All That I Remember of Tin Cans and Bird Feathers

The childhood tree, which I used to climb, is still here,
but the car in which we kissed is gone.

A memory left in the branches of the backseat,

some of your hair,
I imagine, still in the fabric.

But, then again,
our eyes were closed most nights;
moving to the hum of the headlights.

Outside mosquitoes, living in Diaspora, completely
displaced, we realized
young people will find homes

away from home.

Collaborative poem with Vince Bauters

Statement of Poetics

I found my statement of poetics from a long time ago. I am thinking of re-vamping, but here's the original...
Poetry leaves you thinking the art of writing words is the obvious and most enigmatic thing all at the same time.

"Do You Have A Light?"

You stain like the stale smell of a cigarette
that seeps into my sienna burnt strands of hair.
In your simple stain fashion, permanence lies deep at the scalp.

Sitting there, rotting there, with no
way to wipe away, scrub clean
without first smelling the awful
stench of smoke left in the follicles.
I inhale the fresh scent because the smell of something new is what life is all about.

Breathe it in, blow it out, with no
avenue of keeping its lingering effects out of my goddamn hair.
It's you I hear, you I see when my uncontrolled conscience turns
toward that white cloud of hypocrisy and asks, "Do you have a light?"

Opaque-ness of a hallway

I left my sorrows in the carpet fibers
Of my unfurnished apartment.
A puddle was left around my rug-burned knees, where the redness
of the temporary indentations blazed on my skin and emanated a hot heat.
I rose reluctantly, pushed the door open, and walked down the moth scented orange isle.

Bohemians Sitting on a Stump

Bohemians sitting on a stump.
Scratching the surface of wood with their curled in
monkey hands.
Crouched over in waiting like a homeless man waiting for soup after three days of starvation.
They wait.
They gaze over to the next Bohemian on a stump
and wonder what they look like underneath. What they are starving for.
They twist spines from right to left because they cannot move from their stump unless told to.
Hands above heads, arms stretched out, chin resting on palms. Any position to keep from the dangers of insanity.

A Master comes around and observes the stumps and its inhabitant. Each in its proper place. The Bohemian leans over, stretching as far as their limbs will lengthen, straining to see a glimpse of the Master's parchment. Only what is on the paper determines their fate.

They start drumming. Hands cut from reverberating a noise on the hollow stump, trying to make some small stream of sound.
"Listen to this beat!"
"Louder!"
A postman 20 miles away delivers mail in a small quiet suburban neighborhood.
He stops, listens, and hears the thunderous noise of the Bohemian boys in the distance...

My Birthday in your Kitchen

Collaborative poem with Vince Bauters

What animal will this
sadness grow into late tonight?
A sorrowful knot of precarious lies
crawling out of its fetal position reliving
a soulful past like your car driving
through snow on a New Year's Eve.
Headlights blind an already
drowsy calendar mile.