Linguileria

Tumbling through the froth and foam
the sea above
the sky below
craving what i have not had
mourning what i do not know

Racing as i do not move
they look confused
they look concerned
laughing at what is not there
forgetting what i have not learned

Building walls that do not stand
the howling wind
the pouring rain
lips exploding on my lips
fingers tangled in her mane

Falling always, falling still
towards a center
towards a core
that’s the hope in gravity
who am i to ask for more?

History, Written by the Losers

sons of bitches,
sons of whores,
daughters of a failed
revolution

ran their ragged ships
aground,
mistaking escape
for solution.

musket fire
and rhetoric
and winters
unforgiving,

they piled in -
the vagrant horde -
mistaking escape
for living.

empires built
on blood and bone,
and larceny veiled
as blessing;

they took the torch
from liberty
so she could start
undressing.

sons of deacons,
sons of dukes,
daughters of magnates
and martyrs

glad-hand the pauper
and the prince
with daggers
in their garters.

we stand upon the
beaches now,
regretting their
attrition,

wondering what
may lie beyond,
mistaking escape
for ambition.

our hunger
never sated,
as one might well
expect

from sons of bitches,
sons of whores,
daughters of a
quixotic shipwreck.

Apples and Oranges

She is simple, she is sweet,
she buys shoes to hide her feet,

I am complex, I am strong,
unafraid of being wrong.

She is funny, makes me laugh,
stands five four, maybe a half,

I am witty, I can weep,
passions rooted twelve feet deep.

She is happy, rarely sad,
cheeks get red when she gets mad,

I am quiet, I am wise,
I hide nothing in my eyes.

She likes music and ballet,
likes her man to lead the way.

I like beauty, truth and grace.
I like my man; he likes my face.

Birthday

Just as it has always been,
so it rears its head again;
the blackest day in all of June,
tired as the frozen moon.

I do not fault the wishers-well,
who do what noble hearts compel;
who by blood or benevolence
love me past their own good sense.

It’s not the aging that I mind,
the going bald or going blind,
it’s not the specter of the void
that always has me so annoyed.

It’s how each anniversary
recalculates the waste of me,
broadening the gulf between
the failure and his fading dream.

Let me leave them with a joke;
blowing dancing flames to smoke,
wishing to asphyxiate,
choking on my birthday cake.

You Bet My Life

All the way past Santa Fe
and down to San Anton,
I chucked the maps in Phoenix
with your letter and my phone.

You’re somewhere in the valley
with some thickneck from your gym,
staring out the window
as he tells you about him.

Oklahoma is OK,
Arkansas is sad,
a bartender in Shreveport
says he used to know my dad.

You’re somewhere by an ocean
with some buddy from your work,
going Dutch to dinner
as he tells you I’m a jerk.

And I’m blowing through Kentucky,
rolling out through Tennessee,
a diamond in my pocket
and a bottle on my knee;

in your best friend’s apartment
crying in your chardonnay -
here’s hoping your next hand is better
than the one you threw away.

Red Hots and Hard

Candyheart
stuck on a stick,
everybody
gets a lick,

sugar sweet
and cherry red,
rot your teeth
right out your head,

Candyheart,
who wouldn’t take
a finger to the
birthday cake?

Passed around
and getting thinner,
just enough
to spoil dinner,

wrapper blown
along the street,
gone as quickly
as they meet,

Candyheart
can catch an eye,
another hunger
passes by;

tears pooled in
a chocolate cup,
Candyheart
can’t fill them up.