my last night in the place

someday
i want a home
that's not so far away
and that doesn't change
(not even when things get noisy)
a home in the key of C
(when things get coltrane giant steps confusing)
i can always come back
to that note in the middle
a place that i can find
even if you spin me around
and pull out my eyes
a place that i will protect
with all of my life

i'm happy
i've learned to almost always be happy
but scared, too, and hopeful
and optimistic
(because our neighborhoods are alive with magic
that we don't see
unless we walk late at night
when the magic creatures
think we are asleep)
optimism is not "good things will happen to me"
optimism is "i will be good to others"

important to remember:
apartments can always be emptied

to my sisters:
all that anybody wants is love, home, and happiness.
and i haven't found the ultimate amounts of all three, of the whole thing,
but this past year
i've figured out how to get more of it
(except for the home part. i'm still working on that)
and it's pretty simple. it involves smiling more,
hugging more, and working hard- looking at things for
the beauties they bring
instead of the burdens-
realizing that suffering is one of the thickest parts of life,
but even something so stalwart can be busted into smaller pieces
with compassion
(compassion is the bazooka, the panzer tank, in the war on unhappiness. it explodes things like doing the dishes and typos in important memos, and co-workers who sometimes can't even read)
i wish you were closer
i'd play songs for you
and help you remember that
sometimes
being ridiculous
is close to being
divine

i'm not close to being the perfect person
but every once in awhile i write a sentence
that makes people's hearts beat a little faster
and that is enough for me.

a hint:
chill your zinfandel on hot summer nights

krysta:
i know you always tell me
that i am part of your family
and i am happy for that (you have no idea)
but don't ever forget
that you are also
a part of mine.

and goodnight, all those leaves that have fallen
and been raked into piles
waiting to be burned
(may rain fall and keep you for another day longer)

little poem

because i thought they sounded good
the wild blueberries up in the woods:

i didn't even think
about poison ivy
or thorns
(or crawling things falling from the trees)
i swam up to the
rocky shore
and caught my breath on the purple stones
i fought a bear
and her cubs
the sun was high
and i burned my nose
the sun went down
and i slept with wolves
as far north
as i had to go
i didn't know
(i forgot my map)
but please don't worry-
i'm comin' back

(and when i do,
i want to share
my wild blueberries
with you)

end of august/too darn hot

i put on my bob dylan hat
and step out onto the streets of the village,
well aware of the heat
but not caring.
i'm absorbing concrete
and car horns
(it doesn't cool at night-
sponge buildings soaking up sun all day
wringing themselves out at night,
red-hot rivers of cooling metal)
there are people taking pictures
and people balancing cats on their heads
and people finding shade in the subway.
it's this kind of day
that makes you want to take off
everything you have on
and jump into harlem meer
but i've got on my bob dylan hat
pretending to stay cool
but not staying cool
at all.

maybe we should go to the beach again?

annebriated poem (read at your own risk- spacing is not accurate!)

i don't care what you are and what you're not
i want you to be my cosmonaut
we'll take off in a ship
you'll steer and i'll fix shit
that breaks along the way

magic grandma magnet fingers
bringing people together and closing
in on what could be
like being tucked in
at night

and about the water
happy on the sides of my beer glass
my mini air conditioner
some beer in
and we're talking about
porn star girlfriends
of her ex-boyfriend
and supporting each other fully
in our statements
of insobriety
and happiness
we don't do this often (enough)
“nothing more important than to know
someone is listenin'” they sing
quietly
because i have the speakers turned down
so that the neighbors can sleep
measuring the oscillations
of guitar strings
we can see
hearts beat
and eyes blink
“your mother has a basement full of sentimental value!”
Said angrily
makes us both laugh
cat stretches on the floor
and the sound in my brain
goes “strrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrecccchhhhhhh”
and it is perfect
another knob creek
and it looks like maple syrup
and tastes like
nail polish remover
my parents want to get
a dachshund.
It looks like this:
double dapple
adorable
or maybe
a sable
(hard to tell)
this poem
is shaped
like mt.
st.
helens
tipped up
on it's side
harry truman
not the president
was swallowed
by
the pyroclastic flow
as it
lived it's breaths
evaporating lakes
and steaming trees
like noodles
(a long haired sable dachshund)
it's all about
making people
smile
only one more time.
Really?

