21 card pick up (a song)...

http://youtu.be/xGLlab0uK9o

His cards fan over his eyes;

he doesn't want to see.

The game of chance is always half-blind:

at best, you know the hand you keep.

So he parks his truck in the lot again

and weaves between the younger men

and makes his way to the stools

where she's sitting, her skin candle-smooth.

He sets in the space beside,

His hand catching colored and dancing lights.

...

Shoulders spread as he moves outside.

The air turns fresh, the night bends wide.

His truck's his perfect fit:

she creaks and roars or, stoic, sits.

They face the wind the same –

but still he sings where his mirrors aim:

“You're a diamond in the rough;

You've got heart in spades;

I found you in a club – drinking pink lemonade

like a joker that my deck never knew it was missing, lord;

you're the ace that this jack would be kissing, if this were

          a twenty-one card pick up.

                a twenty-one card pick up."

Dog-heart & marble-face ...

          She's enthusiastic & straight-spoken.

          But that's different than confident.

He is calm: a low base tone so smooth

he almost sounds like silence ~ but he shakes everything.

          She is always a little surprised by victories,

          & she wears defeats like tar from an oil beach.

               (Life is mostly a run of losses – to make learning,

               to make laughter; to make a floor for wins.

               But we wear them so differently on the skin –

               she wears them so much like a definition.)

He expects victory & shakes off defeat. Confidence

is its own type of oil: the tar shimmers off.

          She is not a loser – but she looks it.

          From the outside, she looks made of it.

While he is shining. Sometimes he cries at night,

eating off the tar that he can't shake; scrapes it, chews it).

               She is not sad; he is not happy. They are both,

               Only & God-like, human. But to a mirror, black&white.

Swollen ...

I got kicked

in the hand today.

And it might be fractured. It might be fractured.

I really should

bow off this stage

because I'm not an actor. I'm not an actor.

But those fresh eyes

on the sidelines look

And I am a model. I am a model.

So I bow back in,

throw a hard, straight kick

as a plea: “Don't coddle.” A plea: “don't coddle.”

     They knuckle back –

     and they're being kind

     by my hand neglecting: being kind; neglecting.

     But I keep her safe

     by my side anyway:

     she's a child I'm protecting. Child-protecting.

     And when I respond,

     I fight for two

     because one's not ready (is not yet ready):

     she needs to grow

     up into these shoes,

     so I hold her steady. I hold her steady

          and catch that arm

          that wants my face –

          and pull it further: pull it further

          than it ever

          dreamed or wanted

          to, for it might hurt her. Just might hurt her.

          I wrap around it

          and drag it down:

          a one-armed pin. A one-armed pin

          like every eel

          or elephant

          had to learn to win. And learned soon to win.

                   Spread out on his chest,

                   he taps the floor

                   and we both agree: we both agree.

                   And she's glad she's safe,

                   but I say, “Heal fast,

                   for your brother breaks too: you'll see.”

You ...

You are, are, un-negotiably beautiful

  You. Not the girl I'm dreaming of.

     You. Not the sun or the stars

        or the birds or anything

         Perfect I'd compare

     some pretty thing too.

    You: you are

    beautiful

as you.

Look

closer

than you

have. Right

down to the skin.

You are fascinating,

pulsing and sweating,

red and shining and in, in,

you there is more than your nails

or eyes. You shine like you, reading

my words. Make them yours, love: rise.

If you're on the fence ...

       If you're on the fence:

         He's not worth your hope

             And everyone knows it

                  (Or he totally is

                     And a few people do);

                He's a heart-scoring scalpel

                 That he's named “confidence”

                    (Or he turns blind and dizzy

                             Moving in to your view).

                   If you're at the fence:

                You have too much trust

              In the soul-depth of skin

           (Or you want to look past,

          But that film's all you see);

        You want to be a part of

      What he pretends he is

  (Or you haven't seen his best

  There, waiting to be).

If you're in the fence:

   It's yours – and you tied it

      To make your lawn look square

         (Or to bring some shade

            That, sun-lit, looks like a hole);

                 You need to jump out

                 For the dim or the bright

                      (Or spread, like fine roots,

                                Through the line you've poled).

