grace

to be graceful
is to deny
our natural
predilection
for shame
and
gaucherie

to do something
gracefully
is often
more
valued
to doing
something
without grace

however
both
may receive
applause
and
admiration

Marie Antoinette
had grace
Cleopatra
had grace
Christ
Beethoven
Earhart
Attilla the hun
all had it

grace is the marching
of armies
and sometimes
their defeat

grace is the flashflood
the wild fire
Dante
in the 9^th circle

it is the scavenger
the pear tree
matchsticks
and the light bulb

traffic cops
boxers
and clerks
in department stores

a herd of horses
chasing
the sun and you
tiptoeing through
the bedroom
after dark
your pregnant
silhouette
balancing the soft
white lines
of my
tired eyes

just like in the movies

we sleep on a foam
mattress
on a cheap wire frame
and at 5 a.m.
she awakens me
because
her side of the bed
is sinking

the middle peg
has inverted
and will
no longer
hold the mass
of her pregnant body

how did this happen?
she asked
you did this
somehow you did this
when you were
vacuuming
or straightening up
I know you think
it’s because
I’m fat
but you weigh
more than
I do so
you’re wrong

naturally
I say
turning on
the light

we get up
and I struggle
to straighten
the peg leg
half asleep
and hung over

I can’t get it
I say to her
my hand’s
all fucked up

you mean the dog
fight hand?

yeah

you barely got bit
you’re fine

but the tooth
went deep

oh stop
she said

now try pulling
off the mattress
she said
then straightening
the leg

so I drag off
the mattress
and then
she said
those clamps
are broken
how did
those clamps
break
that’s the reason
I’m sinking
I’m going
to end up
on the floor
on that
dirty
stinking rug
with the dog
which wouldn’t
be so bad
if she didn’t
eat poop

but finally
I straighten
the leg
put the mattress
back on
straighten it
climb in
turn off
the light
and begin
the long
climb
back into sleep

as the morning
birds begin
outside
our window

you know
she said
I bet
I know
what
happened
to the leg

oh yeah?
I said

it must
have bent
the other night
she said
when you
were pounding
into me
you were
going so hard
I was worried
maybe you
made me bleed
but no
instead
you just
broke
the bed

oh
I said

and wasn’t that a strange
movie tonight
she said
I kept waiting for
something
good to happen
to Jolene
you know
that turning
point in a movie
when they
finally
catch a break
but nothing
good ever
happened

why would someone
make a movie
like that?

I sat up in bed
and put
my glasses on

where are you
going?
she asked

I’ll be right back
I said

I went downstairs
and sat
on
the toilet
in the dark

I heard Nobody
scratching
around
his litter box

he too was
shitting
in the dark

I thought about
silence

I thought about
being

in the audience
when a hippo
swallowed
a midget
in India

I thought about
scrubbing
the mold
from the tub

and then Nobody
walked over
stretched
his limbs
and vomited
on my foot

the morning birds
were singing
loudly now

as I wiped
my foot
and then
wiped
my ass

and I could
already
hear

our toothless
neighbor
clanking
around
his
junkyard lawn

the engines
of another
day
beginning
again

the whistles
blowing

the punch
clocks
punching

the eggs frying
in the pan

the children
of night
tucked
back
into their caves

the owls
hollowed out
by the sun

morning bird
I thought
wish me
luck

tonight
I will try
for the other leg

so that maybe
together
we can
sink
into the
same dream

where a black cat
is gunned
down
by a silver bullet

and you
and I
can begin
again

just like in the movies

where I take your hand
as you’re about
to leave

tell you I love you

before you
board
a plane
heading east

a red rose
burning
in your hair

I thought of ships and armies and goldfish not in their bowls

dog breath
and
warm beer
and
nowhere
to go
but down

but it is not
so bad
growing
older

not yet
so
cruel

not yet
hunted
by
lightning
and
thunder
and
the sea

not  yet
swept
out
and
away
across
the earth

hoping god
is a cat
curled up
on a plush

pillow
too busy
licking
his asshole
to concern
himself
with
me

buoy

people are no good
to each other

but without an ocean
to swallow us

we will likely
go on being
whoever
it is
we are

and I suppose
there’s
nothing wrong
with that

if you can accept
a little deceit
now and
then
hunger
and cruelty
some of the time

