an unseasonably warm day in march on pittsburgh’s south side

a tattooed heaven with a glass third eye
doesn’t hover over us
it’s beneath every step we take
listening to every word
wanting to lean in closer
though hesitant to spook one another
the dance has begun baby
i hear charlie parker’s horn
or maybe eric dolphy’s alto
cutting through metropolitan clatter
rising above thousands of distractions
& i haven’t seen a single building over four stories
since we hit the south side
from the urban gentrification of the last bus stop
dissolved into a relaxed vibe
a miracle considering my agoraphobic bolts
walking streets as close as possible
without actually touching
only occasionally brushing against you
& the electricity (overused simile that it is)
is undeniable, a holy conformation
i must be swinging in the right direction
& i admit i need this supernatural chicken skin
because i’m not always in tune
with my biochemical demands
until the song has stopped, the needle lifted
before ultimate consummation
the future a mere few second traces
that pull me near
though i should stress willingly
& i hear a bass line
that i haven’t heard in so long
a classic motown number






synchronicity

a formal invitation isn’t necessary
nor required, thank god
but i know you’re going out of your way
to accommodate head taller, sprawled, gangly limbs
though i ask you
please don’t make a fuss over me
& hinting factiously, but not entirely
to pretend i’m not even there
but you never deny my presence
you never glance away
when i want to make soul to soul contact
listening to your brown eyes
never seeming to be embarrassed
or uncomfortable in any way
& i’ve told you about this desire
yet i don’t feel as if you’re faking it
for my pleasure, my need
i believe i would pick up on that immediately
& when my chemistry suddenly dips
as it’s genetically predisposed to do
my mind abruptly shifting into reverse
rushing toward a dark place
where no one can reach me
i have to ride it out on my own
this is what i’ve told myself forever
but you sense this
you move behind me, seated in a kitchen
a perfect tactic in this situation
then wrap your arms around my neck
laying my head against your warmth
i’m caught off guard
which is exactly the right answer
& i wonder
how could you know this





thursday night at her house

talking for hours, my mind racing haphazardly
without worrying where it will land, or possibly crash
not a concern, as long as i can say
but what a fucking ride it was
stimulated with your brilliance
stealing your word because it applies
your life much more interesting than mine i think
wishing i could have been there too
no shuffling silence, no frantically reaching for right words
because i’m afraid truth will rip us away from each other
unaware of time, not willing to let the clock intrude
i’m feeling selfish
tonight i want you all to myself
no interruptions from the world
that’s on the other side of the door
but feels like a million light years
unreachable in that many lifetimes
i have no use, no patience for stern warnings
not to let myself be pulled into your gravity
i won’t listen to smug insistence
that it’s for my own good after all
fuck that dirty adage
i didn’t acknowledge it then
i certainly don’t believe it now
& eventually
though i’ve never cared for the implications behind that word
we slip into black velvet comfort
& for the first time
i notice the light behind the headboard says 4:30
almost ready to crack open a new day
but i refuse to let go of this one
i’m unconcerned with linear handcuffs
i don’t think twice about falling
touching unloved parts that whisper now
thick, creamy impulse, lips exploring pure sugar
no need for artificial sweetener
then i enter you
& you enter me





two crows

a makeshift altar is circled by two crows
that aren’t mistaken for angelic messengers
there are no candles throwing shadows
on exposed brass organ piping mood muzak
there are no sacraments hidden
behind spit & polished pseudo-perfection
but none of this matters
we have our own sacraments, our own prayers
tucked under shiny, black aerodynamics
that somehow are never dropped
when we lift off
searching out the highest scene
perched on spring’s branches
not yet blooming
still bare, brittle, deceptively unsure
but this isn’t a concern either
we need no guarantees
no safety net, no pinpoint accuracy
no preordained target
because right now we’re not going anywhere
at least in the physical sense
though we rub beaks until sparks catch
& we find ourselves within a ring of fire
that heats april, dragging its feet
burns any hesitation into silky ash
there are no legally binding signatures
there are no strings that require cutting
so we can do our dance while in flight
if that’s what we desire
or balanced at this head spinning world-view
unfettered diamonds throwing off light
unafraid of plunging full throttle into matchbox squeeze
much too small to contain any heaven
at least that’s what we’ve been told
but we know otherwise






