, got here, spoke so gently to me, died with me there

INSIDE OUT

I might spread my fingers

into the current, or

it might freeze around

my cramping fist

like, people change

and stay the same

why the birds in Lansingburgh

jump sideways into bushes

why the boy at the corner

first lowers, then lifts

his Styrofoam strip

THE THING

Here is the thing
so many times the shape is by accident
or maybe the same shape
has been this accident
for what feels like always
the men nod to the men and everyone
including some of the other men
wonder when the speaking will cease
the braids become ropes
the beads become rocks
carve a daisy into the bathroom mirror
the future will know
what you meant

PLEASE (AF #4)

Please don’t let that smug conviction

cloud your truth

don’t let the mirrors show you back

the hard eyes of what your thought

it meant to be

adult

don’t contain

some act of loyalty to self

nobility of notions

at least they act

no you have to love you have to

cave to being concave to being

a plane that touches the lines of

all the other planes that make

the face of 

wet eyes,

glory be

My, what lovely lungs you have

My, what lovely lungs you have,
pressed up here against my hand.

So what if I made them myself-
or was that you?
Let's call it a joint endeavor.

With every rock of my chair
a new wave of nostalgia
for the present moment
washes over.

Take another breath
and another
and another
and keep going.

MORE MARIAH (AF #3)

generic proclamations pasted atop

the most spiral staircase

crescendos

and than a hero comes along/

with the strength to carry on

anytime you need a friend/

I will be there

we don’t go dance

instead, cocooned

imagine new desperate

measures

for new desperate

times

how do you party when

you’re going extinct

how do you kiss how do you

siphon your adrenaline

and not devolve into

submission syrup

(when’s the first time you

got really drunk?)

the choir fills

the halls

SELF WORTH

The flowers are dying,

they never really lived

we missed the pink lights of the dance floor

but drank free pink drink instead

I don’t know or remember

things like changing vase water

to encourage full bloom

or rinsing the rice

starch-free

but I will always alter

the volume

just so –

I know what sound

sounds better

AF #2

As self and selfishness take form

blind contour quivering out from the grey

blackest mascara black –

give me a kind sweet snarky

gay disco God, a deity of

responsible release

give me a clicking heel across

the fresh but ancient tile

give me a beat to

catch, to clap to

against and for

the Sunday chimes

AF #1

Fascism:

no questions no wonder no dreams.

Peace:

no secrets just gossip.

Is this what they had in mind,

from the stage?

Ripple white like the hem of a toga pulled aside

– voila for all the family men, all the polar fleece.

But fuck you from my bluetooth,

fuck you from my broom.

The tile will never be clean

the skin will never gleam

& meanwhile mineral earth 

remains unnamed:

to smell a thing  

this solemnly

scorned.

WHATEVER FOREVER MEANS

We are crazed

to make these contracts

to become coiled with

such hidden organs

so I want to be lonely

in this

honor the blood bound address

of a woman with sons

diamond skin because

no diner food

would make me happier –

back of my leg confined

reminder to hurry up

and go

LAST PAGE (43)

https://yerbamalacollective.tumblr.com/post/156486141791/youwillnotwinpdf

4 BROTHERS

Somebody went to Morocco

Somebody broke a coke bottle

Somebody hated their mother, more

Somebody listened to Chaka Kahn

Somebody used the darkroom behind the door

where the smug wood angel hung

Somebody helped put the ornaments away

Somebody wrote limericks in broken pencil

Somebody missed their mother, more

Somebody abandoned somebody

Somebody made their little brother

hit himself then pushed him off the ledge

Somebody had the right jeans

Somebody went to a rock show

Somebody rolled a joint

Somebody went to boarding school

Somebody made too many jokes

took it too far, took himself too seriously

Somebody dodged the draft

Somebody held the puppy in his jacket

Somebody had secrets

Somebody cleaned the pool

Somebody was lazy

Somebody was a ballerina

Somebody explained praying mantises

Somebody stopped coming home

Four boys in autumn jackets

Four boys in the sand

Children go where I send thee

How shall I send thee

Stay at home

Don't make me,
peach boy,
don't make me go back on myself
all doubled over
in doubt.

I want to hold up the others and say
look what they do!
The proof is in the comparisons.

Don't make me eat my pudding
in hiding
Or glare at the keys rattling at the door.
Fair is fair is fair
and we've got decades to ride this wave,
but don't make me be the one to say
first.

Birthday girl

The birthday girl
shared her sweet sixteen,
I think.
The razor wire of the Napanoch prison
wasn't far off.
Inside, streamers and hula hoops.
We worked on our flirtatious antagonism,
if there were boys there,
which I think there were.
Of course,
our hot breath in the winter air,
our whispers held aloft.

Discoveries

He sends his tongue out searching
and crosses his eyes in concentration
what are these feet?
his drool drips
betrayed face after the needle prick
I thought you were looking out for me.

A home on the hill

The fishing line drips
from the winter tree
into the pond
the skaters slide down the hill
near the nook in the woods
which is someone's home.

His back to the world
and pink helmut balanced on his bike,
settled settled,
like us kids in the gravel pit
staking claim,
but his is for keeps.

Another excuse

We've been bracing for
And the sun is out
But the day is too
Dreary

I haven't made the phone calls
I haven't figured out how
To be
Better

Baby love

M
V

Grab at my heart
I've filed your nails today
So I should be safe

I'll ride the train out to the beach
And watch your face as
your toes touch sand for the first time.

Maybe you won't notice.

Shared history

A small huddled masses
Whispering words and phrases
Shaking fists
And wiping eyebrows
Back in the email threads of hope-filled 2009
I could not have thought we'd be gathered
By this little flame 
Trying to comfort ourselves
And each other somehow.