without an ocean
to swallow us

but rest assured
it cannot
be war
all the time

otherwise
we couldn’t tell
love and hate
apart

and because
we’re all
in this
together
in this soup
old
young
thin
fat
dead and not yet
born

all without an ocean
to swallow
us

we must keep
an eye
out
for the good parts

it’s the only
thing
we can do

misdirection

even after life
even among the bones

in their beds late at night

so many disparate
elements

moonlight that hung
in the trees

the wires dance in the wind

sounds of myself

smoking
my hand writing

even after life
even among the bones

they knew this was never enough

the promise
that surpasses us

sobbing and shaking

like a pale-skinned virgin

completely emerged

in the lights
the wet streets
the person she thought she was

edenic

there is a constant barrier
somewhere behind
the invented centuries of our fragile backs

hurling forward
my dream
the enormous bliss
the event of our meeting 

if I may show you the future
a new delay in terror
a crude symbolism
without experiencing design

the incomprehensibility of my poems
and our connection
unlike their fathers may even be
grateful to you
to the abyss
to the multiplying endlessness

slowly caught fire in emergency kisses

photo shoot


so incredibly starved
for attention
he sits
on the wooden
rails of the bridge
staring up
toward the house
like he is posing
for a photo shoot

one
where the photographer
is always
the sun

the unveiling eye
of the holler

but he knows full well
he upsets the dogs
by posing there
like a degraded Gable

but there he is
anyway

shirtless
skeletal
bronze

brain waves
like a game
of pong
cluck
cluck
cluck
cluck
Paul Mall’s
staining his fingers

the sound of four
wheelers
whizzing by

as if there is ever
some place
to be
urgently
here in

this beautiful inferno

a marriage riddle:

the glass blotched
with concentric
rainbows

carry them away
to captivity

case study 4

a teacher
after reading how
word-association techniques
reveal personality
writes on the board

“good work improves reputation”

if she then
tells you
to prepare
for your presentation

do not instead
photocopy
your gaping asshole
to prove a point 

knowing her
interest
in David Bowie
she will likely
ask
for a closer look    

teaching english

writing your first line
will be the most
strenuous endeavor 

it will be highly
important
that you are not
diddling yourself
under the table
or using your dictionary
to look up dirty words  

but if you cannot resist
quickly jerk off
and get back
to your lesson

baby talk

            for Andrew K. Peterson

he said
nobody has ever
written a good
poetic narrative
about
pregnancy
from the
male
perspective

hell
I can’t think
of many women
who’ve done so
and made it
accessible

you could
really
strike a chord
with that
he insisted

if it comes
I told him
I’ll write it

if it doesn’t
I still have
the service
industry
academia
marriage
loneliness
dogs and cats
ham and swiss
gin and tonic
green bean
casserole
neighbors
bills
telephone calls
thunderstorms
and the endless
compulsion
to dance the keys

when the baby
talk comes
so will the words
however
mismanaged
and irresistible

way to go

a Bangkok
columnist reported
that a hippopotamus
had killed
a circus dwarf
when he
bounced sideways
and was swallowed
by the yawning hippo
waiting to appear
in the next act

more than
1000
spectators
applauded wildly
until they realized
it was a tragic mistake

the real thing

I will never understand
these photographs
people take
of themselves
in front of mirrors

some shirtless
boasting
gratuitous muscle

others raging
thongs
and tanned cleavage

while still others
simply stare
and smile
like old
fashioned
narcissists

in their bedrooms
surrounded by
American flags
sports memorabilia
or posters of other
half nudes

in their living rooms
over beer pong
tables
battle shots
under banners
celebrating
pass out for Passover

and still others
smile on
obliviously
in their
bathrooms
where they have
forgotten to
close the lid over
the calamitous turd
half  floating
half pasted to porcelain

