crowd poem vol 1

i asked for prompts
from friends
on facebook
(thank you)
they are
the italics
rest is
the poem

        picture of a temple on a jungle hill, jeremy

looking up through
jungle brush
a temple is painted
on a rock that pierces
bright clouds
    
i carried my orange banner
many miles
to ascend the hill
and place my flag 
among the works of
the great romantics:
blake, nabokov, plath
    
standing at the foot
of god’s pagoda
it feels it may vanish
if i take even one step closer
a mirage
a photograph
a dream

        letter to the weather on a hot day, stephanie

you give a soggy grey glow
and i sit in the greenhouse
you had me sticky in bed this
morning, my feet eager for
the cold shower water 
finally drenching a reluctant spine
you sucked my will to achieve
but neither could i mourn
sunk in the hazy doldrums of your
wet heat

        talking to a stranger outside a restaurant, jenny
 
i was going to
trudge back into drizzly swelter
(the host said “one hour”)
when I saw you.
something about
the angle of your phone said
“available”
you came from the same state as me
our brothers competed in soccer
    
“seven people died climbing everest this year”
you mention.
    
i look down, holding an orange flag
i see the detail of the fabric, not orange at all
but thin red stitches over golden yellow silk.
the table is ready

        feeling of leaving a place you’ll never come back to, tammy
 
wet eyes scan the horizon
a smile on my lips
life isn’t long enough
to rebuild 
your wonders
or short enough for me
to stay here forever
so i fall to my knees
gathering two tight clenched fistfuls
of your dusty soil
letting wind catch the particles
slips from grasp

        recover or reconstruct familiarity, elizabeth
    
a peppery flavor to the 
splash of crimson in your 
gold nasturtium
feels familiar.
given even the purest water
that bouquet will wither.
just down the path there is
an emerald hillside
where spicy flowers grow.
these are new flowers
with the same name.

        growing up, mo

remember when we were kids living on the north side?
things were complicated back then
but now things are simple
but now we’re told they have to be.
i used to wander in the hills of Oakland
listening to deltron
on a panasonic portable CD player
two double A batteries
lost somewhere in the 
electrocrackle of a hot vintage porn
swarming with dream life
spirits and hallucinations.
trees don’t get me as high any more
but i’ll
still go half on sack with you,
dusting off my purple motive.
do we have to settle down?
i want us to settle up.
to put the same orange flowers
on that one ikea table
every day to
make it new.

        shopping at Costco, vikram

is this being grown up?
when i push the cart aisle to aisle
drive it like it's stolen
because we’re gonna expense this:
brownie bites
coconut oil, olive oil,
twenty dozen eggs,
spices, cereals, earplugs,
jam.
there’s a proud
snap-worthy moment
when we pull up to the register,
cart filled past capacity
the man at the door signs off on our load
and we start wheeling it
towards the landfill
a couple of ants.

        a golden retriever named Theo, summer
 
bleached targaryen mane
you were the star at graduation
the falcor in my 
neverending insta story
what made me happy were
your pouty eyes
your triumphant shlump back into the dog
bed home from a walk
for those three days before
my date
you were the perfect digital wingman
if i walked you, you’d be grateful
but if not it would be chill too

***

stroognoot (strange night)

wibbled we
plump meanders neathwords
sweet squeeze one night 
orbed we oleander
skin grip
wet spot
stucky touch we 
skirfed out nerth words
zung zunging no fooded, needs eat
living behind quince cottage
anta sum grimmudge loose alley
bad slumping dust brick all car theft
risky mistreat solked homes
out back half sunk
haunt mansion
hewmed we
hot sweat sticky bug day night
swat skeeters
strubbling out to see sky flames
star snuffs
big dipper
we can’t find orion cause stars don’t align
for us they do
depending how you define: line
drawn
tea house from bad korean
two brainhearts sqweetched among wobb hovel
viving or loving
sky spike upta ood fern filled farmyard
here, to snive
all along the llamas
out buskirk sweet biggy boot trot we
swat cute bumple bee bum danger
squat, press to get to
that bed clutch hell tight
sweet gribbin
a future gelling
did the flood came then
washing away tissue tissue tissue tissue
in snibbly nose dab
holding tight what’s letting go
your proposal
let’s wake up as ...

we woke up surrounded by chirruping chickens
squak jawed peacock
the inflatable turkey’s rhythmic plompf
levee eyes parting the muddy scuttle
of gradient guinea hens

we wake up smiling on the speckless white
floor rug of your fidi apartment
there’s a backpack
and a lego man
door closes
elevator opens

... frends

setting sail

in the middle of the night sunday
i wake up and turn in
bed to hold you

only
it’s just a pillow
and i am alone

that morning my heart
throbbing
a kissy face emoji goes out
our first red heart

it is the conversation 
we can’t get enough of
sweet eye meets
gizzard grins
the touch

that morning my heart
sent a kissy face emoji
blew our first red heart

monday morning
no work on my mind
and instead i write you a purple poem
slide it in a bottle
and push it down the river Styx
for you to gather on
at the battery docks on
Manna-hata’s tip

you uncork that sunset’s sour vintage
where the taste is not
what the wine is not
what the sweet translucent flesh of grapes
had dripped - stickying our fingers
at day’s demise

for one day you did not reply

in bed i hear the whine of the mosquito
i know it will be a long night
still you have not replied
my phone buzzes
an associate, a friend

she bit me on the shoulder
she bit me on the face

that morning i wake up late
from a bunk bed dream
where the bay waters
had risen
and you can’t see the city from Oakland anymore

the mosquito is trapped:
buzzing around in a cup
with a cloth over it
beside my bed
and a butt full of my blood

i take her outside
on the fire escape
lift the cloth
and watch her 
erratic flight among brick and iron