a busy, busy week

this week reads like a grocery list of things that need to be experienced, whether good or bad:
-find an apartment you really like, only to find it already rented out (twice).
-eat healthy. well, healthier than normal. but still find the time to go to in-n-out burger on sunday night.
-miss your grandma.
-ride your bike to work, even if it might rain.
-stay at the beach really, really late with someone you like talking to.
-hug mary and millie! twice!
-clean up after the cat, because even though he is technically your roommates, you love him and you love her.
-find something you like about work, especially when you feel like you just want to go home.
-write a story.
-multiple trips to multiple trader joe's.
-miss sammy's trivia night because you are 2,000 miles away.
-let someone make you cookies.
-drink a little bit.
-do what you love, even if you don't get paid for it.
-call your mom and dad and talk to them!
-find an apartment at the last second. one with great neighbors and a view of downtown!
-dance- by yourself, at a party, in your car, whatever.
-chicken soup!

and so much more... but those are all i could come up with before the end of the show. nine performances of FWC left, and then a mini-vacation. happy.

the bad poetry project

i had to make this happen: the bad poetry project

more later...

exactly like us, except...

Rules for an imaginary world:

1. It takes one year to die.
2. Everybody speaks in a slightly different language.
3. Metal grows on plants.

_________________________________

the tree climb went like this:
the limbs that were the lowest were still too far off the ground for her to reach. so she climbed up my back and onto my shoulders. from my shoulders she stepped into the arms of the old pine. she hugged the bark, and her cheek was sticky with sap. she tasted it, and was happy. up she went, and i didn't bother to stop her. some things can only be learned by climbing trees, and i wanted her to learn those things. it was time, i thought. a month before, she had begun calling to me in ways i didn't understand. the way she was putting words together was different than they way i had taught her- i was unprepared for this, even though they all told me that it would happen. the hill where the trees grew was dark, the moon was under blankets and the clouds were low enough to touch the tops of the trees. i had climbed the same trees, when i was her age, but during the day and without worrying about who was watching. i knew what she would find at the top.
---------
the way that dylan had died was a mystery. i didn't know when it happened, and so we didn't know when she would be gone for good. the middle of every sentence was steeped in drama, and i knew she had too much to say. "when you find someone that you understand," she used to tell me, "then you know that you can't let that person leave. they might be the only one." i was going to miss the way that she talked. little things were different, the shapes her mouth made when pronouncing the scientific names of plants, and the way she made vowels dance in the middle of words, those were things that I certainly didn't do. but without thought, I could understand what she was saying. When people ask me what it was like, all I can come up with is music. we spoke words and sentences and inside out philosophical phrases, but we heard it as music. I wasn't sure that I would ever find anyone like that again.
---------
it was well past midnight, and she was up high, out of my sight. i laid on my back, looking up through the tangle of dark branches, and watched the clouds move quickly away from the ocean, which I could hear crashing against the earth at the bottom of the hill. she called down by way of tossing pinecones and pieces of bark, and i was amazed at how safe i felt, with her way up in the sky. it was dylan's idea, to teach her how to climb. "she should know what's up there, at the top of the trees at the top of the hill." i was worried. i knew they watched the place, and that if they found her up in the trees, they would take her. and i wasn't sure if i would be able to find her again. a pinecone fell, close to my head, and made the sound of buzzing bees. she was close to the top now, and she was learning how to tell me that. the metal plants began to buzz, too, illogically beautiful.
----------
over breakfast one morning, a tuesday in september, Dylan said to me, "i don't know when it happened." i pretended i didn't know, but i had seen her body lying completely still the night before, and the day before that i had noticed that her cheeks remained cool and pale when we kissed- the redness was gone, and would never be coming back. my hand shook and i took a sip of coffee. "henry, i'm dead," she said, and placed two of my fingers on the inside of her wrist, where no pulse pushed life through her skin.

future king

sometimes i want to go to sleep and wake up back home
on any old thursday
in the middle of the summer
turn on the radio
and listen for the weather;
because i am supposed
to play ball
in the afternoon
but the morning is humid
and smells like thunder.

in other news, the cat keeps talking to me tonight. run into the room. slide across the floor. let out his trademark "meeeeeeeewwwwwww" with a low, irritated glance. run out of the room. find small objects and put them in my shoes. just my shoes. nobody elses. i mew back, and he runs over to me, nuzzles my arm, and purrs like a race car. i love him for it. sir lancelot buddy, future king of the critters.

...supposed to be

I just want to be a country-bar guitarist who drinks too much whiskey and sleeps in the back of his truck. The simple life. I want the smoke to be so thick that I can't see them from the stage. Ghosts that rise from glowing ends of cigarettes, the place smells like chocolate, tobacco, and spilled drinks.