any way you look at it
we’ve become
obsessed with self-image
and its projection
on others

and I am ashamed
to admit
that I too
have photographed
myself attempting
author photos
where I’m
staring
off
into space
the bags
under my eyes
visible
without
a microscope

so I suppose
it’s hypocritical
to call
them
out
all of those
who have
posed
for such photos

but fuck it

nobody gives
a shit
about your abs
your tattoos
your tramp stamps
or your
pretty smiles
find something
else to do
than photograph
your tits
your DSL’s
puckered
like a fucking fish
and do something
with your lives
and stop
making me
write these
goddamned poems
where I’m forced
to call you out
on all your
inadequacies

so give me the real thing
and stop boring me
with your peep show

it’ll save us all
a lot of time
trouble
and imagination

the sea breaks

don’t tell me of your metaphors.  the most beautiful stars of the earth.  bring me to my knees

proclaiming with devotion
            push down hard

                                    I am alive with you.

have a nice day


george carlin had this bit
about having a nice day
that whenever he
purchased something
the cashier would always
say have a nice day
and he thought
what if I don’t want
to have a nice day
what if I want to have
a really shitty day

it was that forced
appreciation
of the day
the insinuation
that good
things were ahead

well, after years in service
have a nice day
is still
the most commonly
used phrase
for departure

what I can’t stand
is the falseness
about it
because in all sincerity
I couldn’t give two shits
if you have a nice day
and in all likelihood
you feel the same

and the other day
handing out
a beverage
through the drive-thru
window the words
left my mouth
and I could feel them
slugging over my lips

but it was the reception
of these words
that was most disturbing
by an older Mennonite
woman wearing a bonnet
button down and long skirt

taking her drink
saying
well I already
had a good day
because I saw you

and I could feel
the sincerity
in her kindness
and it was nauseating

give me shit on my shoes
a thunderstorm
a rash
anything

but don’t ever
give me
such kindness

because
it will never
be returned

fresh meat

I ordered a pound of honey ham
and half pound baby swiss
sliced wafer thin

and the woman looked at me
like I’d asked her
for a kidney

but she hunkered down
stripping the meat
on the machine
grunting
over each piece

some people
have it really hard
while others just
make it really hard

I thanked her
for the meat
and went on
to the bakery

the stench of kisses

my mother’s breath
always stank
of coffee and lipstick
and when she’d kiss me
goodbye
I quarreled with feelings
of affection and disgust
as I wondered why
she didn’t smell
more delicate
like I had imagined
the breath
of television mothers

she would sit at the kitchen
table blow drying her
long blond hair
watching
The Today Show
while my father
stood in the garage
smoking and drinking
chewing over the noose
regardless of temperature

and I wonder about parenthood
and I wonder about love

as I sit here at the kitchen table
drinking coffee and doing
a fat tap dance along
the keyboard
as she is in the other room
studying and talking to the animals

and I wonder about parenthood
and I wonder about love

and I wonder about the dance
and the animals the stench
of kisses of the other room
of the untold thoughts
of all shades of lipstick
come and gone
about the grand countdown
about the night owl
and the lark
about the undammed creeks
about the dammed
about biscuits and gravy
about vitamins
vitality
thanksgiving turkey
flashing lights
fire extinguishers
clear clean water
the bottom of the well
about Milton
about Hemingway
about Williams
about Stein
Burroughs
and Brautigan
forgotten
found
and reclaimed

and I wonder about parenthood
and I wonder about love

and I wonder about
the broken freezers
the broken flowers
the cold toes
the toasters
the television shows
the summer moon
the daily mail
the catatonic
and the schizophrenic
the princess and the toad

and I wonder about parenthood
and I wonder about love

I can’t tell you
anything
nothing that will
get you closer to god
or the railroad tracks
or the nursery rhymes
long since replaced
by limericks

my mother’s breath
always stank
of coffee and lipstick
and when she’d kiss me
goodbye
I quarreled with feelings
of affection and disgust

