LYNNFIELD

your face is what my heart remembers:

tiny little stretch marks
pleated out the space
for you to live.

i remember your words deliberate,

as if speaking were like
balancing an egg on end.

fingertips bracing the shape of a curve
before letting go...

and hoping for the best.

HOW TO FAKE MYSTERIOUS

then there is the gray to get over.

the sky,
devoid of color
gives back the blue
like a gift it didn't deserve.

i remember the year
i wore my troubles like a hat
and tipped it politely
to young girls i passed,

even though i have since
hung it up and hidden it,

i'm still shy at the faces
who have worn it with me.

the truth is more inviting
when you choose to hold it back,

the way bed ridden bodies
are nothing to get excited by.

we all need a bird on our shoulder
whispering over and over,

"someday, you will die."

THE ABSENCE OF SOUND

there is beauty
lost in the wind

passing through the
leaves of a birch
nonexistent.

eventually,
everything finds a home
in the absence of sound:

a field of crickets
as you walk by, the
settling of dew
frosting over, even the
light from a star
quiets down
finally catching
an eye from travel.

what was once there
is not, though
everyone is the wiser.

on a birch,
places that rattled
just a month ago
packed bags as tight as buds
waiting to be born again.

in the spring
they'll open the door
like on an old t.v. show
in black and white...

the cold takes off
its coat and hat
mentioning

"honey, i'm home"

we can always hear
what is missing,

but only after it's gone.

KEEPING ME IN DEBT

blow on the coals
will you?

before the fire's out...

'cause that's what you
have to do
to keep someone in love around.

and it starts up again
as though it never left.

this is the way
that you keep me in debt:

taking advantage of all i'm not

blowing kisses to who i've been

poking fun at how i fall

only loving the idea of me.

THE TROUBLE IS

then all of a sudden
there was nothing

and peace and quiet
was a song
i couldn't get out of my head,

so i hummed along
all day as i worked

cutting back lilies
and raking up leaves.

part of me
is so lost for words
that i end up talking
incessantly.

the other part
is so sad and lonely
that it refuses
to ever talk again.

we have more in common
than not
and that's what brings
a hand to the side
of our faces...

(embarrassing isn't it?)

to look the other way,
to hide in shame.

we all want to be beautiful
and unique,

the trouble is,

is that we're all the same.

HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY

...people always ask me "how are you doing today?"...i think that from now on i'm going to answer, "sunny side up."

LAST NIGHT'S DREAM

it's the time of year
where sunlight can effect
your posture.

as if standing up straight
got you closer
to those dying drops of day.

it's fun being hungry enough
to chase something warm with a spoon.

i remember the time
i stalked a sycamore,

slowly creeping up
until i could sneak
my hands over its eyes

waiting patiently
to yell playfully

"guess who?"

and i'm honestly not sure if i'm cut out for life,

far too much heartache
when i can't make room
to fall in love with everything.

i remember the time
i tapped atlas on the shoulder,
and gave him a break
from holding up the world.

"it's not so much the weight" he said,
taking a piss and smoking a cigarette

"but the balance is hard for beginners."

i smiled at him shrugging
and fell very fast awake.

YOU

i want to discover
the mysteries of your body
slowly.

the crescent moon scar
of appendicitis, the
birthmark tucked softly
under the weight
of your left breast.

i want to visit
the places that words can't go...

and trace them so gently
with my fingertips,
you start to question

weather you're even being
touched at all.

i want to wash up
on the shores
of a sunday morning pillow
with grace.

so much so,
that i fall instantly back asleep,

knowing that you're beside me.

i remember the year
that changed the history
of my heart,

a kiss that
got me thinking
about the make up
of my lips.

they're all just
thumbtacks mapping

the places
my love has been.

i've known such beautiful women...

but can't seem to find "you" yet.

IT TAKES TWICE TO MAKE TRADITION

...i'm not sure what to say...i mean this curser is going crazy, keeping time with my heart. and i've had friends (and since i don't really have any) i'll say "friends" who have told me that i need to write prose again. but i don't know what to write. the truth is...is that i never have...known what to write that is. i feel okay. for the first time in a long time...i feel okay. i'd love to talk about love but i just don't get it. and i'd love to talk about life but the only trouble is...is that i'm living it. can i say "her" without everyone i've ever loved wondering if it's actually "her"? can i say "love" without speaking of how i've been living without any? i'm lost right now...and that's okay. 'cause i've stopped being afraid. and to tell you the truth...i'm sick of being found. there is a metaphorical easy chair that i'm laid up in every single night. and i talk to everything that I’ve lost...and he tells me things about his friend found. and i believe him somewhat. 'cause i won't ever be all the way here until i'm there. the most significant thing i've done in the past six months is to hold someone's hand. that's okay. because i've never been more than some kid trying to figure out what this world is all about. but just so you know...the world tells me more than that...he says things...like, "that's good, she just grabbed it, your hand that is...that's a good thing." and that makes everything awesome until next week...where who knows..."she" might get sick of me...again. there, i said it..."again".