a scratched record spinning at thirty-three & a third

a glory be hosanna straight off a sun record label
a raspy hallelujah with a mussel shoals groove
a knee-buckling devotional as hard as jet black 78
though the song repeats
it rings our ear differently each time
never growing old, with beautifully subtle nuance
& swinging, scratchy backbeat
that contains more soul in twelve bars
than endless assembly line cookie-cutter can’t miss
sonically layered track upon track
enhanced for mass consumption, the bottom line dictates
no freeze-framed choreographed stiffs
only liquid moves, abandoned self-consciousness
no numbered step by step keeping us in line
no inked puzzled jerry-rigged next big thing
that’s been softened with vaseline lens
& smeared expensive, but nauseating perfume
incredulously watching shattered shells fall to the floor
left behind, what use are they to us now
innocence exposed as crazy mad mind-fuck
not jaded play it by the rules
aluminum foil halos rolling in no predictable pattern
hungry circles stripped down to chaotic shake it
rubbing out mathematical proof
that such a place can’t possibly exist
it would appear there’s been a miscalculation
because we’re laying down binary codes
or hugs & kisses
however you choose to see it
though that’s hardly our concern
that no else can read, no one else understands
no one else will ever crack
the indecipherable poetry of lovers





asking too much i suppose

inhaling last night on my clothes, i draw in deep
while savoring our taste on cracked lips
my mouth watering with pavlovian hunger
i’m driving in the opposite direction of where i want to be
i curse the machine age & economic considerations
that jerk us around, twist lubrication from our souls
because apparently blood is too sticky to be effective
& orgasms must be coaxed out
but time is not of the essence, time leaves a paper trail
& we chase after it like clownish parodies
until we can shake its spell
that is, if we can ever wake to natural desire
instead of pumped in streamers
caught in sterilized test tubes
i curse glossy ink-stained fingers
that tempt me with come on looks
that cameras catch flawlessly
stapled to jets of to-be-continued origin of species
i question whether i’ve transcended advertising teasers
or am i simply growing old
narcotic nightmares leave me
limping toward cracked mirrors & receding melody lines
& i pray you can save me
though it might be seen as sacrilegious infidelity
& besides, i realize it’s too much to ask of anyone
which is why i fall to my knees
right in front of the executioner
instead of calling in my request
still i hang on to the hope you can pluck me
from the jaws of powdered beasts
without tearing me apart in the process
i wrestle with my faith in you
if only you could read my thoughts
i curse our inability to count beyond a handful





reveal it to me

a force-fed matriculation, a perfectly reasonable replica
held against my confusion, threatening
to pull the lever on the greased trapdoor
smearing me across contractual obligation
because we sign our names left to right
unlike foreign correspondence
so perhaps i was born into the wrong tribe
i wish it were that simple
i carry my weakness with me on the meaty side of southpaw
constant reminders that i never scrub off fast enough
my literary output will be confused with confessions
i will stand before judgment
not allowed to scratch at smoky glass
forget myself, sink into pure poetry
before i’m corrupted, tempted by flattered numbers
that might only be quasi-mystical stooges
more than an animal need to bleed virgin impulse
or click off bursts of angel-faced splash
a jaded frustration sweeps the table
leaves me a fucking mess
& there’s nobody here i can turn to
who can blow out my blue veins
point out something beautiful
tell me—look here instead

poems for people

poem for ron androla

first time i came across an androla poem
might have been blank gun silencer
which dan neilson published
when i was getting into the underground poetry scene
i’d started writing poetry after many years
writing primarily lyrics for songs
last time i heard from neilson
he told me he’d given up on poetry
& was playing tennis instead
he may or may not have been joking
not sure if i still have this particular issue
since i threw out a few boxes of the old zines
when i moved to this small apartment
i remember the poem took place in a factory
though it wasn’t about the factory
it was exploring one poet’s life
no holds barred streams of insight
it fucking knocked me out
in the same way kerouac & blake had years earlier
nothing was taboo in ron’s work
i thought he was the best out there
publishing in the paper underground
now he’s doing it online
same immediacy, same gift of language
though the medium has changed
& also the exposure
because when you put a poem on the internet
it’s out there for anyone to see
which i had trouble getting past at first
androla’s poems focused on blue collar mule work
trapped in a bad marriage, two children he loved
which mirrored my life at the time
we grew up about thirty-five miles apart
& are the same age
so our frame of reference is very similar
still, that was only a small part of what drew me
to his words—which can’t be lumped
into any “school” of poetry
ron said on a cassette letter
that sent me many years ago
he was going “poetry world” that saturday morning
i’ve written an essay on androla’s work
which anyone who owns the pressure press anthology
can read—so i’ll try not to repeat myself
he’s one of my closest friends now
it began with exchanging letters a few times a week
then one saturday night
after i’d finished working afternoon shift
he called & introduced himself
i remembering saying—ron androla the poet?
& he replied—sometimes
but that’s not accurate
because ron has always lived the poem
androla’s poetry inspires me to write
& i can’t think of a better reason to read him




