skirt

it will be an unfamiliar trial re-learning winter
after a detour to the sea, forcing fatalist hopes and a destiny
to at least see what it could be like, but maybe conquer the earth.
I will turn up ignored collars and string the muscles in my back
like piano wire, the frozen tension enough
to snap me in half, fold me in on myself, were it not for the
strength of a backbone crafted with more. the raw material of hopes and wants
are so similar that it’s hard to say which was used more when
I built this skeleton me.

and with my face to the dark middle wind of the city breath
I love, I will think of naked legs baking like bread in an ancestral
sun, browned and fresh. I want the list for that inside skin,
the last baked with the slightest rise, the soft of which begs to be
brushed with an unshaven cheek, watered and grown.

it seems that in spite of a manifest destiny and the unknowable flares of
fate, this is one plea meant to be ever unknown. you will throw yourself
to seadogs washed to shore where suncooked thoughts
sizzle like the summery roads that stretched us thin and far, and I
will lay with any promise that wants to believe.

so, if my westward mind travels those roads again
while there’s lungfilled whisper in my ear, or a streetside
bakery yields an unnecessary second of pause for a breath, please
don’t blame me for bringing you back from your gut feeling. it is, after
all, home.

finally notes

I can write you a murder ballad, heavy on the downbeats but slow
like august breaths in halls of wood. you still manage to get it all wrong,
clapping 1 and 3, exhaling on the evens;
this was one reason I could never move you.
how heavy do you think your embattled heart
weighs? you heaved yourself over that block, cracking and chipping
away, but we know it only looks like stone, soft
as a chest cavity. and still, I couldn’t bleed you.

this chorus bleats over and over again, dry and rolling. it
has little to do with anything but hooks at the end of lines,
dragging in the weeds and refuse that I’m lucky enough to find. this
contagious repetition happens to be just like fucking you: you can
easily tell when I’m just fishing for the sing along.

ears to the ground, it’s the lips of a bridge, one with mislaid purpose.
built never to be crossed it’s just an excuse for corrugated scrap and the
throw-away too weak for utility production, useful construction. the
road is perforated down the middle and these corded arms are held
wide enough, so I grab the curb. even
my fingers, all eight calluses lying, can crumble the blacktop in the dusty
west, and I tear your song in half.

it took too long to write this, to line it with the bass-beats of a heartline
shaken in green and erratic, glowing to let you know you’ve laid it
down. I topped it with enough crunched melody to make it
march through your rooms and cover your ears with stones.
all you wanted was the music in your bed to sound itself for
you and were kind enough to forgive the beatless silence.

all American writing ends with death, so it’s time to kill
the jukebox. this slaughter song won’t finish like it started: we forgot
the subtle promise of a quiet introduction, we lost the paired
syncopation of a first verse. now it alley-
screams over a flurry of sticks and strings, that dripping wet
brush of noise paints your face red as our familiar melody is mutated to
conclude.

I dreamt this end but never wrote it down. funny how music just ends
up where it goes, fading awhile, you imagine a whisper of a cadence
only meant for you to hear. that lonely tonic belts out as another
American poet butchers the ending.



Also, my Bruce poem got published! Woo!
http://www.inscribed.org/archive/msw/pdf/Vol4Issue5.pdf

we are the walking dead

In my attempts to fund my pending enrollment for graduate study, I've been looking for scholarships and all that fun stuff. This one in particular required an essay on the death penalty which I want to share here. I'm really a silly, silly person. I also think I'm a shoe in for the money.


The Walking Dead is a weekly comic book written by Robert Kirkman. The comic has been an ongoing series for several years and I follow it regularly. Though not a traditional book by the standards expected here, this book has honestly been one of the largest influences on my opinion of the death penalty and my life in general.

The death penalty is no easy topic to discuss. Like the other party-defining political hot buttons, such as abortion or gun control, there is little gray area for one's opinion. You either are in or you're out, and your decision leaves little room for inquirers to guess your other stances on such topics. It's extremely difficult to work outside these predisposed "boxes" and truly have an original and heard opinion.

