"Untitled"

I part my week-old hair

with that narcissistic expression

of doubt and perturbation.

Whatever will be

of myself will be of

headaches and sunlit half-smiles,

with the typical bruises and lesions

of a hardened climbing addict.

Think about this:

your arm is on the table under your other arm

in my fingertips,

and maybe I’m the only one that worries

about the hypothetical

but I’m not privileged above danger and

split decisions.

Finally, think about this:

removing desire removes misery

and inserting misery makes desire

palpable.

I’m one of those guys that doesn’t know what he wants,

so he’s either going after everything

or writing something to justify asexuality and

sedentism. Ultimately, I’m fine with stuffing food in the hole and

farting around, looking at the sun and clouds and cats and

that other cat that I don’t know what he’s up to,

and the biggest naked rocks I could find,

but first I have to stop thinking so much.

"Climbing Poem One"

I never write about climbing because

it’s an overwhelmingly

physical act.

My ego pushes me to train

and stick moves,

ones formerly improbable

for my tendons, pulleys, and different-twitching muscles.

I love leaving my feet behind

and creatively breaking BETA,

communing with nature, and

doing what others cannot.

Outside the gym

and outside of outside,

I grasp and lean on every surface

to provide my constant fix.

The test-piece comes

from God’s route-setting,

and even then,

I know it’s silly

to be squirming around these

sediment deposits,

but hey,

it’s no sillier

than anything else we do.

"East Ridge Low-Income Household"

I could see you a countless number of times

just to leave your single-family dwelling and

feel the contented longing living without you brings.

The radio says I don’t want to be right

whether we sit quietly in the darkness

or gaze into the emotional horizon purple

polluted with the Post-War American Dream.

Looking back,

I wish I might have copied so many of the songs

I listen to,

whether they are heavy piano numbers

or the average Friday afternoon anthem.

It is these that teach me the difference

between frustrated longing and depression,

or grateful joy and codependency.

I could see you a countless number of times at your East Ridge home

and leave feeling contented for leaving.

Laughing that we are stubborn as a tiny splinter

upon our lives, I cannot deny that we are both

encaged.

But

I won’t know the future of

the expired,

and I should  know if

I’m to do my job

as a cadaver.

Many days,

I intake resonance

so lonely and sad and diseased

so I could choose

indefinence

reluctance.

Darting in circles,

drifting aimlessly,

I am pinpointed towards a gypsum target

and I should have you know that my igneous cage could slice

a nerve, so I do not expect company.

My dear, you will never enter my metamorphosized shell,

and I never yours,

but perhaps

we will hang next to each other one day on a high ceiling,

stretching our chains crookedly.

I saw you a time

in your Section-8 daydreams

to leave feeling contented

that I finally left.

"The First Day of the Rest of My Life"

8:36 a.m.

March 6, 2001

Missed school.

Looking back, I can remember feeling it was my mistake for sleeping in.

Mom collapsed an hour and a half before, wanting my father’s eyes to meet hers one last time.

Cheryl was able to fend it off for a few years until eventually it disappeared around the time I was 5 or 6.

With technology of the day coupled with her faith, this was a true good and divine

miracle.

There was gloating celebration from the doctors, the family, the church and the Gilda’s Club, which is an informal carcinogenically-struck persons-based organization started in a Saturday Night Liver’s memory.

But the fucked up thing about cancer is that if you don’t completely decimate all the affected cells in the body, relapse often occurs.

Cancer doesn’t give a shit about you or your family.

So I awoke this morning and panicked that I had overslept for school since Dad was always riding me about rolling over after he had woken me up the first time.

I swung from guilt to a broken state when I was told, “She’s gone, son.”

It was the first day of the rest of my life. I wish I could have waited.

Missed another few days.

My teachers from all years visited me at the house. My friends avoided me.

I sat on the couch in our front room throughout the day, greeting the well-wishers with my mouth staring at the floor.

Alone.

I cried at the thought of feeling so alone.

The funeral home was occupied in all 14 or 12 corners.

The procession carried bagpipes.