but the dogs will go on
barking and the gods
will go on quietly
judging
and what else
matters under the sun

hound dog

            for CA Conrad with respect and admiration

like another asshole
in a collage of assholes
I emailed him
a letter telling him
what a wonderful poet
I considered him
and thanked him
for his contribution
to poetry

even though I hated
when writers
did this
this puckering
this ball licking
pretentious approbation

but then
like another asshole
in a collage of assholes

I pasted the first
section of my
most recent project
into the body
of the email
thinking maybe
he would relate
and we would
start a correspondence

even though
I have
never corresponded
with anyone
neither pen pal
poet
nor the pope
and consider myself
too lazy to do so
successfully
and why shouldn’t
he relate
because the style
and tone
and perhaps
contextual value
were ripped
right from
his own fingertips
in the most
unoriginal way

even so I waited
and I waited
and he never
responded

and for that
in all
sincerity
I thank him

I thank him
because
I probably
wouldn’t have
responded either

and instead
hit the
delete button

while eating fried
peanut butter
and listening
to Heartbreak Hotel

like another asshole
in a collage of assholes

run of the mill

not everything
needs to be
profound

not every day
not every night
not every poem

sometimes
you sit
and the cat
pushes
his asshole
into your face

sometimes
the pens
run out
of ink

and even
the tuna
goes bad
along with
the tomatoes
the mayonnaise
the wheat bread

and the water
sitting in
your glass
collecting dust

but that’s ok
because
not everything
needs to be
profound

so go and do
your laundry
make the bed
make another
shopping list
and buy
more
tuna
tomatoes
mayo and wheat bread

and don’t forget
the pens
for when something
profound does come along

the interrupted unconscious of kubla khan  


she has an acute
sense of smell
now that
she is pregnant
and has often condemned

my deodorant my hygiene
my morning breath
my feet
even though
I shower at least
once a day and brush twice

and when the dog’s express
their anal glands
or the cats
spray the litter box
she is the first to point fingers

but this morning I called
her from work
and she said,
last night
when I rolled over

I think I swallowed a fart
in fact the taste was
so pungent I checked
your ass to see if it was wet

and even though
I’ve showered
brushed my teeth
and have eaten
my morning oatmeal

the taste of your asshole
is still on my lips

it woke me out of a sound
sleep and I was having
this really amazing
dream which I can’t
remember but if I could
I’d be so happy
I’d recreate that miracle

and no one
would believe their eyes

confession

I once compared
Aristophanes’
Lysistrata to

The Real Housewives
of Orange County

I regret to admit
this happened
in the classroom
and many
of my students
your children
responded well
even laughed
at the seeming
remarkableness
of this association

I regret further
to admit
that I’ve
actually viewed
and on more than
one occasion
not only

The Real Housewives
or Orange County

but of New York
New Jersey
and Atlanta

I’d blame it all
on my wife
but when
I find myself
with options
and still choose
the cackling idiocy
of these reality whores

I cannot justly
accuse her
of bribery or
controlling
the remote

and even worse
this poem
is beginning
to sound like
a Kathy Griffin
comedy hour
which
much to
my chagrin
I have also watched
unabated
and with reluctant
though irrepressible laughter

the dead dick of breakfast cereals

late nights on the graveyard
shift he’d tell me stories
of his volunteer work
at the local shelter

he was a good christian
and did his best
for all humanity

I was an extinguished
catholic who didn’t
care much for
corporate healing

but somehow
during those
nights we
found common
ground through
the comedic
suffering of others

he would tell me
of the ragged
old whores
building dream homes
out of mashed potatoes

of delusional men
in rat rags
insisting that
knives didn’t
count as weapons
and should be allowed
at the mission

but the most memorable
was of a morning
therapy group
he held with various men
in the facility
each crowding around
a large circular table

of course no one
wanted to speak
so he’d begin
by asking
a simple question
something to
loosen them up
and so he did

what’s your favorite
breakfast cereal
he asked
watching all
their minds churn
and yet many
quick with
answers like

frosted flakes
cocoa puffs
lucky charms
cap’n crunch
trix
fruit loops
cinnamon toast crunch
…
and then a dark
rather meek
fellow whose
voice could barely
be heard above
the crack of a nut
whispered
count chocula

and from the other
end of the room
came a voice
like a cue ball
cracking the other 15

