Ineffability

Fuck-up-failure formal friendship,
fixations of feline filling full
of flavorless flowing-flicking-flinging
fits of flopping-flapping-
flirting face forward for frowning frogs
of fickle fact,
foundational fights
for finding fidelity, frothing
fearful fissures, forcing
fractures, forgetting
favor - filtering futures
from fractal fictions,
fenced fallowed fixtures
found of formal formality,
 face of face
of fury
of falling
forward
foretelling fissions of fusions
faking foggy fatigue from
fucking, from
feeling, from
fending felted-fezzed foreheads
furrowed, of fins fending flaps
from furtherance,
fish fighting foam,
female frosted -
falling face-ward
from
ineffability.

Box

throwing something

in a box,

hats and shoes and photographs

I only want to elipse

boxes can be useful,

 so it’s like I’ll write

this poem

and call it a

p o e m

and throw it in a

b o x

expecting

action – like

when she asks

if that works

what about

I like that

and would

cummings be proud

of this work

and the b o x e s

c              r

e

a

t

e

d

for those who are

(n’t) very good

with prisms

and

light and

sex-

in-verse, but

still

want to make putt-

putter-ing

master

pieces,

engine chasis roar

sputterclutterpop

saying

Happy

without the and

not used to

this

much

kisssex

                smilegrin

goodluck

                yet

still seek

the horizon. 

scary stuff

like poetry and romance

novels, romance novels

and std’s

that are often

and often

ironically

placed in separate

places

where

i would rather

keep all yellow

jacketswaspsbees

and things that

stingbitepoisonmaime

because real things,

deathlossage&gravity

cause pain

and the real

pain is

lit by un

cert ain ty and

certainly

confusion like

walking

face-first

into sticky

web

unseen and illusive

like invisible melted

circus cotton candy

so i hear some

clown fearers

manage

to get along with some

clown-mongers

but only one

would win the fight

by sheer

desperation (another)

the clowns

would do-what-clowns-do-while-idle

by

with painted

faces, fingers

in

my

face

or not,

pencilspetpeevespointing

more like

I’m a little

scared of this

revealing

                I

have                       no

                                                control.

Patience seems

Patience seems

the fool’s

favorite game

and I

the fool

a                              wait,

so it seems, for those who have

will say                   it’s well

worth the wait,

the weight stressing the seams

seemingly              tripple1sewn

by threads irrelevant.

the rest

seems

 irrelevant

too

because                                 exploding

is not an option

but the greatest desire

and

fuck it all

break

it

up

who wouldn’t rather            see

the colors

than the whole

blast of light

blinding eyes

in the      middle    of night

so it seems

even

with eyes closed

TIGHT

the light                  breaks

through

my eyes

drip

and stain               a face

pocked with volcanic shame

who would love

to hate

to burst

this

little

bubble.

                                                      

That is the Question

How often we are

and are not?

I’m not really a part of this,

but here I am being a part.

There may be an absence to recognize,

a detachment, a break.

I may be a fragment of this moment,

lost to the present it resonates,

like the pieces missing

to an imperfect memory.

To be or not to be / not to be and be?

I find myself confined to this world,

this universe,

this page

by beginnings and ends.

It’s as though

human beings

are genetically prone to see everything

in the light of life and death,

up and down,

push and pull

and so on as though

dichotomies are the only thing

we’ll manage

to attach to everything

we don’t understand

until we’ve evolved

intellectually enough to exceed

life and death

altogether,

well after we’re dead and gone.

If we could fly, we’d probably die

off sooner than later. If, in the past,

there was once a human species that could

fly, it would be no wonder

that it quickly died

off in the evolutionary process,

in that natural selection.

Knowing what I know now,

I may have rather lived

the shorter life of that flying man

than the one confined to

two-dimensional movement.

 We can only jump so high, after all.

To fly or not to fly?

Decisions are best made

when they answer themselves.

This often clashes

with the fast-paced

mind set of today,

which may explain why

I’m not a fan

of being put

on the spot.

It is a true testament to my gender

as well, knowing that I will try

to consider every possibility

as though diagnosing it a problem

and naturally attempting to fix it.

It may not explain anything at all.

There is gravity that differs

from the well known magnetic force

generated by the spinning earth.

It’s a horizontal thing associated with circumstance.

You might better know it as “luck”,

or better off as “bad luck”,

where everything you want

to get to in life

has formidable obstacles in the way.

An optimist plays

the romantic

and wants to keep alive

the possibility

that those obstacles will somehow

be gotten over; and all the optimist

call the realists pessimists

because reality often seems

depressing to people

who have their heads

stuck in the clouds.

               

Optimist or not optimist?

Realist or romantic?

Pessimist or not pessimist?

Is there anything in between?

Something different? May I change

the label into something more hybridist,

that better suits my mental disposition?

Will it make the history books?

Reality says “No, of course not.”

Romance says “…Maybe…”

Drift on

and see. Be a part,

not a part,

an is or not is.

I guess we’ll never see

until the end,

if

we get the chance.

Crimson Leaves

Did you notice the tree

with the crimson leaves

across the busy street

next to the bank that’s closed today,

tucked between that telephone pole

and storage trailer and all the filters

of perception verging with skylines

and sun rays and simple gusts of wind

stirring desire to connect

with surroundings trapped

in skies and gravity?

The bank will open tomorrow

and the leaves will change

to brown and crunchy colors,

gathered together by yard rakes

and simple gusts of wind.

Will you ask yourself

if you will change

like the crimson leaves,

notice them across the street

moving just outside,

trapping shadows

of your attention,

moving your to walk along

a little later

and hear the crowded crunching

sound beneath your toes?

Love Like Green and Grey

The doors were green, the sheets were grey,

watching people in a local Wal-Mart,

making cracks about red-necks

and folks from the south, even where were’re from,

and later turning over toe see you there

on top of the sheets, and feeling happy

as though it were something intangible next to me.

The walls were white, the curtains chestnut,

the chairs hideous and we never sat in them,

I jumped on the bed to make you laugh,

you did the same later, and our affection surfaced,

frustration released, we smiled at each other.

Your car was black, the night was blue,

and we’re not sure what love is, and one day

we’ll stop trying and remember this

as all we need to keep between us.