LET'S GO FOR A DRIVE

then suddenly you realize
that you haven't seen the stars
in weeks, or a sunset
for even longer

and you wonder
how they could possibly
go on without you.

as if they'd cease to exist
if you chose not to notice.

we give ourselves such importance

maybe that's why tears
fall straight down
to water the ego
from the ground on up.

every other creature knows
that the world goes on without it.

that summer's buzz
turns to autumn's hum
slipping into winter's spring.

i take the time
to see such friends
and let them know
that they are beautiful.

I HATE THE WORD "FOREVER"

'cause he's the bastard son
of eternity, and

my mind's not sure
something can last that long,

so i hate it instead...
knowing it'll end in death,
or life, or heartache.

but things can mean
the same thing so differently.

the way that
eternity is somehow longer than forever
or how the universe
is slightly smaller than the cosmos.

it's strange how love is
the very biggest of words, and
how nothing else comes in second.

so i figure this makes love special
and i like her...
she hates forever too.

because love is a song from a hillside
only audible to a field of berries.

...this is been stuck in my head for two days now...fuck! it won't get out...and i wonder if it ever will.

Well, you say that I treat you like a book on a shelf
I don't take you out that often
'Cause I know that I completed you
And that's why you are here
That's the reason you stay here
How awful that must feel
You said you'd be my dream
I could have you every night
And if by morning I'd forgotten you
Well, no big deal, that'd be all right
'Cause you're the re-occuring kind
You are the re-occuring kind
You never really leave my mind
Are you the love of my lifetime
'Cause there's been times I've had my doubts
We were just kids when I first kissed you
In the attic of my parents' house
And I wish we were there now
I took so long to figure out
What this book has been about
Now I write when I'm away
Letters that you'll never read
You said 'Go explore those other women
The geography of their bodies
But there's just one map you'll need
You're a boomerang you'll see
You will return to me
Yeah you will you will you will'
Well, if you don't think this book's all lies
If you don't think my plans would all be ruined
I'll start drinking like the way I drank before
And I just won't have a future anymore

GIVING UP PAINTING

by now i'm all done trying.

even the letters that make up the words
"i just can't take it anymore."

look shy on the page

caught someplace
like a child in a lie
head down, hands behind back,
scuffing the dirt with a shoe.

and everything was easier
when i thought you
might love me.

the workday flew by
with thoughts of a kiss, sushi still

lingered on those flavored lips,
the ones we made
jokes about biting.

but these days
time stand still
and i grow ancient
with every inhale
recollecting an exhale
of soy-sauce.

one foot out the door,
the other afraid of what came of it.

i'm told i take life
too seriously, though
i've often been scorn
for making light of things.

but these are the colors
i’m am made of
(the palette of my personality)

and you were the subject
i loved to paint...

for every tiny brushstroke
a thousand tiny heartbreaks.

WANTING TO FALL

how i envy the trees
right before their leaves
begin to fall.

as if every drop of warmth
were something magnificent,
worth savoring,
something true
and real, and
beautiful.

if you listen close enough
you can hear their necks stretch
and eyes close
as arms reach up
in topiary approval.

how i dream to get lost
in such simplicity
and hold a day
like a gift
a friend had scent
from far off
as of this morning.

i want to lose myself
in an evening.

rest my body
inside my mind
from a life without commitment.

i use to be afraid
of being alone
which would guarantee
ending up that way.

the way that
the fear of heights
is really the fear
of wanting to fall.

but now i invite solitude
in like a guest
and share my bed
with the idea of it being filled.

and wake to the sound of a tree,
gently tapping at my window.

