Animus

This wound must heal before the end draws nigh,
Feral spite be put to rest, lest it set;
Rise up, do not this animus let lie.

Good friends undone by treason's sword must try
To salvage what's left of dignity's debt.
This wound must heal before the end draws nigh.

Stale, mildewed years, by blood begrudged, flew by.
Of son’s and father’s silent, pained regret:
Rise up, do not this animus let lie

Here, steadfast neighbors each to each decry,
Eternally confined their minds to fret,
This wound must heal before the end draws nigh.

Old feuds in bloom did wither hearts to die,
As Montague lay next to Capulet,
Rise up, do not this animus let lie

Your wretched soul's breadth must forgiveness sigh
Much sooner than scorn will yield to forget.
This wound must heal before the end draws nigh,
Rise up, do not this animus let lie.

Humbled

Let loose the hounds to slaughter this untested flesh
Tear apart the softness of this base thing
enshrouded in the warm comfort of the peace I've drawn about myself
as I've drawn and quartered the remains of what visions I had left
My vessel has run aground in a shore of molasses
too thick to navigate, too sweet to encourage want of leave
I've replicated the paragons I worship half-heartedly and piecemeal
with triteness deserving of the harshest punishments
What mockeries I make of the true, radiant genius
of all the dead saints embalmed in history's mistakes
to casually seek fame and fortune as a peacock would spread its feathers

Happy Birthday

Happy birthday
You're one year older
Than your last birthday
And not much has changed
Keep sitting on those hands
Let the time tick by
Let the seconds stack up
To build towers of the years
You did nothing
Right up to your last breath
And while you're on this side of Now
Looking over the chasm to Then
Thinking you have a long way to go
There's already a man
On the other side of Then
Looking back over the chasm to the kid
On this side of Now
Wishing he could have just one more try
To get it right
Before the end

Real Estate Agent, II

The cuffs of his sleeves are frayed
at the wrists ever so subtly
you’d have to be staring to notice

The blue tips of his collar,
eroded by countless wash cycles
and pealed by perm press,
expose cotton ends
sheepishly peeking out from
their starched shelters

He’s very thankful that you’ll never see
the holes in his socks and the
worn bands of his underwear
because appearances mean everything
no matter how hard he works

Though his pants keep panting
and his heels need healing,
he still wants to win

Jacob's Memories

There's a dead Jeffrey Pine atop Sentinel Dome
its grayscale carcass twisted, bent, and frozen
lying on its side quite uncomfortably
This is how I first found it and this is how I only know it
Never mind the life it had before
all the family photos it graced through the sixties
with sisters and fathers
red and white checkered shirts tied in the front
smiling red lips hung from horn-rimmed sun glasses
and black pony tails snapping in the wind
I’ll never remember Ansel steadying his tripod on smooth granite
and closing down that iris to a pinhole small enough
to capture the solemnity of its still-beating heart
its soft, wooden heart interred in the center of hundreds of concentric rings
invested in bark benumbed by whipping winds and searing suns
I can never recall, I can never go back
before Sentinel was South Dome
before South Dome was Sakkaduch
to dance wildly on top of the world
with enchanted Miwoks who spoke its language
who knew its name not in their minds but in their souls
in the sinew of their muscles and in the marrow of their bones
they once stood there in wonder as well
in awe of this lonely Pine above mankind
whose roots had found a home
where no soil would quarter it
whose ancient skin withstood eons of torture
from belligerent rain and biting snow
I'll never know the truth of this dead tree
deformed before my feet
just as my children will never know
my grandfather’s memories

Private Gray

On Veterans' Day I cut out a photo
from the LA Times
of a man standing in front of
The Wall
with his arm outstretched
fingertips inches away from a name
just a name
inches away
and he wasn't touching it
just reaching for it
as I'm sure he'd done before
one last time
before it became another name
on The Wall
reaching with so much pain
so much hurt
carved into his writhing face
with mouth askew
agape with pain
with searing loss
and napalmed memories
exploding molten jelly
thoughts from a past
buried under bottles of whiskey
now bubbling and trembling through the cracks
of a hardened exterior
and here I was cutting out this clipping
because I thought it looked so cool
it looked so neat with all that emotion
so well composed, I had to hand it to you
because I knew you'd been there
I thought you might think it's cool
I thought you might think I'm deep
right up until the moment I
blindsided you in the middle of your paperwork to say,
hey, check this out
check out what I found in the paper
and you froze like a bullet whizzed by your ear
like a grenade went off nearby
and exploded shrapnel that tore
through your modern day
filled with phone calls and paperclips
you froze with your arm outstretched
fingertips inches away from this clipping
just a clipping
inches away
and you're not touching it
just reaching for it
your eyes turned red
blood red
and you choked on the breath you were taking
frozen there
with red, glossy eyes
you held in something trying to escape
a hurricane from within
you held it back
with everything you had
and said
It was a very hard time