These days

A stone like youHeavy falling slow through the water At deep hole
The beer cans arranged casuallyThe moss molded to the shape Of my butt 
We talked our numbers
and how being wanted 
changes you
(I wouldn't know)

On our walks through this city parkYou always stop at the big fallen tree and ask if I want to put my face againstThe tender green sporesAnd that's the reason I love you so muchEven though I don't like you that muchThese days.

Head in the sand

These dark dark days
Stretching out the long long horizon for years
And wondering how life has gone on
Under a dictator when there's
No clock ticking

Out in the distance

HERO

2:36 to 3:03 of Mariah Carey Hero.
Brief relief from Ariel perched
half woman half fish
on her episodic rock of ages.
My grandma gave me the Heroine book -
Joan of Arc, Pocahontas.
I spelled it Heroin in my hole punched summary.
Learned that difference, the easy way.
Cole always told me to be magic,
but every time I tried we both got sad. 
He would say right now how I’m *wrong*
and if I think about it (at all)
he’s *right*
– but then that’s another
viaduct/marble situation
and I’d rather just swallow the day,
however it tastes.
2:36 to 3:03 of Mariah Carey Hero.
Maybe just to 3:02.
That’s the most legitimate 
feeling I’ve had 
in a while. 

this, and not really This

“I love my fat

the Michelin Man

aka long distance runner/high

diver/deep sleeper

 

throw another penny away

foreign or domestic

and I’m not giving you anymoremoney

ever

translucent plastic bondage rings

you toss w/abandon    ((6 pk

don’t rinse yr tuna cans thoroughly

how can you 

not

& the hole you peed in

will be filled w/yr crap

for millennia:

let’s start

by being

finally

      accurate

Resistance

Remember: the resistance WITH joy not OF joy, Allison
keep it straight! You've had a pile on before the mind
in panic mode coming from outside in now but if you
can manufacture it out of nothing you can get around it
out of something. It's a neural net you know too well.
But of course you've been in the valley so long, old
cowboy maybe it's home now. No, you're out! You
Mountaintop gal you! Queen of the hill you see
the valley now you SEE the valley now tell them:
He's just doing what a panicked brain does, a disembodied
organ, barely used! And what helps? How does it always
end? Well that's the trick. That's the secret. With a pill
or a change in diet or the sun. Or just me tricking back;
tricking the brain back into submission, now, with JOY!

a letter to my parents

dear mom and dad,
sometimes it's hard to believe you created me. i think you get surprised sometimes too
that we're so different.
i have been thinking about this a lot and
i want you to know how your votes have affected me and the people around me.

on election night i went to bed crying.
i had trouble falling asleep
because i was so anxious realizing he might actually win.
i woke up at 3am to someone outside my window
screaming on the sidewalk "Fuck Fuck Fuck" and i started crying all over again
as we checked our phones and saw
it was over.
somehow he won. i woke up again at 6am crying.
i walked the dog and
overheard 2 muslim children crying
as their mother told them
"no one is sending you anywhere."
i cried all morning. i got to work and my coworkers and i looked at each other
 and cried. i looked at my students' faces-- red, puffy, tear streaked.
we sat in circles and talked about our feelings. some were angry, some confused. some apathetic. some asked why our country is so racist. why don't white people care about us?
i heard stories from elementary school teachers
consoling crying 6 year olds and trying to explain
"why the bad guy won"
and i cried some more.

i listened to the news the morning of the inauguration and
as reality began to set in, more tears came.
every day i struggle to get out of bed. i have to tell myself
that i can do something to impact change, that
there's enough of us to stop him.
go to a rally, march all day
keep writing letters
keep signing petitions
keep calling
keep emailing
keep up with social media
keep up with the news
but we're 5 days in and
i already feel defeated and disheartened.
every day i have to talk myself out of just curling up in a ball and crying.
every day i have to convince myself that life is still worth living. and
i don't even if have it that bad. imagine the people who don't have my privilege.
imagine what they're going through.

constant catch-up

she lies in snores on the floor
unaware that the world has changed
does she sense the anxiety?
i sit with my hand on my stomach
knowing it's time to eat but
unable to leave the screen
there's too much happening that can't be ignored
but i read that article that says
i need to ignore some things
and my eyes are permanently bloodshot
and itchy
and hurt
and the headache is moving in
but i can't stop refreshing the screen

poem #21

the 21st day was for marching

and i marched for 5 hours

and my knees ached

and my shoulders tightened

my biceps sore

but i made a sign that morning

and it has no words

but it speaks to me and my experience and what i care about

but it is not the only thing i care about

and the better sign might have been the one that said

there's just too many things to put on this sign

that sign was good

and funny

but mostly so sad

poem #20

i should've written you on the 20th day
but that was a sad, angry day
and 
all i could think of was 
the resistance
and 
poetry felt separate
until i organized my bookshelf 
and 
pulled out
the spoken word revolution
and
poetry of resistance
and
poetry matters
and
and
and

On Your Roof

Pull me apart muscle by muscle

obsession by obsession.

Hang the tendons and regrets

from longest to shortest.

The wind can have my guilt.

The doubt will bake out above the tar.

I need to relearn how to carry myself

and I think just starting over is best.

You can use the lettuce ties in the kitchen drawer

to set my spine on the TV aerial because

No one really taught me how to stand.

Nobody said, things will happen

to make you want to look smaller than you are.

So keep your pelvis tilted up

and your ribs above your pelvis

and your shoulders open and repeat to yourself

I am a man I am a man I am a man.

It’s not that the parts are bad

It’s just the holding together that

Hurts.