If only I cared that I knew ...

Wondering why -

 On a 10-day trip without internet - I

  Felt happier than I ever do;

   Why - when I got back -

    I slowly started to feel that lack,

     Like I was missing something, too?

      I tried to make the most

       Of my life on Facebook, {tag, like, post}

        But the more I said, the more

         I felt I hadn't

           Done a thing {smiley, wink face}. Saddened,

            I dropped down to the floor,

             Did some push-ups and

             Wiped the dust off my pearling hand.

             Made drinking water divine -

           Just to give a sweat.

       Then I realized what I hadn't done yet:

   I hadn't not been online.

Little while ...

              Just for a week

                   There will be

             A bridge, a metal

   Bridge over the space

That the claw-car digs –

For pipes, I think –

Dusty & noisy, but

Gone in a blink

So “Enjoy it”

I tell myself,

     Riding by

   On Rucio (my

    Little Robinson

With his cruiser seat –

        Studs rusted soft –

Higher than the handles)

             & riding back

          Again for lunch

 Past – standing there

             On the bridge –

   An old man watching

  Claws (I guess) before

        He continues down

             The grass hill trail

    That didn't used to have

                  A little bridge,

                     & won't again

Funny people ...

I'll start with my friend's true story:

The day he met his adviser

(In an auditorium full of artists –

Hot & sharp against cool & wiser)

With that graying hair, with that eye patch on,

Sitting so toad-like and somberly laced

That when he said, "A year ago, when I lost
My eye to cancer," with that stern, straight face

The boy's mouth popped open: a giant laugh

That he couldn't rein back in.

But perhaps he was listening best (I think):

A somber face should make us grin:

A crying infant? That's a funny face.

Or an old lady startled from the rear?

Or – the next time that you're on a toilet seat –

That purple-red face in the mirror?

All honestly funny from a few steps back

Or a few layered, fair days away

(There – when everyone was spent, and 

Chaffed, and all their masks melted away).

That's what the best-humored uprights

Drink in: the jig-carving wake of boys gaffing.
So the funniest people seldom smile – they just 

Look at us straight ... while we fall down laughing.

Eclipse ...

(Before I was born)  

   “They told us to carbon-gray

our panes before looking –

  so we, school children, went

waving that too-clear glass

over a candle.

  To each, a candle;

to all, the same sun.

  We looked up through the soot

and there was a glowing dot,

filled by a glowing shadow,

   dropping straight into our eyes:

    Did not look the same in

England (where men always

  ate potatoes) as it did

    for us in France (where

  only famine's pique ever broke our

tongues from that dodge: 'Potatoes are

for pigs – and the English').”

(Today)

   The movie wanted to know

what was in my pocket –

  “My grandpa's wallet, filled

with my notes – and a straw,

 so I know which end is up.”

And what do I love.

  And what do I fear.

“Breathing. I don't hold on

to the old ones, never

feel fat-drug selfish drawing

 in some extra – just light and high.”

 (Undoing this robe. Looking –

  muscled, snow-white) “Reaching

thirty without a kiss,

without a promise

that there's nothing wrong, nothing sick

  with this creature, wearing breath and –

   in his pockets – nothing.”

Hope ...

Sometimes it's easier dreaming

They'll say you're dead

Than hoping

They'll say you're still

Waiting for me like a lost shoe.

You fit me too well for me to

Not-stay-and-breathe

The way I do.

Still comes steaming

Up my nose, alone in a chair

At night, when my roommates

Sleep with their stereos,

Or their dates –

Good sounds, good fates:

I'll never learn their real names

Because they don't come in.

Never wanted to

Be with me

The way you do:

They'll leave open doors, like

I did, for the still. It's quick

to come in. Rolls

Up my nose

And stops: I'm there

To not breathe with you.

Antifiles ...

No.

  I'm not real.

     I won't heel.

   I'm a million miles away

from tenable.

