kite

my father says you died when he
was 17. you were his closest friend. you fell from the

 edge of a canyon, hang-gliding. your head cracked
open on a rock just like eggs against the counter.

your obituary was the kind of joke he thinks you
would have liked. you pissed him off, he says:

you were too nice to his mother, you combed
your hair always the right way, you were always
over for dinner when he wanted most to be alone.
“What can I do to help, Miz Reichelt—“ that’s what you
always said. you had too gummy of a smile.

my father says all these things on the way to
another funeral of another friend, this time
a math teacher with bone cancer. he looks
so tired. he says, Every funeral is that
first funeral. he says, Stupid prick.

my yearly phoenix death poem

this place
where all the buildings look the same and the
grid system is like counting blessings
43 44 45th avenue
the gender roles locked in tight and
the sexual energy as dull
as the dead air and as authentic as
the palm trees imported from
who-knows-where somewhere maybe
perhaps they gave shade there instead of
a complimentary view
included with the air conditioning and football
games

millions of people live here and yet
I've never heard of a single one of them

Sagas of rapture and loathing

he masons his sword of molybdenum
and shatters his garment of rock,
his owls and peacocks are all at the ready
beards drawn long and fewer atop.

his threadbare financials are void of an ending
the boundaries volunteer themselves thin.
dusty dim-witted advice vies attention
but the elephant fits cozily within.

colleagues collectively file coffins
and carve the soap into walls
his masons forgo his swords of molybdenum
and go swimming all through the halls.

maybe i could end up in central california

by my favorite venue and the ocean,

and we'd be three-quarters complete

tomorrow i'll wake up and contemplate it further

clammy night not so bad when i try to think of reading your mind

walk the streets to see you come and go, whoever you were

you didn't turn around but i caught a glimpse of your head

walking past my fence. the reason wants to be found out

these days. even sitting in here i have to put my spoon down

when i catch the fading light playing on your hair like a memory

out -- of -- place. try to order it but give up too soon.

horoscope poem, pt. 2

leo
the universe isn't listening to you, so why
keep roaring about it? the streets outside your bedroom
fill with too much traffic for the sky to hear about you
and your infinite stubbed toes,  lover with halitosis,
aging parents, favorite shirts grayed in the wash. if you
 still want the world to listen to you, why don't you try
 opening your own pickle jars for once.

virgo
there is a steep fall coming for you. avoid
the panes of windows, the cracks between blinds.
this fall will find you: you know this, awake
sweaty some nights from the spill and sharp of it.
tie your shoes carefully, but don't fright.
the ground doesn't hurt you as much as it ought.

libra
toss out the nostalgia with the garbage, libra, is the past really as
clean as you remember it? your mother still keeps boxes
of your baby teeth. you feel trapped-- the secret
lies in your own adult molars, those silver cavity plugs.
your twin daughters pierce their navels this week. look
every gift horse in the mouth and you may find the voice
you've been searching for.


scorpio
that nickel scent you've been smelling but can't place?
it's no jar of quarters, no grandmother's perfume. potpourri
and pumpkin pie won't cover it. scorpion, your barbed tail
and easy-edged words mean you never look for pain in your own
scraped knees. find the source of the bleeding and apply pressure.
tourniquets will come in unexpected places-- the neighbor girl
with her nervous smile and soft cheeks.

Sacramento class struggle

deadbolt lock
flourescent buzz on linoleum floor
dinner is beer and box of blueberries
fold-out brokeback futon

let the freeway be your ocean

from the family desk

well, it was my duty
   I must have put it behind something
hey, you're taller than me

um a box of
   I have been a heck of a house guest
is that box one or two

don't let it get too dry
   located the decadent stuff here

at the end of the day it is what
   it is what it is thinking about what
it is going to eat

   oh look there's steak

are you against the idea that single amputees are always pirates?

i wouldn't

my legs turn purple and orange when I take showers
my face turns red when I'm drunk or laugh too hard or
randomly when I speak out in class
my hands are slightly more yellow than
my arms and
I get a dark crease on my stomach
when I lean forward in my chair

I wish those were the colors they meant
those people that said
'wait until she shows her true colors'

a horoscope poem, pt. 1

aries:
look for hope in the space beneath your bed,
next to the pairs of socks you wore long after dirty.
ram of mine, stay angry or the world will dissolve
into shades of medication, dramamine for the plane and
advil for  your frequent migraines, hard consonants that
sound too much of alien planets. fix your troubles: set your
thermostat to 73 and flip a coin.

taurus:
grip the wheel and lean your body into gravity's arms
when driving around steep curves. the weather this week
will be teenaged car accidents and death that skids out
of control. let your bull-hands hold too hard on the
things you love and don't be afraid to strangle.
if you clean the moldy food out of your fridge
you won't feel your own mortality so much.

gemini:
your hardwood floors are killing your softness,
darling twin, carpet your world! men with binoculars
watch through your keyhole. lock the doors.
keep them out. the only hardness that belongs
in your heart is a whiskey miniature; the only man,
a moon in a dream you had once.

cancer:
sing songs of longing to your showerhead when
the bards aren't looking. there is only so much birdsong
 you can see before you die-- don't stay inside long, little crab,
 the walls will keep you like formaldehyde. pretty girls
with painted toes and short smiling fingers wait for you
at the stop sign between here and nowhere.  find them. smell
in their skin every flower they've ever picked.

We Are Not In A Bar

But if this were a Contemporary American Poem
There would be a bird or a ghost
Passing through you like music through a stained
Glass window or a newspaper
Through the street.

No, it would definitely be a bird,
A hummingbird to be exact
And you would be cupping it
Like it was the last snowflake

And its heart would be beating
or not beating.

But this is not a Contemporary American Poem.
There is definitely not a bird,
And if there were, it would definitely not be a
Hummingbird. And there is
Not a ghost.

You thought there was a
ghost, But it was

Just R-Kelly's Memoir, Soulacoaster
Which is like a ghost because
They are both transparent.

No, this is not a Contemporary
American Poem. This is a party.
And you're here, and you're enjoying yourself.