The Walking Dead is a book about a global plague that causes the dead to rise and consume human flesh, more commonly referred to as "zombies". All government, economy and civilization as we recognize it has been obliterated and it's nearly every man for himself. The story has us following a small group of survivors simply trying to do just that in this harsh and unforgiving world.

In one instance, the survivors discover a murderer in their midst. This man is caught red-handed, literally, and is temporarily incapacitated and imprisoned for his insanity and irreversibly dangerous nature. There is little debate about what needs to be done with the criminal as he will only consume resources and attempt to cause more harm if he is to be kept alive. There are few qualified among this small group to offer this man any sort of help and their efforts are really better placed elsewhere, farming or building worthwhile community. The rehabilitation of the insane is not something one can afford when the simple act of waking up in the morning is a constant question.

This argument is one of logic. In an environment of severely limited resources, population and time, one cannot afford to have such an unpredictable human factor murdering the able bodies the rest of this small society depends on. The luxuries of opinion and belief are forcibly suspended in the face of simple survival and a sort of coerced de-evolution must take place. The comfort of self-awareness, imagination, wonder and self-endowed purpose takes a back seat to the basic principles of instinct: water, food, and reproduction. It's what makes the heavy decision of ending another life, albeit a dangerous one, so very simple.

These same principles could theoretically apply to our zombie-free society. We could appeal to logic and simply say that those who do not obey the most basic law of society will not be able to participate in it. I share in this deduction. I don't believe we have the right as human beings to take a life, but as a society, we have the right to remove those who do not oblige the law. The greater intangible that exists with a collection of ideals, even vague and generalized, is what gives us the right to spend those valuable resources where they can better serve the parent civilization. It is our collective belief in community that pulls in those in need, but also pushes out those who threaten our very survival.

Unfortunately, these ideas don't really fly in this pre-apocalypse United States. I do consider myself a bleeding heart liberal, but I cannot oblige this one stereotypical factor on the left. In all honesty, my greater notions are probably more socialist and black listed than those of your every day capitalist, but I stand by the idea that a cultivated and nourished community, rather than the placated and pampered individual, could potentially yield some of the greatest triumphs of mankind. It's extremely unfortunate that the personal desire for success and unfettered greed corrupts these lofty ideals and trumps any communal efforts before they are even idealized. I do not think that any "greater good" will be recognized until we actually are facing down the apocalypse and by then, of course, it will be too late. It's also funny that if and when that happens, these media-saturated, emotionally-charged topics of debate will be the least of anyone's concern.



HAHAHAHAHA. I am so getting a million dollars.

3 years today. Practically how long I actually knew her. It drives me mad to think of everything she's missed. Everything I missed. It's never over. It's never better. And it's not like things are going to change. Soon it will be four years, five. So much more is going to happen that I'll wish she was there for. I'll never even get to tell her about it.

I wonder if she's in me at all. Physically. One thing she was always fascinated with, and I too, was how matter was transferred. That every little part of us was once a part of something else. Possibly something titanic, like a star or a volcano. And eventually, every part that is us will be a part of something else. Like I might have a part of George Washington's fingernail in my ear, or dinosaur poop. I just now wonder, maybe a little too morbidly, if anything that was once her is now me. I'd like to think that maybe my chances aren't great, but there certainly is one. Geographically speaking, my chances are greater than a lot of people out there and there are plenty of bits in a person to go around. It'd just be nice to know.

I've decided I won't die patient.

after the bombs

I have been accepted into Columbia College Chicago's MFA Poetry program and I have a job at a dog kennel. After all that speculation and grief and complete disconnect from my own personality, the tornado of my life still proves to be intensely surprising.

I have been both terrible and small and have taught myself shameful lessons in handling emotion. It is not a huge undertaking to undo, but it is going to be trying. The worst part is that I have apparently been totally oblivious to everything that I have done these past few months. It's a unique and interesting perspective when you're proven that even your hindsight is horribly askew. I'm just sorry.