poem for lonnie sherman

received an email from lonnie today
who was the last person i’d imagine going cyber-space
but he said he did it mainly for access to the music
lonnie has the same love of music that i do
the only person i know
who has a broader knowledge of music than i do
lonnie sends me cds on a regular basis
as i do for him also
much of the music he sends
i recognize the name
but have never actually heard the music
the cds he sends are always interesting
we have similar eclectic taste in music
lonnie’s a great poet
but seems to have no interest in publishing any more
two years a go i set up a chapbook deal for him
with my publisher at pudding house
he said thanks, but no—which i thought he might say
but i had to give it a shot
he often includes long letters with the cds he burns
his letters read like poetry
lonnie is a sensitive, beautiful man
with a truly poetic soul
not afraid to show this side of himself
when i send him something i’ve written
he always responds with heartfelt thanks
& comments on the work
on a planet populated by so many assholes & pricks
strung out tv zombies unable to think for themselves
& people, who for whatever reason, refuse
or perhaps can’t let their souls shine through
i’m very lucky to have such a friend
thankful there are men like lonnie in the world



poem for larry tomoyasu

five years ago i sent larry a cassette
explaining my recent absence
since we communicate on a regular basis
my life had psychologically swan-dived
into craving an end to the pain, seeking oblivion
larry said he may never have found out
that he would have continued sending books & music
which we’ve turned one another onto for fifteen years
all my closest friends are writers, musicians, painters
i have trouble communicating with others
maybe i don’t try hard enough, maybe i don’t really care
initially i remember being drawn to his drawings
which would show up in underground zines
though larry doesn’t draw anymore to my knowledge
that’s a shame because his art is amazing
i’ve used larry’s art for many of my chapbooks
but he continues to write, which he excels at also
though he doesn’t get the exposure he deserves
one reason is his choice not to put any of his work online
larry thinks artists should get something for their work
in the same way plumbers are paid for their work
how many plumbers would fix your toilet just for the exposure
this has more to do with the way society perceives the value of art
as opposed to any stance on his part
he isn’t even online at home
which is highly unusual in this day & age
though he emails me daily from his job
i believe the majority of great artists toil in relative obscurity
working for the sheer love of it
& the absolute necessity of laying one’s soul on the line
sometimes all we have is each other as an audience
i have encouraged him to get his work out into the world
by whatever means possible
however i respect his position
as i respect him as an artist
but most importantly as a kindred soul & friend




poem for david berman

initially i picked up berman’s book “actual air”
in the small poetry section at the library
nestled between robert frost, t.s. eliot
william butler yeats & maya angelou
i knew the name because a friend had told me
i should check out the silver jews—the band he fronts
but i’d never heard the music
when i took the book home
though i own all their records now
i borrowed it a half dozen times
until i finally bought it
though it was hard to find in this cultural wasteland
i sometimes call home, other times hell
berman’s a great songwriter
but an even better poet
i send all my books/chapbooks to david
he asked me if i wanted to publish in open city
which i wasn’t familiar with
but when i went to their site
i saw they’ve published many of my favorite writers
i rarely publish poems any more unless someone asks
a couple years ago i sent some out
to around two dozen publications
most university affiliated
because a friend sent me the addresses
& asked me to give it a try
but it was a waste of time
main street rag was the only acceptance
open city took three poems
which berman sent them
it’s a great book & cool to be apart of
but being recognized as a fellow poet
especially a poet i dig so much
is the best kick in the head