(The neighbor has turned her cat into a dragon. I don't ask questions, and I am not surprised at the midnight crashes and roars. It can't be much bigger than a dog, but I have no idea how quickly it might grow. I don't think she has any idea, either, because she keeps asking me if the landlord has been around lately, and if he's asked about her cat. He hasn't, and I don't think he will. You don't fuck around with an old lady who has a dragon.)

I just want a heavy white mug filled with diner coffee and a waitress who got up too early and stayed up too late. Her story is written in her eyes with green ink. She has callouses on her fingers. "You played good last night," she says. "I couldn't see you through the smoke," I say. "That's the way I like it," she says. I leave her all of the cash in my wallet and the lyrics to an Acuff-Rose song. I can still taste the cold edge of the mug, and the bitter coffee. I smile.

When he woke up, he found it hanging on the wall of his small apartment. He didn't gasp, and didn't whisper to god, and didn't stare. He made a pot of coffee, and sat down on the floor, across from the painting. It wasn't there they night before, of that much he was certain. He was also sure that no one could have put it there while he was asleep. He had only been in the city for a few days, he didn't speak the language, and the one key to his apartment was in the pocket of the jeans he had slept in. It was some sort of masterpiece, he was fairly certain of that. The paint was old, but thick, and it moved when he looked closely, like waves, and never stayed in the same place for more than a few seconds. It should have looked out of place there, on his wall, surrounded by piles of paperbacks and 78s, but it didn't. In fact, he decided quickly that he rather liked it, and that he was not going to tell anyone about it. That night, he fell asleep on the floor across from the painting. He dreamed that someone was knocking on the door. He awoke to find a young lady sitting, cross-legged, beneath the painting. She had been watching him sleep. The color in her eyes moved like the color in the painting. "Hello," she said. "I like this place."

music can't hold my hand

tip rhythm
on its side
and out comes crashing
deep drums
and cymbals shining
like god eyes
and the darkness
ain't so dark
and you ain't so lonesome
but maybe it's not a hand to hold
and it ain't what you want to be told
but once you close those eyes
your dreams are all that matter.

an unbelievable story

"I've done it," the old lady said, coming out of her front door. I had just gone out to check the mail. She had deep scratches across her cheek, and she was tired in her eyes. Her bones creaked as she pointed one long finger straight at me, turned her hand over, and beckoned me inside. Her apartment was a cave, ficus and wandering jews and night blooming jasmine clawing at the door, darker and darker the farther in you looked. We had often wondered how many rooms, and in what order they were arranged. And certainly there were shelves and shelves of strange objects- "Come and see what I have done," she said. She brushed at the cuts on her face. She smiled a strange, sweet smile. There was a light deep within her cave, and I stepped towards it. A sweet smell invited me to take a second step. It was ginger and cinnamon, smokey and fresh, very old and very new. The walls were indeed steeped in shelves. Green eyes caught the light. A very small wooden man on an upper shelf with emeralds behind his wire glasses winked at me, and rapped me on the head with his can. "Go on in," he said. "You won't believe what you are about to see!" He sat upon a stack of books stacked sideways, and appeared to always be on the edge, teetering above the herringbone floor. "Danton," she said and flicked at him with a short white stick. "He never shuts up."
"Look over there," he said, pointing at a darkened corner of the entry. "Look, look! Watch carefully, now-" He paused, took a deep breath, and rapped his cane on the cover of his book bench. Very little happened. "He's still learning," she said. "He's so old, I hope he gets it before-"
"Wait, wait!" he yelped. "Something is happening!" And indeed it was. The dark corner was no longer so dark, had gone from pitch black to a muddled grey, and a shape began to grow. It was a cube, but elongated. A tank. A fish tank. A red stone within began to glow. "I've done it! I've done it!" Danton stood on his books, rocked back and forth, and leaped into the air. "Danton!" she cried as he flipped head over heels, "You've done nothing but illuminate! You've done nothing!" He crashed onto his back, and the books went flying. "Look what you've done!" Danton rolled upright, and stared at the old lady. It was a fierce, intense stare. Perhaps they were lovers once. "Look. What. I. Have. Done." he said. She stared back, and readied her white stick. As she lowered it to his nose, the red stone burst fiercely bright, and filled the room with a warm light. "Holy shit," I said. But it was too late. The old lady had already turned Danton back into wood, clothes and all. The stone continued to glow. The old lady picked Danton up, re-stacked his book, and set him upon them. "We'll have no trouble from him for awhile," she said. Within in the tank, something had begun to stir.