I had a suit, and my cub scouters had their uniforms.

Her body lowered; I considered joining her.

Mom’s plot is on a hill, and maybe it’s just me, but the sky is always cloudy behind it.

"Junk"

I read that if you’re dreaming about your teeth rotting,

then there is something unbearable occurring,

Junkie

has anyone ever told you that when you write it down

it comes under your control

and becomes a part of you

but not a part of you?

Well I hope that’s clear enough because I’m not saying it again,

Junkie

walk on by

the next time I see you streetwise,

and if I start to cry...

La-la

Paris

it’s only because I wanted to die

rather than know I got hurt again

worse than all the others

and couldn’t see it coming,

Junkie

like I already said,

you fixed things like a sociopath,

but I can’t be angry at your decision

based in helplessness.

I was with our children you’d never met

that day,

Junkie

I have

loved ones

a car

a niche

a bank account

and a foreseeable future,

Junkie

I’m good for now,

Junkie

this isn’t even about you ultimately

nor him,

Junkie

and I hope you survive the ugly end,

Junkie.

With Love,

...

"Provens"

He got hit

when he was walking

to the store with his

friend one Sunday

North Germantown Road

East Ridge

Chattanooga
Tennessee

in his right side

once

and still bled out

on the O.R. table,

leaving a mother

and brother

to ask,

Why?

"Giving Up On Me"

He caught me before I

had the chance to

get high

or even vandalize at the

old age of 15.

When I was older,

Dad held my hand and

told me I

couldn’t drive worth a damn,

so I called my friend Sung

with the salvia and rolled

cigarettes

who lived upstairs from the

driver’s ed class.

That was

my first week away

from him.

When I got to college,

my roommate wanted to kick it,

so we hit a glass chillum

before he turned around

and started selling the weed.

Nice guy.

I told Dad about it

right before I had to move out of

the dormitories.

He drove the 40 minutes to and from Clarksville in silence.

We arrived at home,

and he said to hit the road

before he came back.

This gave me

20-90 minutes to figure out

how my life had become this

disastrous green true-to-life novella

adapted to the two-in-one big screens

closed to the grey truth.

I called a girl whose name

was commonplace

because such a grand exit merited

a car, which she had.

We sailed away on her

white automatic Ford ship

down the driveway

to the left

to the right

and to the left and right again

until all I could see of my home

were my tears.

"good for now" REVISED A TAD

Stiff appendages

day to day

in my lightless hole

prison,

nobody knows

this is where I went.

Even if they did,

I couldn’t

go back

and mom

and everyone

would throw me off

for being there

and staying

like I wanted

it, that I wouldn’t leave.

Kidnapped at my age

I didn’t mind the hands

on me.

Black tar heroin kept coming and

I wasn’t going to think

of their plans for

me since I was done for

from the start.

More please

so I can escape

while they

use me

and I come to

with

burns

scratches

bruises,

whatever they were into,

and I never

like it,

but

it’s fine

it’s fine

fill another

to keep it going.

You

are the

worst.

The worst I know.

Worst that I can imagine

in smell, looks

from that

fucking smile and

stop whistling!

This city’s lost its

fLAvor

since I moved here

six years ago, and

I'm sick enough to die.

Load the rig

if you want me petite.

How much does a person

cost?

The shipping must

be outrageous.

You’ll find other girls

in town

since we’re dying

to make it big and

send money home like

exploited immigrants,

trying to win

but we settle

for consolations

that do not console.

Do not pass GO.

Do not eat.

Do not call an ambulance.

But mother found me

at Cedars Sinai

this time.

She brought me here

and back.

Now I'm awake

gasping,

not knowing

how long this will last

how long until they find me

again.

Has anyone been through this?

When do things get

normal?

Can't go to court

or they'll arrest

me

but I need to

lose this record

so fuck

now what

I can’t do jail

again

fucking D.A.

sycophants

I've got friends

and family

a job

a place;

I’m good

for now.

America:

pedophiles

are protected by

cops

and victims

are served.

And the worst part is,

I’ve come to enjoy the smack.