poem for jennifer bosveld

she’s my publisher at pudding house
& a fine poet also
being with them is great
but i could move on now
& she’d still be one of my best friends
when my youngest daughter erin
was getting married three year ago
down in selma, alabama
i was terrified of getting on a plane
because i’m seriously claustrophobic
though i did overcome this fear
with the help of a handful of xanax
& shutting my eyes the moment i was seated
until we landed
when i traveled to florida
for my other daughter’s wedding
i didn’t trust my car
also i have meniere’s disease
which can unexpectedly cause extreme vertigo
i was talking to jennifer on the phone one day
telling her about my predicament
with no intention of hinting i could use a ride
but she immediately volunteered
to drive down with me in her van
in addition, she paid for everything
aware that i had little money
because my disability case was still up in the air
how many people would do this
you can count them on one hand
if you count any at all
i’ll never be able to pay her back
or thank her enough for her concern & kindness
she once told me she believed every time
someone did a good deed they’d be rewarded
i’m not sure if i share this belief, though i’d like to
of course she doesn’t do it for this reason
which i think would be cheating
but i know she would never do that




poem for mikey welsh

the paint is slapped down hard
but never into submission
there are days i lose time, but the art remains
waiting for me to return, angels & demons
often somewhere in-between, defying description
call them whatever you fucking want
they won’t listen
they won’t do your bidding
no matter how much is laid on the table
the stage lights were preying eyes
pure improvisation became spectacle, an inhuman ritual
i had to escape, paradoxically i escaped
by being locked down, where i picked up the brush again
now i work alone
at least that’s what someone would say
if they saw me at work in my cluttered room
in paint-splattered clothes
but the demons, as well as the muse never far away
sometimes i swat at them with my free hand
other times i let them whisper in my ear
sometimes they tell me ugly stories i don’t want to hear
other times their poetry is so beautiful
that i have to paint through tear-filled eyes






poem for nicholas morgan

psychologically, emotionally, physically we’re all flawed
either we make the best of it or we beat ourselves up over it
sometimes i do try my best, though it never feels good enough
like i never met anyone’s expectations
other days i throw my hands in the air
surrendering to the inevitable crash
i’m convinced is trailing me
my friend nick understands this all too well
unfortunately this past year
three days left in 2007—thank god
has been a rough one for him
i won’t go into many specifics
it’s not my place to splash his private life on the page
however he lost his father a month ago
i was sitting in my doctor’s office
waiting for my appointment, & checked my voicemail
nick had left a message telling me about his dad’s death
he was crying, i’d never heard him cry
i lost my father this year—though he died last year
but i found out only a few months ago
our circumstances were very different
it obviously hit him much harder than me
having been raised by his father
mine being not much more than a name
a few photographs, a few hard facts
i tell nick all the time, & he probably gets sick of hearing it
that he’s being too hard on himself
though i’m exactly the same way
i can forgive others, but have great difficulty forgiving myself
for all the mistakes i’ve made
nick for all his mistakes
i hope one day he listens to my advice
(do as i say, not as i do)
because he’s good man, a sensitive individual
& a first-rate writer
perhaps some day he’ll see
all the good qualities in himself that i see
maybe one day he’ll realize i’m right





poem for cheryl townsend

recently cheryl (aka cat)
commented on a batch of poems
i’d written about family
& posted on androla’s pressure press board
where i post nearly everything i write
except some long fiction
& some poems so bad
i wouldn’t inflict them on anyone
cheryl said she wished she had a father or a brother
who loved as i love family
so i told her i was “adopting” her as a sister
& i meant it, we’re all blood anyway
which dna has proven
& should be a lesson to racists
flag-waving nationalists of every stripe
& cowardly terrorists
but i doubt it would teach them a thing
because these people can’t see past color
organized religion, or borders
where they happened to spring up by mere chance
hatred gives them an identity
since most have no true sense of self
when we had readings at cat’s bookstore in kent
she was always gracious & kind
& had a smile for everyone
she would even stock the small refrigerator upstairs
with rolling rock, since that was what most preferred
she shied away from front & center
though she was one who organized the gigs
she gave me a cd of her reading her poetry
reading as well as anyone i’ve heard
she’s not actually shy, though humble
& i could learn a lot from her
when i’m on a manic high
or high horse might be better description
or just fucking obnoxious
& since she’s my sister now
hopefully such good qualities which she possesses
will rub off on me