pillow talk

it's almost time for bed
almost time to shut off all the lights
and crawl into the covers.
time to quiet my mind
before it slips into something more comfortable
the silk sheets of the subconscious.

it's almost time to get serious
to figure out what i'm doing
to be able to point
in the direction
that i intend to move.
almost that time
isn't it?

to have clarity
to have certainty
to have tunnel vision.

well, i think i still have
a half hour
or a half decade
to cuddle with my confusion.
to love it
and squeeze it like a zit
that i can't stop squeezing
because i'm so curious
what will come out
behind all that pus.

inevitably, it's always blood.
and i know that.

and i like that?

strange.

just words

i haven't left the house for two weeks

and the people are starting to wonder

deadbolt nicely tucked into the frame

a quaint bag of rice in the barren cupboards

no more coffee

no more toilet paper

losing pages of old journals with each flush.

today

was the poem about mt. hood

and my love for the outdoors.

i haven't left the house for three weeks

and the people are starting to wonder

the calls have slowed in frequency

the ringer, becoming a forgotten sound

like a heart monitor

having a visit with death

i scan through my memories

with a mag light, trying to illuminate

some common thread of my existence.

maybe its the people,

or the places i have been

that put me here in this solitude.

some extravagant force telling

me to stay here for a while.

keep the blinds closed

who knows if the sun is peeking

over the pasture

or if its drooping

into the hills.

i've stacked all of my furniture

in the bedroom

so my living room is empty.

hardwood floors somehow collecting dust

the heater comes on again.

the sound whooshing through

my palace, keeping me company through this.

i haven't left the house for four weeks

and the people have stopped wondering.

the food is now gone.

but there is plenty of water

to sink into.

the indoors

I keep my blinds closed

because outside

there is a world

bloated with uncertainty

I know inside

things could go wrong

the toaster catches flame at 4 am.

or maybe the toilet overflows

shit into my living room.

or the food goes bad.

something.

outside. though. fuck.

you just don't know.

for instance, now

i look out my window

and across the pasture

is a lonely white horse.

not really up to much

but counting the mares he's fucked.

etc.

maybe in an hour

a jet will carve through 

the sky

maybe, probably not,

but possibly

it could potentially

hit a southern migration of 

canadian geese

lose control of both engines.

perhaps the plane, and its cargo

falls like a clay pigeon

after the 20 gauge clips

the edge

eventually spiraling down

wing over wing

crashing violently

in that quiet pasture

again, not likely,

but just saying

maybe the stallion puts

out the flames with his 

huge cock spray.

maybe he saves some lady;

pulls her out with his

proud teeth.

then maybe, he lays into her.

I keep my blinds closed

to that madness.

unfortunately

my mind is fucked.

more present than ever

is the image of that tired, lonesome

horse

getting his louisville slugger

slobbered

upon.

loaded

every day, in the early afternoon,
as the sun is pulling down
into her nest of water,
I open my front door.
I walk the familiar steps
across the living room,
into the quiet kitchen.
in the liquor cabinet:
the gun sitting there shy
like my boy on his first day of school,
not saying anything.

just resting there, on the top
shelf, above the fridge
as if it hadn't moved all day.
As if it hadn't even whispered
a single rumor.
each day
after the clamour of the office
before the wife gets home
from her night classes
i open that small, elevated door.

I spend a moment
pouring my scotch on top the
refrigerator.

i look at the small, quiet gun.

how it spends most of its life
sleeping.
cuddled up in the comfort
of liquors from around the world.
and how it's only purpose
in this house is to protect.

i slide the bottle behind the weapon.
softly i say,
as i would to some street thug,
i trust that you have an amazing potential
but i hope to never see it.

on being broke

If i were getting paid
this would be a lot easier
knowing that something was at stake
but now
it's just late night ramblings
no one should read

If i were getting paid
life would be a lot easier
I would have things to write about
like what i did
with my money
each day of the week

If i were getting paid
my mother and aunt
and brother and his fiance
would stop worrying about me

If i were getting paid
that would mean
that i was working...
and that doesn't sound like any
reasonable way to live your life.

oh brother

The black keys
underneath these fingertips
won't be pushed into writing
another poem about writing.

No, tonight these keys
will open the lock
to my imprisoned imagination.

It will come out of these gates
fuming and livid.
ready to tear the night sky in half
crawl out the other side
into a studio of white
with a thousand paint buckets.

i will dip my hands in the red
and the blue

get patriotic for a second.

then i will light the place on fire
walk out into the street
and listen to the music
of sirens.

I will wave at the police officers
with my american hands
i will wave them my middle fingers
underneath the changing street lights
yellow, green, red.
the colors of Lithuania
A place i've never been
but it seems everyone else
is headed there.

I'll drag the mouse to a new browser
go to one of those sites
put in my credit card number
click print
for proof of purchase.

or maybe, i'll just close out
of both browsers.

do something really daring.
like go outside,

For Tracy

The stillborn arrived in the Father's excited palms.

The ember burnt out, now just coal, forever without flame.

The halo slips off her head

lands upright, and rolls past her brother 

who is sitting on the floor by the kitchen

table stroking the cat's grey hair.

The mother is exhausted-substanceless-

staring at the granite countertops they 

just installed with the loan from the bank.

Her belly is stretched like some over-worked balloon.

The father looks out the window above the sink

sees the basalt separate itself from the asphalt

and the whole road moans, implodes.

No words today

their mouths are caveworn

the young boy looks at his father

with his new set of old eyes.

i have no idea what's going to come out tonight
a few shattered ideas escape from the headache
a couple breaths and a sigh

yoko's coming upstairs to rub tiger balm
on my neck
same thing my mamma used to do
strange how a lover can be so much like a mother
and how it's not weird
to get sweaty.

The room up here feels big
too big for one lonely man.
it's dark, so i don't have to see the mess
all i have to do is wait
for the nurturer to bring
her spirit
and ease my pain.

This headache, i cherish
because it brings me
sweet, irreplaceable gifts
along with the
tolerable tension.