CABIN FEVER

i'd rather be in love
for all the wrong reasons
then be with someone
for all the right ones.

so this is how it goes:

everyone moves out west
only to miss
the changing of the seasons
then come back to visit
to justify their leaving.

complain about the cold
drive too fast
on an old dirt road
as if leaving were
a way to forget where
they came from, and

sunshine were an answer
someone shouted
from the top of a hill
so everyone turned to listen.

i guess i've grown so alone
that the thought of someone
putting up with me
must in turn mean that they're
crazy.

maybe my heart has cabin fever
and chops self esteem like firewood
to keep warm and insecure
close the curtains and lock the doors,

so underused that it refuses to leave
the tiny shelter it crafted for itself.

for one frozen year after another
much colder than the one before.

AND MAYBE I'M SPEAKING OF LOVE WHEN I SAY


it's just not worth it anymore,
healing the sting of loneliness
while filling a space in my bed.

i'd rather be sick instead,
holding onto everything real
with both hands, negating
the realness with the fear
of losing it completely.

and i can't stand
such paradoxes anymore,
submitting to love
while love lets go.

i can't juxtapose
in such ways knowingly,
pretending i don't care
for someone i do, or
pretending to care
for someone i don't.

i'd find a happy medium
if i believed in happiness...

but i let go instead
never feeling so alone.

telling someone to "fuck off"
that i really just want to hold.

in hopes i'd fill the space
where the rest of me grows old...

'cause i've never been
blonde, or dumb, or young

but think too much
on the simplest of things.

i love you,
and always have

and so what if it translates into
"i like your hair."?

NATS

first day of fall
and the nats still hover
in little clumps
above the sidewalk.

i wonder if they
know that they're annoying
flying at head level,

charming in their insecurity,
raised above the divide

like a prayer to the middle
of my life.

most of my time
is spent reflecting
on the past
while never feeling
reminiscent.

it's a gift to go
after tomorrow with
horse blinders on.

so i move through them
without lifting my head.

and smile while they brush pass.

appalled at my ease
in the face of uneasiness

i take the same road home,
i always take the same road home.

PROBLEMS WITH WOMEN

i guess that
i blame it on my mother

my problems with women.

and not that attaining
the unattainable
would fill the spaces

she never loved me in...but
i try anyway, shocked

at being both self aware
and consumed.

acknowledging weakness
like picking a scab in protest,
something that would heal otherwise.

that's why i'll always
test a girl that i want
to be with.

slowing down the car
on an interstate, pulling
over and piling out into

a field worth existing for,
then rolling in the grass infectiously

as if we'd somehow die without it.

and if she doesn't come with
i'll stop calling her.

and if she asks me
"what are you doing?"
i won't talk to her ever again.

standards are made such ways,

and love is a bar
i can't set high enough.

THE MISTAKE

one day the world
tapped me on the shoulder
to tell me that i was a mistake,

like water boiling over
or leaving an iron on.

he said everything was perfect
but he went out to smoke a butt
and came back to find me there.

"sorry if you feel out of place,"
he said, "you can stop trying
to make sense."

man,
i've never felt so relieved
in all my life.

THE LAST GREAT METAPHOR

when the last
great metaphor is all used up,
my heart will make a sound
like the world's largest
match shoved into a dixie cup
full of yerin.

NO ONE EVER WANTS TO GO SEE THE SUNSET

though it went to bed
like a chinese lantern
spilling out in phosphorescence

and it bled into the water,
pastel sidewalk chalk
running in the rain.

i love the way
things begin again

as if there weren't an end.

in the morning we will
all be a slightly darker
shade of brown,

as if the skin remembered.

the sheets of a bed
holding a shape tattooed
or a patch of lawn who
refuses to grow.

what could possibly have brought us here?

the vessel of our demise
dark and encumbered, but with
tendrils of light
pulling tight like a string,

we're always
making do with such painful instruments

so we play a song of freedom.
a song to bring us back again

YOU CAN TALK ABOUT IT BEING FOR THE BEST


learning lessons
the hard way,

falling
so out of love with yourself
that you feel like
you deserve mistreatment.

it's easier in the long run
fixing someone else
then labeling it "love".

the way a price machine
remains at .89 cents
and you tag a miles worth
of soup cans the same.

it's comforting though isn't it?

acknowledging faults
while living them.

pocketing your down falls
then pretending to be surprised
when that pair of jeans goes on again.

i look at the things
that got me here
and open my heart to idiocy.

raising a glass to pain
i say goodbye to loving
what destroys me.

the best thing about the future
is that it always starts tomorrow

SPACES BETWEEN TWO BREATHS

i'd trade it all
for a taste of the world

and revel in the moment
where it travels to my lips.

small deliberate bites
and chew in subtle wonderment.

i could fall in love
with you i think
in the spaces between
two breaths.

where ocean meets land
and sand is the bridge to the gap.

some nights
can wash over you so slowly
that they explore
every inch of who you are.

like how the ocean
falls in love with a crevice
and maps your body with salt.

i reach out my arms
to grab the air
lost in believing it's tangible,

surprised each time
my fingers are passing through

then tipping my hat
to the world.