It's true though, I really would rather hate my life than not care about it. I actually hurt people a lot less when I was embittered and furious. Not that I am going all the way back there, but there has to be some relatively pleasant middle ground called "normal social interaction". I will hit it eventually.

So here's to stress and frustration and heartache and disappointment and embarrassment and shame. Here's to my awkward chest and my lackluster head. Here's to vomit and tears and rashes and pink eye. There's a reason you always see the passed out slapped awake; pain is the most familiar alarm, the most obvious notifier that something is amiss and needs to be changed. My hand has been in the fucking fire and I've been staring at it like some beardless caveman wondering what smells so good.

Other than that, I fucking got into Columbia for poetry. I am going to piss myself. And then never think about my future again, because I am dead fucking wrong.

the non

watching his simple chords and even untrained fingers might as well
be a plane straight east and a bus straight south, both double-paned
and humming, because
i can only see myself behind a microphone on a boxstage
in a village that used to mean something to the creation
of the world. i can smell the rich
of sweat and the solvent, pooled in this valley of heretics and cynics,
all cleaning their guns with hairspray
and eyeliner, making a murder look good. the fashion dictates that i
could get away with lies about my throat and the marks on your shoes
as long as it’s loud enough. all the while making eyes,
i’ll make these eyes at the pretty little things that walk along the
edges of a room, heels finding the half-inch quarter round
where the wall meets the floor, the sharpest points slide to the floor.
i feel like a carpenter (retired) arthritic with hands that used to build.

but in this room where i’m about to be a stranger no more, i can sing
about a father that hit me with a rope, i can talk about the earth
that covers the ring around my finger. i can even name you, the one
who let me into this room, as the reason i drink, the reason
for the reasons i imagine a life of dissonant harmony,
because with a reason,
any reason
(even without the non),
as long as it’s written, then
i could at least blame you for something.

the best part is the existence of it all, the life that comes with
the air we all breathe. a waking mind is a visionary,
and probability dictates someone is living our dreams.
with a government check spent on candy and cola, a pocket
with a bus card and a sky scraped clean,
pre-teens use any excuse for a wish, grasp any chance they find,
pray to a list of any and all gods and demons,
that when that next day dawns,
they wake up me.
as that room under skull is a place where poets pretend, some jumpstart
with his sister’s guitar is lying a melody. he’s already building that history
that can’t be proven otherwise and making a killing,
digging a mass grave with a six-stringed shovel,
his barrel smoking in the wake, lips red hot with the bullets shot.

bodies will roll down the slopes mistaken for measures, the staves
failing to note where they lie, and his novice fingers ache
with every hollow bar. thinking genocide tough,
he could stretch his knuckles for relief
and a wandering and painted eye might imagine
them once split in a short-lived rage against a wall against the world
against the sixteen-year veteran of secret wars, fingers
bruising familiar with a memory like a hammer in the fist
of a father; and like the eulogist, he can’t consider the reality,
because you can always see the casket
even with your back turned,
and everyone is still listening.

but even with the lies carving cavities in your teeth, holes to
hide in, that non bleeds through your gums. it’s quiet, blind and slow,
like a cloud, a worm, a comma.
it is the reason i wish for a lethal childhood, a hazy adolescence,
and lungs that carry words to ears (wishes another lives).
my words are burdened and hunched, thirsty and unshod,
for the space between is as barren as the west under the dusk,
as dark as that black oblivion we call a horizon. my words are
laden with the guilt of their untruth, and sweat beneath the
sun-god angry with his number on the list.

this is the hidden, the non:

i am bitter and i am leaving. someday i will make you pay for
what you did to yourself.
you will wish (on everything) to be one of the pretty
little things at the bottom of this grave: unmarked, cold and
many,
but at least listed and prayed to.
it will come with the existence of it all.