BULLSHIT!
THAT’S MINE MOTHERFUCKER!!

and a man half horse
half dynamite
leapt upon the table
throwing fists
in the air
THAT’S THE ONE I WANTED
MOTHERFUCKER…

and these were the words
to which he had
to be restrained
pleading to god
for a bowl
of count chocula
…
when he finished the story
he asked me
my favorite cereal
and I told him shredded wheat

and he said that shredded wheat
was the dead dick
of breakfast
cereals
which
no one would
fight me for rights

but that’s just how I like it
I told him
let all
the lunatics battle
for empty satisfaction
and leave me
to the dead dick
of my existence
where though
dull to some
can still
get a rise
out of you!

somewhere over the rainbow

tommy took a fast hit
off his Bud
and said, fuck man
I just can’t stand
the thought
the thought of what
I said
the thought of
women shitting
he said shaking
his head
I mean I just
want to go
through life
thinking that
whenever they
go to the toilet
rainbows
pour from
their buttholes
hell I can’t even
call them assholes
he said
I mean, to think
that whatever
crawls pours
scratches
or aches out
my asshole
is the same
monster
crawling out
of theirs is just
sacrilege
it’s like pissing
on a bible
well tommy
I don’t know
about all that
I said
trust me jc
he said
the world
would be
a lot
better off
if women
didn’t shit

tommy was 43
and had never
lived with a
woman
and his mother still
slept with her rosary
and was so uptight
she’d probably
never had
to shit in
her life

tommy got up
from his
barstool
and said
well, time to
take a ride
on the ol’
deuce caboose
he said
slapping my back
and walking
off to a
bathroom
I barely feel
comfortable
unzipping in

so I sat there
pulling at
my beer and
thinking
about shit
what really
troubled me
was not
women shitting
but the rainbow itself
and if the rainbow
poured from
every woman’s ass
I couldn’t help
but imagine
leprechauns
waiting at the ends
of long sewage pipes
protecting their
pots of gold
mounds of man
shit at their sides
their little feet
gliding
irrevocably
forward and backward 
a faint Irish tune
stammering
from their
wet lips
a woman up
miles above
wiping off
spring
rain moving
from front
to back
just like her
mother taught her

hedonism

it was a brief obsession of mine
after my first wife left
researching them
seeing why and how
they did what they did

for some
fantasy played a large role
searching for a perfect
fantasy lover—beautiful
submissive and eternal

others were less
intimate
following from
a great distance
to secluded areas
to pursue them
for no other
reason than delight

while still others
more refined
were motivated
by material gain
and lifestyle
only acting out
when disrupted

somehow
reading about
all these people
who needed
so much
more than I did
set me at ease

during those quiet
and seemingly
endless nights
dreaming
of new
forms of lust
thrill and comfort
still so far
out of reach

too close to know

sometimes you’re too close
to know your woman
is a snake twisted
around your trunk that
your job is just another slut
another slit wrist another
tryst ending in your hunched
shoulders over the bathroom
basin brazen face questioning
its reflection that your dogs
are only waiting for you
to die to feed upon your
hospitality that your shadow’s
grown tired of following
you that your television is
tired of entertaining you
that friends and family have
no idea who you really are
that your body is not your
own that your eyes see
what they want
to see that you dream
and you hope and you
want and you need and
dream impossible dreams
leftovers from madmen
on hot nights and that
when lightning strikes
it will leave only
the empty breath
of degraded sentiment
raping your freedom
raping your
soul and nobody knows
the troubles I’ve seen except for
you, you, and you and they
say that’s supposed to save
you but sometimes you’re
too close to know the
difference between salvation
and damnation and really
what’s the difference when
it’s all in your mind