poem fragment, on acela

dark tragedies of woonsocket, pawtucket, providence
empty warehouse shells by the tracks
blurring by my window
while i slur a beer and scotch
150 miles an hour
away from my past

circling the wagons
around me and mine
hunkering down,
waiting out the frost
taking these lessons
to hibernate with me

half poem draft

sent to me today, someone found in their inbox

note to self: remember the angular
scales of the boa, the sharp math
of the guitar scale, the smoke in her
hair, her kiss on fire, your lips smoldering.

it was the end of the century, the very
edge of long island, the banks of the east
river being lapped to sleep by dead bodies
and beer bottles. it was the end

of an error, the end
of punishing yourself, the end
of the death of the doppleganger
in the mirror each morning.

fall's first sunrise

"a head that aches doesn't have to stay that way, just let what's dead go."
- "everyone feels like you," owen



first day of fall. i am shedding these dead things, shaking them off, letting them fall away.

good, hard run in the breezy morning, fall's first sunrise glowing red up high over the trees of greenpoint behind me. my shadow extends in front of me and i'm chasing ghosts again, except this time i am chasing them off.

the last sunset of summer

i am taking the words coming out of my speakers as an omen, or a lesson: "we'll get it right this time." looking out my top floor window on summer's final sunset exploding over brooklyn, gulping the last summer ale in my fridge. somehow i made it out the other side again... "this summer was so huge, a crucible of afternoons." my own words ringing in my brain, but far removed like someone else sang them once.

the fall of josh

Autumn Day



Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

Rainer Maria Rilke

green ghosts

the green ghosts
that your eyes made
are haunting the treeline
of the pacific northwest.

their old bones in the branches,
blood red on the roots.
i climb the keyedge
of the cascades

on my way up
and out
and over
puget sound, staring down

mt. rainier: "can we finally hide right
and get this world away from us?"

i floor the gas pedals
of the lumber trucks,
speeding to turn
all of these evergreens

into clean sheets of paper,
finally writing this down:
i'll take my love to the grave.
i'll take my love to the grave.

poem fragment

i snake these same miles
up and down this east coast
roam between homes
where the heart goes

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the pale green shoot
tastes like school used to.

Poem fragment:

Poem fragment:
New York city
You've gotten the best of me
And brought out the worst in me

in dog years

i've finally passed this past year
like a stone, gave it up like the ghost
of me. spending the holidays sleeping in
in my old house in my old town,

all fever and spit and sweat, rusted
throat, hurts to swallow this down.
the dentist, the barber, the doctor
all aid my convalescence. i am being

reserved with my resolutions, taking time
with my plans, careful to clean this
slate right, so i won't let you down again.
the dog year lays down to die, a mongrel

carcass, i shudder the dust from my wings,
extend that old span, strike skyward,
then circle back to pick at its bones
with my carrion maw.

campaign

only the deepest bullets
from the bull pulpit
strafe the stiff wind.
flags aghast, all
flying half-mast.

countdown

slow delivery of death, tip of the match struck
against a boot heel half a world
away from us. slow mechanism
of desire turns over inside,
an old car on a cold morning,
late for work. slow machinery
of anxiety, constant, workmanlike,
never stops grinding my teeth
into smooth stones like the ocean
pounding. slow to wake to the call
of my life, slow to answer your challenge,
slow to respond to the four alarm
blaze. slow death, slow delivery of death
on the airport tarmac, on the concrete
backyard, in the shopping mall,
in the high school cafeteria, death
in the locker room, death in the photo booth,
death in the lockstep formation
of our hearts beating this colossal countdown.

warmth wanes

the summer fades,

warmth wanes from the days.

morning chill of impending change.

this summer was so huge,

a crucible of afternoons,

and i have finally taken shape,

fashioned in mine own image.

the full doomed moon

keep your heart locked up
in the tabernacle,
but the church doors
are wide open all night.
i am sitting again
in the last pew,
saying a prayer
to that full, doomed moon
we saw when we went home:
"please let this cup pass from me."
the sacristy ghosts
haunting the chapel
hurl epithets
at my black silhouette
prostrate on the cold, wooden kneeler,
alone in the knave,
putting my faith
in a locked door.

cold pints

that walk through the druid
tenements beyond the brewery gates
takes us back centuries on the horse
and buggy barreling at us

driven by an old drunk. heart of dublin,
anachronistic pacemaker, my father,
my younger brother and i

walk the long, old miles in silence
and climb through the brewery museum
to the cold pints.

up south fifth street

that grey morning sky
when the sun was bloodshot
behind a hospital sheet
of clouds over the top
of the williamsburg bridge,

dragging my bike down
the stairs and out to sea,
i paddle up stream
up south fifth street.
i feel you stir in bed

one block away,
your blankets toss aside
and wings unfurl inside
the birdcage of my ribs.
i am flying now

out from under the summer's
humid weight, cutting
a swath through cars and trucks
falling in and out of love,
making a b-line back to life.

poem fragment

the ones that got away
the lives i've let slip away
there is no life now
but the one.

poem fragment

somewhere in this fractured
vision of a night,
fractured version of a life...