oranges

hidden in the grass
a snake lies
whispering haiku
to someone else's heaven

this proud tree sheds memories
tomorrow's children will rake
off the streets of their souls
fingers caked with an absence of knowing

what green was once
the sound of birds
oranges
water you could swim in

pounding out pemmican on pavement
where previously chariots roared
careening through one lone century
so long of hate

that later generations still choke
on fumes we wrote off as harmless
but capitalism is ultimately charmless
and unsafe at any speed

she covers me with time.

hands lifting mine.

beneath the sheets she sleeps serene and naked, waiting.

her eyes a mirror i see my own in.

one heart beating in two breasts.

sweat and sticky sex and smiles.

uncoercible laughter and bosom and joy-fuck sunrise.

a heart that wants to hold me inside itself.

pliable in all the right ways.

believes in my dreams with high ceilings.

my breath is listened to and breathed in by other lungs.

voice warming to new climes.

mayhaps a poem lies beneath this unsheathed sword.

have i the heart to extend it upon her papyrus day?

A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left. -Alexander Pope

we silly humans attempt to hide our vices from others
so we only have ourselves to whom to whisper lies.

lines in hands worn white with the dust of books I do not have the time to read.
lungs rusty with smoke, throat coated with a fine fire of whiskey,
dreams dangled before my eyes,
a child's mobile with only slightly more mature themes after which I may drool and pine.

buxom blonde barbacks strut their slender midriffs around my icicle eyes,
hips hugging that hint of sex,
whose simple tickle has little to do with love
and much to do with nothings whispered but insincere.

it's my dick in my pants
it's my empty pint glass
it's diaper prices these days
it's society at large
it's my stagnant pond of ennui
it's my sociopathy
it's someone else's fault,
i swear

all the time

and blame it on my parents
on George Carlin
on our Beta machine and boxes of ambiguous thrift store recordings
on my father's stoned biker buddies
on the sixties
on the ninties
on MTV
on middle school, high school, public school, college
on punk kids, on adults, on the liquor

I blame it on the whispering winds
whose influence cannot be discounted
as easily as a hangover
or hanger-on.
That sly, hungry stare of a predatory beast,
which I prefer to the fallout of their makeup in the morning.
That love-all, fuck-all apathy of today's nymphomaniacs
dressed up like baristas, construction workers, suits, skirts,
judges, jurors, executioners.
Anyone's cord can be kinked.

Oh, the tell-all tits of those with too much in their mouths
and not enough on their minds. I'd like to come all over their tomorrows
and then feign guilt 'cause I'd feel none.
(see ennui, see sociopath,
see man, see man run, see man ruin everything)

if everyone loves you, then you're fucked for sure.
if no one loves you, sure it hurts, but your poetry gets better
hands hairier
heart hollower
head heavier
but everything is easy 'cause
there's purpose in everything you do
even when you feel sorry for yourself
you miserable shit
you cad
oaf
bumbler of other's love.

do we try to change what's inside? because we don't approve?
or is it easier to learn to accept that which used to bother us about ourselves?
move on to the next thing we decide to loathe, regret alter about our selves.

personally i find it hard to find the time to feel much shame or guilt.
where's the productivity in self-abasement? what a waste.
i can worry about how others feel without caring what they may think of me or my actions.
i can care about and for myself at the same time as i ask extremes to dance, push limits around, live on a few of those rumored edges.

I told her she had demons blood

and it made her want me more
even by telephone, I could tell
even without bacon
even with a college hangover

stars in the heart and head
and buns in someone else’s oven
her eyes still fucked mine to the wall
even by telephone
even by poety
even without music
though music helped stoke our blaze

wishes beyond the words
wanting so badly to share myself with someone
but selfish
even by telephone
even without orange juice
even through venetian blinds
even earlier than we wanted it to be

but we poured into each other anyway
that night by the fire
holding each others sweat in pockets
hidden away in our tapestry of flesh
eyes aglow
even by telephone I remember
even without time
even now, with everything and nothing
and scratch all to do with it but build

in the morning the smell of bacon
will remind me of her again
as it always does
even after college
fucking
selfish
oven
done.

Too full of life for words.
Walking 'round in prose gardens
with poems on the soles of my shoes.
Homeless this morning, drifting, vagueries.
To sleep, perchance to dream!
Aye, there's the rub we've been waiting for.
The demon of truth, her mandibles locked across your forearm.

Too full of life for words, good words.
So I dabble with meaninglessness.
Fail miserably.
Begin
again.

Two years too late...

01.30.2005
jon

remember smokey ruins of a friendship gone too soon
our names dusted against a heaven we barely knew
but those dark-time words
weapons against some urgent night

she swallowed you before so many of us got the chance
but in my dreams you walk on water
a slight mist in the air behind you
lending a glow to the frame of your stocky figure

remember opening up your bedroom
your clothes, books, life
lying on the floor
waiting to be swept up

now: friends go on without
we forget those times
as the ebb and flow of emotions
slowly wash each other further out to sea

[i wonder if you were here
what would have happened
i wonder if we’d work in the prison systems together
still drink 40s every other night
put the devil up our nose
or if we’d go to baseball games in seattle
with my daughters
garden
eat hot dogs
and talk about it
all.]