...


later, you reply
it seems callous to me
three heart emojis
none of them red
and a chesnut

but as my tears clear
I see the fire peach and navy
the purple
and the olive pit

back from the void

we enjoy a purple embrace
sun falls into hoboken
exploding silently
slow oranges
rippling against the hudson
an endless breathing dance
of fire peach and navy
fills our head kiss
summer eyes.
the olive pit you toss in the water
is the sand pattern slipping
through your fingers.
it sinks to
the seafloor
one dark seed under the hudson
joins ten million other human sins.
hellish fractal infinities
once danced on your palm in
these specks of sea-dust
blown from a distant star.
    
I will take you to
the purple planet
whose ocean island
laps at the banks of
your dream beach
where every grain of sand
was born between your hourglass fingers
and lychees dangle 
from the low grove.

hallucination

she texts furiously
curl to the tip of her nose
face in profile
brown straight hair
black romper
seated on a hotel
lobby bench
rolly bag with the handle up
cardigan draped 
around the top
rings, long manicure
she looks
exasperated

perl H buck

(as in jesus H. christ)
straight off a false awakening
in my childhood bedroom
trying to get the lights on
I'm
the lights won't go on
flipping switch
out
want the lights on.

I am in the drop.
the drop happens after
a sinewy Kubrick sequence.
watching the Kubrick sequence
with Perl
one of two women
the other climbs in
nice when it was just perle

it is a person putting on a glove
while sinewy violins almost
nearly unbearable screech
proud: I know who this is
this is Kubrick

when the scene ends
the bottom falls out
falling
dark
falling
until the moment
the ego rea
(is realized)

"oh, I do still exist"

pieces start to
consciousness
a self, a scene
I don't know is Perl still here?
still feel her presence
in the backseat of a taxi
needle and thread
still stitching that glove finger as
silk tailored
pale pink gloss
slips on as
about to "the electric chair"
a criminal
the bottom falls out
the b
                o


      t 


                        t



 
          o 





                                    m




awake full mast sails          needing to write
plump with darkness.        dreading the void.


denver

Denver is haunted there,
thin air thick with spirits
blink of sleep joins
you the dead fiesta,
these horny ghosts
pass one another in 
useless wispy rapture
moaning
in the airport
scampering amid
redeye flier's dreams
passed out back hall
splotchy carpet
under the wild red gaze
of the throbbing blue stallion,
or frozen in the crosswalks
of Aurora they appear
in the weary driver's 
blink of sleep:
a mother and child
stepping out in the street.

Denver is haunted there
ghosts eddying in the
alpine mist.

poems

when i was twenty nine
i learned i could go out at night
and bring home poems
instead of women:
at the street corner
where giggling groups pass,
in the residue between
the bricks,
taxi wheels as
grind to a halt,
weird fizz you can't get 
bottom of a strong porter
glass
stuck to the side,
slouched over a bar
head thump
bench seat
feet hang off the curb
strong porter
when i was twenty nine

and bring home poems

El Cortez

walking around this weird neighborhood
is it dawn or twilight
the hours don’t match up
an orb in the sky could be
a pin prick sun
or just a globe streetlamp
all blueish black above 
a crackle of orange through
the mist on the horizon.

the bulwark of your mechanics 
hedge-pledge comes 
tumbling out of your uber driver's knife carrot harem pocket, 
the old fancy way. 

5/6/19

across the thames

“You want to eat you go to Chicken Cottage”

The man outside barks. It’s cash only, and an attempt is made to beg Brits for a couple pounds.

Luckily there's another, quieter Chicken Cottage, with nobody in it, and this one accepts cards. The fries taste like old grease. The nuggets are the nuggest - held delicately between thumb and fore. 

“Let’s find somewhere we can sit outside and eat this.”

The park entrance is at the dead end of a lane in South London. 

Tip the water bottle for a swig, pinky stuck in the air.

“We’re in London.”

A smile.

“Can I put my arm around you?”

The flat smells like moth balls. The second thing is the furniture - tasteful and warm. A large window covered by thick venetian slats. Beside it, the olive green chair: a curved danish number, elegant in its size, and with four polished wooden legs in a splay. It is overhung by a two-orb cantilever lamp in rosy metallic.

The ceiling fixture is an open ended cylinder: aurburn in extérieur, reflective copper within. A single Edison bulb within emits a scientific orange glow.

Four eyes examine the dresser - rich wood bisected artistically by veins of inlayed brass, whose thoughtful arrangement is uninterrupted by the breaks between drawers. 

The bedspread is a warm white decorated lightly by black embroidery - a band of lace forming a square that speaks of nuzzley sweet interiority. 

Two cross-legged people face one another. 

“What would that look like?”

A smile.

“That would be nice.”



A morning glance between the venetians affords vistas of lush spring foliage and a futuristic peek of London’s iconic “Shard” as cobalt surrenders to dayblue.