Self Meditation, Medicated Higher State Sunday, Dec 20 2009 

We spend our lives breaking ourselves.
Cut the cord, clip the foreskin, needle
ink, drink, smoke, poison livers to reduce the stress
of break-back work, this mess of tangled lovers
tangled DNA strands all wound up until they burst out of you in
newborn perfection
and you hope,
she’ll always stay that way.

Now the doctors say it’s depression, but
I call it post partum perfection.
Still, they toss scripts at me like torn insect wings,
And I think,
This feels like a sweaty palmed third grade love note,
pharmacists reach behind my back every 30 days
to wind my key,
This feels like a fight
with a child proof cap, bitter polymers under my tongue,
the breath of a sandman I might have imagined,
but this isn’t what hope feels like.

This isn’t
a mistake
This isn’t
a false positive
White doves, birthmarks, clear sky
This isn’t a sign.

This feels like guilty pleasure,
A one night stand with a wedding ring on
This feels like the diamond,
digging into your palm
but this isn’t what hope feels like.

There must be 20 men here crazier than I.
They tell me stories of life on the outside:
meeting new people without shaking,
taking walks at night.

When I study their faces for tells they fade
into the washed walls like little white lies.
I run into the hall screaming for a nurse
but all I hear is the sound of a mop
sanitizing my footsteps as I walk
And I know that hell is hospital white.
To compare your soul to something so clean would drive any man insane.
So I try to be kind, I apologize for being so sorry so often
but if I’m met at death by a murderer clutching rosary beads,
then this isn’t what hope feels like.

This isn’t any sort of trust or luck,
This isn’t a consolation prize.
Or an electric mockingbird mix-tape
siphoning off responsibilities I still want
But my voice gets caught on the way to telling you to st
My voice gets caught on the way to telling you to
My voice gets caught on the way to telling you to stop
looking at me like that.

Maybe hope is a second chance on the third rail
or where shadows forget to fall
and we walk in step with something lighter than ourselves

Hearts stop long after the lungs stop breathing,
long after angels fall like footsteps or
acid rain

This isn’t the poison left on Juliet’s lips
This isn’t Snow White’s kiss
This isn’t the dancing slipper worn down from flirting
with disaster all night and this isn’t,

what

New Poem! Needs Title Friday, Jul 10 2009 

Any title suggestions?  I’m performing this tonight for the first time down in Tucson tonight with the team.  I know what it looks like, but give this poem a chance, it may not be what it appears to be… <..< >..>

You were the soundtrack of my youth.
You only had 50 years to change the world,
blatant sex appeal forcing parent everywhere
to purchase extra parental control features,
Imitated and ridiculed, you were a kid at heart.

You had me convinced.  Maybe, you had us all fooled.
But when you came to life on the screen,
a puppet-less string,
through the white noise of mediocrity,
rhythmic preaching like a lullaby in stereo
MTV, BET, The Home Shopping Network,
Billy Mays,
We believed you.

You could have been that one dad
at baseball games in a Snuggie.
You could have pried us with insulting weight-loss supplements,
wouldn’t it be nice if there was a little less of you?
You could have been sponging the blood of a hooker
from the linoleum with a Shamwow,
“Will It Blend?”

But you chose to teach us
to harness the power of oxygen
for its stain fighting abilities,
If only you could have used it
to breathe a little longer.
Now the clouds are bleached brighter and whiter, but the
pearly gates retain their bold shiny sheen.
You could sell a sin to God, Billy Mays
make us worship a Plater Grater, wonder what would happen
if you could combine a cheese grate with a plate
pray for cleaner cuts, Mend-Its and Slap Chops
cry out, Hallelujah, long live your laundry

We all know now that two Awesome Augers
are better than one.
Because that’s twice as many augers.

Why settle for less?
When you can have it all for $19.99
But wait, there’s more,
We’ll pay to eradicate stains
Bleach blank slates, present the immaculate home
with whiskey in the cupboard and sauce on the stove
The knives are never dull
unlike the dinner guests.
Hang up photo-shopped smiles with Hercules Hooks
use mighty putty instead of nails, leave no trace
Never dice up your soul,
Only mince words
Slice your way into our hearts, eternally sharp
take pride in the quality of destruction

We’ll take glass-bottomed boat tours over your grave.
But we can’t buy now
not from a ghost, who won’t accept visa.
We can’t save more
not when we couldn’t save you.
I’m still on the line, still waiting out the dial tone
we can’t hang up the phones
rerunning shows, we won’t give you up just yet
How could you, of all people Billy Mays,
Get such a raw deal?

You can wrinkle your nose
But here everything
smells like citrus

My Sister Friday, Mar 27 2009 

My Sister

My sister was famous for dying unborn.
With only blood to bury no memorial amassed,
no candles burned, but ashes cast
of a deep and dying love landed like fairylights
in newborn hair.

I can’t help but picture her
as a presence
of top-heavy perfection.
Reading Thoreau and Irving and always
using fresh herbs in the soup.
She would have an immortal immunity toward
Garbage bags left to multiply in the sun.
Never an enemy but always a foil,
she would resist
clandestine nights, carbohydrates,
the soporific advances of barmen and employers,
snooze buttons and shoe sales.

And always would my sister hold
the condition of her conception,
the primal symbolism of the past
clutched to her side like a phantom limb.
Skin wrapped in a flushed pink,
She crawled
out of the sticky soup and foam
of yesterday’s boiling heat.
A product of rum and
broken condoms.