AN EXAMPLE OF WHY I'M NOT A POET

it shouldn't be this hard
to fall in love with the world.

but their are too many streets
with florescent lights...so
i hail disaster
like a cab.

all i need is insight
but my heart breaths smoke
and reminds me subtle things

like how i always fail.

i laugh instead,
doing laps around the city
while the meter chimes
seeming to mock in dollars
what i can't make any sense of.

should you get charged a(f)fair
for having one
or can you pay in homonyms alone.

i'm so sick of hearing myself think

that i lie in a field and scream
all that i am feeling

"my god...i love everything!"
but it always comes out wrong.

CHAIN REACTION

for some things in life
to try is to fail.
the idea of romance, for instance,
can never be planned.

some moments
don't present themselves
but rather lend themselves
for taking.

you don't need music or shoes
to dance through grass...
especially when it's raining.

it's maddening i think, buying tickets
to a show you're starring in.
front row seats for a life
yet to begin.

sometimes
the only thing
hidden behind a smile, is a smile
ready to laugh. and that laugh

becomes contagious
like the changing of a season.

how the scent of a leaf
from green to orange
can inspire an entire mountain.

the sight of sunlight in a lover's eyes
can start a chain reaction. the
subtle glow becomes a place

we just can't wait to get lost in.

because wherever my mind is right now
it's thinking of jennifer curtis.

a girl whose mere absence
is not unlike a disease to me.
whose voice is a cure
and extremily addictive...and which leads

to much harder things:

breasts and thighs
and lips and knees

from which i hope to never return.

BIRDS LIKE BROTHERS

...i guess it's just that birds
tend to fly the same way that
the mind thinks...

darting and dashing
through the grass
until a branch appears
finally worthy of perching upon.

it's a strange mix...
random and yet deliberate
at the same time...both predisposed
and unintentional.

as though
the body and the mind
had no use for one another.

i must be thinking of jon,
my older brother
who has spoken to me
of several girls at once.

"one for lust and one for love." were
the words he chose to describe to me.

the situation he was in, the means
justifing the time being.

shaking my head inefficiently
across the wires of a telephone
a gust of wind catches a tree.

and as for me...i'm left
once again in the middle, 'cause
i'm always in the middle..."jon,"
i say...in a tone
only spoken between

those known forever.

"if one's for love..," and if
you're my brother...

"then lust can never exist."

and i was right....and he knew it
and we were all of a sudden close again.

HIGH CLASS

...i might be multi-lingual
but have never spoken "posh".

i lose myself in a martini glass,
imported windows, and class
with abstract art; hanging like earrings
dripping off the personified
wall...the curtains
swell...giant lungs that are always breathing in
of everything...and there is an opening
sound like a bottle of wine unscrewed
while my pessimistic throat is screaming.

and politics over too many drinks
sound of orca whales in mating season.

but i guess elegance
is always served with a side of intelligence.

it's funny how money
can seep out of a wallet
and become something almost real,
something tangible, made
of wood, a social pedestal.

so a waste of it is fascinating, an
accident scene you drive by on a highway.

in this sickness,
you feel so lost as of what to do,
so you end up looking around
and clapping...as if to praise
the end of a game you don't remember watching
but can't advert your eyes from.

and classes are made this way, and

so you realize with which one you're in.

TO BE A MAN

...maybe it's that
height doesn't matter
horizontally, or

it's the fact
that the world disappears
when you're doing
something worth living for.

you never really know
someone until you're actually
lying down next to them.

and that's why
part of me thinks
that i can feel people
better than i can ever
get to know them.

as if the things
that are left unspoken
are talked about
in the silence between
two sheets. as if, the

woman that i truly love
doesn't get phone calls from me,

'cause i wouldn't want to get
her hopes up.

