Happy belated birthday!

Note: This poem was originally penned in March of 2008 under the influence of boredom, Francis Scott Key, and the patriotism of the previous six and a half years. It is best read while listening to:

"Makes No Difference" by Richard King

I close my eyes and listen...

the vision of a banner

spangled and splattered

smothered and covered

hoisted and dropped

from the rooftop of Waffle House

Stitched together from the scraps of Sicily

and the dregs of Dublin

and the bums of the Balkans

and the crumbs of the Caucuses

and the niggers of the Niger river basin

and the ten thousand bastard Amerasians

from the hundred thousand homeless vets

whose Vietinsemination was such a success.

Can you see that banner?
Can you see that billboard?
The one over the streets of Baghdad:

The one bragging in Bangalore:

The one towering over Tel Aviv:

Can you see?

the dawn’s early light over Bikini Atoll

With sheep lashed to the railings of destroyers,
and GI’s washing their clothes later that day,
eating gyros and laughing at Oppenheimer.

Are you still there?

have I lost you Tet?

What a lovely new year and many more to come,

holidays in the sun

holidays in Cambodia

holidays in Laos.

I have a friend who was there in ‘61:

19 years old

jumping into the jungles

with plenty of advice
and a canteen full of vinegar

for the purpose of douching the wounded.

But who needs all this when we have the Rock?

and the Rock’s red glare

staring down

Stone Cold Steve Austin

Keeping us warm at night,
bringing us in from the cold.

It reminds me of my childhood

and the last icy villain

and his Red Scare.

An actor brought him in from the cold, too:

a real cowboy

But this is a new era,
with a new almond-faced hero

(it’s okay he’s Samoan)

no miscegenation here, boss.

And the planes bursting in mid-air?

not since Lockerby

5 million screaming Scotsmen can’t be wrong.
and 19 dead Arabs can’t be right
and 1 balding municipal servant
who had one good day in September?

He can run for president.

But the flag is still there:

The flag is still there.

The flag is still there.

And what does it say?

Alone at night, naked

and cold.

Shivering from night terrors

and kicking at the covers

holding on with both hands

trying to stretch that blanket a little further

pulling it overhead and trying not to breathe

because Ed Jenner is nowhere around.

And the land?

The land was free;
a manifest destiny quilting bee,
a landscape stitched together

with all those poxy small blankets

three thousand miles
from sea to shining sea.

And our home?

How brave it is, to leave a single tribe in all of Georgia?
No more Apalachee, or Cherokee, or Shawnee.

only a single tribe left in all of Georgia

bought because
it was the cheapest
programming in town.

Who wouldn’t want to own a part of this dream?

Five Things I (re)Learned From Haruki Murakami's 1Q84 Over the Weekend

1. "True, rewriting the past probably had no meaning, Tengo felt. His older girlfriend had been right about that. No matter how passionately or how minutely he might attempt to rewrite the past, the present circumstances in which he found himself would remain generally unchanged. Time had the power to cancel all changes wrought by human artifice, overwriting all new revisions with further revisions, returning the flow to its original course. A few minor facts might be changed, but Tengo would still be Tengo."

2. "Wakeful nights often give people useless thoughts."

3. "Unfortunately, however, sheer talent is not enough. And depending upon how you look at it, possessing an outstanding talent that is not sufficient may be more dangerous than possessing nothing at all."

4. "Certain kinds of knowledge rob people of their sleep. Green tea is no match for these things. They might take restful sleep away from you forever."

5. "Tengo closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, found the words he needed and set them in a row. Then he rearranged them to give the image greater clarity and prevision. Finally, he improved the rhythm."

titled 526

I woke to the poppy and rose outside the bedroom window:
carnation and fuchsia, dew-covered and bent
slightly, blowing, lightly, the breeze like dandelions.

 . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :  : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .  : ..  : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .    .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... :  . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...  : .   ... : . . .    .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .    .  .. .  :: ...  .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .. . : .  : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .     ... :  .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .. .    .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .    : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... :: ...   .     : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .    ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... : . . ...

The gentle sunlight of dawn illuminates each with equal vigor,
magnitude and splendor, weekend slumbers blow careless –
flowers like choices, populate the morning garden.

titled 72

Temporarily wary

and eerily weary 

I wept quietly while

the banshees 

played banjos 

and the hobos 

played oboes 

and the bonobos

played with them

selves until salves 

were needed. The 

oboes screeching 

needed re-reeding

but the hobos were 

illiterate and literal 

and loitered in their 

litter until the finger

pickers packed up

the pecker pumpers

jumped up and the

whole damn band 

disbanded on a 

Saturday
night.

titled 99

It reminds me of that book by James Frey
where he talks about a large quantity small
pieces and uses, ingeniously, the ethical
constraints of doctor-patient privilege to
wrap, cocoon-like, his own questionable
ethics more tightly than the high E string
on a Telecaster two turns too taunt.

Bachelor-like I sit eating frozen pizza with
an absurdly grotesque fork and Beethoven's
only opera playing in the background. The
sound of the keys as I type, left hand clicks
right hand clacks, channeling August 2005
when I drank red wine and messaged with
my left hand, procrastinated with my right.

"There are more lives than this one," said
Krishna, "but you do not remember them all."

I do.

untitled 516

Abby carries her mirage:

the invisible weight of 

the clock

weighing down

the gaze 

of

the second hand

circling 'round her

a sense of 

longing 

and

sadness 

and

missing

-ness

the

____ 

that wasn't

the ghost

of the

___________

still lingers

beyond

the field of

vision

the edge of

memory

(intentional)

the grasp of 

repression

not

the distance between

life

and

death

but

between

being 

and

non-being

untitled 35

 

a rushed sense of sadness swallows Saturday morning;

3 5
w y
e e
e a
k r
s s and mounting
and counting

no time like the present

no present like time

Sunday rises less certain.