But I'm right next door

 and incredible;

I'm a party you're not invited

   to and excited

  to listen toward

because you're

  in the silent dark

    where everything wants

       anyone who

        spreads her tattooed

       shoulder blades

      across the eye-chafing

    crystal page.

 I want someone

and he's not you:

 he's glowing and

  untactile, too.

   He's lighter than me;

   I'm darker than he

  wants. And all

 the gall I front –

you think guards diamonds;

     he thinks hunts,

        trying to lock in

          and suck him through before

            he sees these boards

             splitting on my floor

             in sick and sadness –

        I have for I can't

     help but want

      only those who see in.

                     You don't see in,

                                            do you?

Life decisions ...

There are few ordeals more momentous –

More perplexing, vexed, contentious –

     Than dropping the last banana peel

          that will fit into the trashcan.

All the times I said, "I'm moral:

I'll always rise up off my laurels

     When a good deed needs doing.

          And I'll do the best that I can,"

Come ringing back into my ears –

Because what could be more simple here

     Than giving all of my roommates joy

          At not having to press and mash

Their next contributions of rubbish in,

Or heft the bag, or freshly line the tin?

     In a minute, I could make that reality...

          But who wants to take out this trash, honestly?

Tiny Brief ...

I feel like I'm on the edge

 Of something good or something bad:

 The last piece of air between a kiss;

The soft, rasped wood of a shelf-end.

  I feel immediate: raw and numb

 Like an onion-tongue, an ice-bagged gash

  On a toe. I never know when

    To stop chewing, to stop wiping what comes.

  But I think what's beyond me

  Is better than I've ever felt:

   The smooth-gummed baby who laughs like

 Maybe I did – I don't remember.

Ellie (a song) ...

http://youtu.be/74IZCzhHhGk

No one believes me when I say –

"The back-up singer's not – my girlfriend.

She's not a glowing ember, no

She's just another member of the band.”

But they say,

“How can you fools lock eyes and croon

Like you were pining for the moon –

Without that woman making you her man?”

(Well let me tell you)

     It was five years ago –

     When I came on down the road to Santa Barbara ...

     Just looking for a view –

     And maybe a girl or two to break my heart.

     But sitting on a stool,

     I just felt like a foreign fool, a world apart.

I went to The Neighborhood –

But that didn't do me no good – because I've never

Been a brawny lumberjack –

All stubble and plaid and a baseball cap on after dark.

And Wildcats had too much gropin' –

Squeezed out my flame when I was hoping

For an angel's voice to whisper to me, “Hark ...”

          But then Ellie came along

          Screaming, “The silent man is always wrong

          Because no one will press their ear up against his head:

          You've got to cry – out – loud … if you

          Want to be – heard or seen – by anyone – don't you, hon?

          Mean – what you say, boy – scream.”

So no one believes me when I say –

"The back-up singer's not – my girlfriend.

She's not a glowing ember, no

She's just another member of the band.”

But they say,

“How can you lock eyes and sing

Like you were two birds on the wing

Without her making a nest for you to land?”

     Well, Memorial Day came by –

     And the sun was cutting sky over the ocean …

     At a back porch barbeque –

     Where my old friend Ellie damn-well knew I'd come alone.

     So she handed me a beer,

     Then she grabbed me by the ear and said, “Come on,

      Boy – What's the matter with you?

      What the fuck's the matter with you?”

I said, “I'm not a manly man –

And my Swedish skin don't tan –

So who would want me?”

She said, “If your face ain't tattooed 'SINGLE' –

Then until you push in and mingle,

You'll never know.

… But if you ain't got the balls to talk to them,

Go up on stage and sing a hymn

And maybe they'll start peekin' up your robe.

          Just get up – and sing a song.

          I'll toss back a few – and sing along.

          Just make sure the words make clear I'm not in your bed:

          You've got to stand – up – now … if you

          Want to meet – someone sweet – just be sure – you tell her,

          'This – chick is not – with – me.'”

Beyond ...

I fail, picking just one word

to describe me.

Maybe I could do it in 5: like,

“Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid.”

That feels about right.