Cole's

Red vinyl stretched over a seat cushion, but I'm not sure
Maybe it was something else before - leather or cloth?
or maybe it was always just red vinyl, of which I'm not even sure
It’s hard to tell because it’s all still the same even though it’s been re-done
One thing’s for certain, though, this sandwich was a lot cheaper back then
A while ago it was half as expensive and before that it was only a quarter
Maybe it was during the twenties - I’m positive though, it was after 1908
God, what a city you are! I’d give anything to go back in time
And kiss every newly laid cornerstone in your Art Deco skyscrapers
And drag my heels through the soot caking your streets
I’d give anything to wander your alleys with the other vagrants of America
Displaced from their homes in Indiana, Colorado, and Oklahoma
We’d all get drunk together off a nickel’s bottle of gin
In the inferno of an atomic summer, laughing at all the business men
Sweating in their buggies, in their trolleys, their taxis, their coffins
We’re the real ones – we’re the angels she’s named after
Shoulder to shoulder in this dusty town, this overgrown meat factory
Grinding out the rest of our lives in the shadows of the greatness you purport
Riding that fine line between poverty and slight discomfort
Hiding in the cracks of your majesty and brilliance
We are the dregs of society and we are fine with that
Because I just found a quarter and I’m going to buy myself
A French dip sandwich to float me between the moments I bite into it
And when I become hungry again

My Favorite Person

I just bought you a ring
And you don’t know it yet
Because you’re still floating in vagaries
Unsure of what the future holds

I just bought you a ring
A beautiful antique with sapphires that
Compete with your eyes
In a race they’ll always lose

I just bought you a ring
Because I’ve known for a year now
That you are the one for me
That you will be my wife soon

I just bought you a ring
Because I want to have children with you
Whose sparkle will outshine
These diamonds

I just bought you a ring
To put on your finger
When I kneel before you
And beg you to marry me

I just bought you a ring
Wrought in a band of platinum
That will disintegrate
Before my love for you ever does

The Dying Upper Class

Levitate
Above oiled silk parasols
And tilted top hats
Ascend
Above waxed mustaches
Propped up by astonished mouths
With widened eyes
Assaulted eyes
Raining monocles
To swing like pendulums
From laundered vests
Hover
Above turquoise railings
Over barnacled piles
Mantled by
Weather-beaten boards
Float
Along gently
With the thick salt air
Past Palace Pier
And her pebble shore
Drift
On out to where
Grey sea greets grey sky
The neutral womb
Of a muddled horizon

Runner-Runner

You defy the inevitable
Gliding over statistical probability
And sure things
A faith-shaker
Meant to destroy souls
And poison confident minds
With the fear of
A type of uncertainty
That would stagger
Heisenberg himself
You are the Hail Mary
On mud-slickened fields
When time stops
You are the phalanx
Of twelve black craters
Crowning ivory plateaus
Admitting quarter to my enemy
When slaughter was so imminent
You are the runner-runner
Drowning all that is right
In the depths of The River
And you make me sick

Nothing Fancy

For years he lay prostrate
Pinned down by the gross weight
Of nothing fancy

Yes, frozen on his own account
By dreams of greatness tantamount
To nothing fancy

A man’s own meekness we’ll forgive
To spot success so fugitive
A life so useless kept to live
Is nothing fancy

The Writer

He squeezed and squeezing thus,
about the quill,
a grip of iron, clutched
gnarled fingers etched and fussed
Black ink did spill
the words this pulp to fray

See now the beaded sweat
on down his brow
The cords of rivulets
from pate flow unto neck
'Twixt beam and frown
his countenance displays

In past, what shames were born?
What losses reaped
this gilded crown of thorns
delusively adorned?
When truth's too steep
for parchment's price to pay

Here lies the writer's lie:
print pressed and prim,
His life's spun alibi,
His false tears' alkali
polished of sin
Beneath ground to decay

In This Time of Night

It's late at night
Really late
and I'm awake
thinking about a lot of things
namely
Kerouac's memories
of the small town he grew up in
and the seasons of change
that shaped him
and the City that drew him in
and the hurricanes
brought on by adulthood
that forged him

In this time of night
close to the hours of the morn
I know that if I begin it
right now
I can write
The Great American Novel
in one great stream of
consciousness
in one majestic session
where my fingers hammer out
with fervent vigor
the sum of me
the theory of things

Artin

I can see where you’re heading
Even before you can
I know the path you’re taking
Because I’ve been there myself
And at times find myself still on it
Trying to find my way back
But you’re young
It’s easier to change your direction
You just can’t see that
Because all those
Apocryphal walls
You’ve erected
Keep closing in on you
And the ringing in your ears
Won’t stop
And all the tears boiling
Out of the corners of your eyes
Won’t stop
No matter how much you try to smile
Because all that raw anger
That you’ve buried so shallow
In your deep heart
Will continue to erupt
And spill over any happiness
You think you’ve temporarily found
Flimsy happiness
The kind that makes you forget
Your father died