And when that's not enough,

Or just not true,

I'm usually well past words: they're

all for discontentments, really –

Brands on a weight I've shed.

I win, losing just one word

to describe me.

“What was it?” “Oh, nothing worth sharing.”

Like a smell in the air I breathe –

Everywhere, yet mine.

Up From Underneath ...

to Lilyann Oyugi

                    Everything breaks before the clear;

                    Nothing makes sense before it does;

My friends might leave before they hear

What could have been – then was.

I'll have to cry while her brother speaks

About the gift that she had for living

And watch the lens-bending water peak

And feel the heat of its leaving.

                    I'll have to stand and listen to all

                    The crack-voiced singers on that stage

                    And feel their throats pulse against the wall

                    And remember when I squeaked, then raged

                    That I did not believe my voice enough

                    To wrap my lips around the word “hello.”

                    (that I did not move, while my friend lay snuffed

                    in a still that would make better I's scream and glow).

But in this room, where every head cries,

Where every voice is love-rent and broken,

There's space for my tremble to fall and rise 

Where no one knows what should be spoken.

                    3 minutes to 1 – last set, last song

                    Squeezed in after I first said, “No, never mind,”

                    Thinking (how could I play any way but wrong –

                    Or they give any smile but a sad-nurse kind?)

I go to the front: “She took my heart

And threw it high when I was sinking in.”

                    He checks my strings: it's time to start.

                    I call to her – and shake the walls. She'd grin.

Meritocracy ...

I feel guiltless

 hating you – you back of

    head; some

     Chance in front of

       me; one in a pox of

          Men. The

            Faceless, voiceless

             always easiest to

                condemn:

                   No one smells good

                     when I wrinkle my nose

                       at them.

                            We've never been

                              herds because we chew meat

                               like packs;

                             Never schools, for

                             we pity faces &

                             hate backs –

                              Looking over

                               our shoulders to be proud

                                  & then

                                    Looking forward

                                        at muscle-braided spines to

                                            defend

                                                 The balance of

                                                       our pride-by-humility.

                                                                  But fast

                                                                           Comes honesty:

                                                                                who's more than the next is less than

                                                                                                      the last.

2D ...

Everybody has a good side.

A side where their face looks like

"Yeah, that's how nature meant it."

Everybody has a good time -

In between a blink and that

Wide-eyed "I'm demented"

Face that everyone gives to

The flash-stress of a camera

That wants to make us forever

When all we want is this

quiet, dying night of insides

(always our best sides) together.

Why do I Talk? ...

Only to enter in.

Only to be remembered.

This was never my game to win,

Never my stance to sell.

My flag, my dying ember,

(comes back in the wind,

strong as it is thin,

more alive than even I could tell)

Lives only a moment

In a rush of fast and faint

Circled swings – a fleeting comment

That I meant as I thought

And forgot as I said: paint

Stiffens this flag, dries

Too fast in the skies

Where pictures brag the earth they forget,

Lost in waving – even

While I'm reading your next face;

Watching your slow in-breath leaven;

Knowing, now, you're painting

A flag I might embrace

(where it falls, dying,

from your lips), lying

on the earth (stirred from a winded fainting).

Delay of Idiocy ...

(girl sketch compliments of Wang Niandong)

“Did that sound as bad off-stage as it did up there?”

                                               I say on my way home.

“Thanks – you're kind. But this was my first time – ”

                                                         I change my lane alone.

“We don't come out of the womb tap-dancing.”

                               I watch the glowing gas.

“So what are you taking a break from tonight?”

           I thread through the overpass.

“And where did your two friends go? I sure hope I'm”

     Here's Glenn Annie – my turn.

“not cutting into an urgent text – you tripped me, glancing.”

      The red lights, green lights, burn

“Hope I didn't cross from a holding glance to a stare.”

            Like hope – they damp the stars.

“But it's dim in here, and you tend to attract the light.”

                    They make the shadowed lot – still cars –

“I have to drive back – work to do – but do you think I might”

                     Seem sullen, embarrassed for me.

“I will – I'll call. Staying  mute with you would be a crime.”

                  I'll think of you in the morning.