INHIBITIONS

after a candle lit
dinner for two
you stop to swap bodily fluids...but
not like you used to,

this time it's test tubes...
blood, a little bit of piss, some stool...it's two thousand six...
and we're all grown up now.

so you offer
a blueprint for the
disease ridden...pause here...(that's right)
public swimming pool you invite me to...and it
relates to your entire family’s
medical history...metaphorically of course,
but i still pick up on it.

which means,

that instead of throwing caution,
we tend to offer up something else
to the wind.

but the gods somehow know it's half assed,
not true, strangely misinterpreted.

hamburger helper
instead of human sacrifice...and
(hold on a second in this moment) while

romance dies inside
the tinker-tape parade
of political correctness...and yes,

your mind plays music for itself...a tiny
little song...as if it were a game;

and to win,

you'd have to feel better
about yourself.

which is to say
that knowing something is right
makes us all feel more
like a man
each time
that we're a part of it,

causing us all to be
a little older, which in turn
we might go as far
as saying...(not to be conceded)

less afraid.

because in this life
you have to decide what
you're willing to own...willing
to consume a section of yourself...
to compromise, and

even if that ends up
putting the 'hit' back into "in hit bition,"

you still have to consummate
any relationship with a clean
bill of health. always while

trying desperately
to pretend as if you didn't just see
a green light shimmer,
a checkered flag wave, or so much as
airplane batons
motioning you in to land.

all of these things
which in your scorched mind scream
"let's fuck my darling!
for the love of god can we fuck?"

...but you haven't met her yet...
and why is it wrong to just snuggle?

...i'll always know that it's amazing...
maybe it's because i'm matt...who is
honestly becoming a man...
(but secretly it's because i'm badass)

it's only life...and there's
no way in hell that i'm done
living it quite yet!

why not fall in love with it
for the mean time?

CHILDHOOD THOUGHT #23

...if money can't buy happiness, then why do i always have the most fun at my rich friend's house?

MAD SCIENTISTS

...maybe we're all mad scientists, trying to frankenstein some kind of beauty out of the people that we've loved. michele's eyes with erin's comfort...jessie's heart with monica's brain wrapped in a big red bow made of kate and heather's personalities. but it's the combination we're truly after...until we finally learn that the combination is really only long term compatibility...compatibility which is really comfort itself. i wonder sometimes if getting married is 'giving up'...as if somehow we started lamenting the game we have all played for far too long. someone asked me recently if "being with (her) was giving up." and my brain burst into flame. not because she'd asked the question...but because giving up is the greatest complement you could ever give a lover. perhaps that's why they call it "settling down."…because of course you’re settling…causing the ego to fall in only one direction. almost as if the endless field you've been frolicking through, at last gives permission to stop smelling it's flowers. and just to lie down for once...to take in the world with someone wonderful on your arm. a partner in a crime you haven't committed...but who would run at the same speed, pace, and vigor from the police that could for once, set your heart at ease. all i've ever wanted was a witness to my life. someone who could see me for who i am without the desire to comment towards the negative. i think i'd say "yes" to any and all of them if they dropped down to a knee, with one eye over my shoulder, wondering if any of the rest where watching me. if it only weren't for the women who i haven't met...who constanly fall short when i do.

SAYING “NO.”

I beat around the bush
Like a gardener paid by the hour
And tell her that I’m only
“Sort of interested.”

After all
it was a test.
For power, for control, or maybe
Something far more sinister than that?

I think I wanted
To see how manly I was. And for
A short while I could, simply

By putting something beautiful
On hold. Saying “no.”
For the sake of that one
Sweet syllable moving across
The chapped ridges of my lips

And how far I’ve come
From that stubborn little boy
On the playground, pulling pigtails
And running away.

What kind of person must I be
To spit in the face of perfection,
Dropping to my knees

And then begging for its forgiveness?

Looking back
I simply wanted a reaction,

To test the waters
Of happiness before
Leaping in. Wondering
How many ripples
It could possibly take
To calculate my stupidly

What is it about a man
Who can push such things away?
How can the fear of being loved
So quickly chalk up to weakness?

I can’t stand to stare
At things above or beyond my level.


So instead
I knock them down
and tear them up.
Smiling at the shapes the pieces make.

I’ve been twenty-something forever,
Going on the age of twelve.

All I really need
Is a broom.

SEVEN SECONDS

i work a double on wednesdays and have for quite some time now. when i finally get home after my 22 hour day filled with lifting rocks in the sun, digging holes in the dirt, and socially lubricating the drunks at the bar...i always get to look forward to the best part of my week. i take off my shoes and go to the bathroom, freshen up, and brush my teeth. then glance in the mirror while quietly shrugging before shutting off the light. it's the 7 long seconds I spend in front of my bedroom door that have kept me sane this past year or so. my heart fills up in that time with the kind of warmth that you can only get from hope...the kind of hope that only comes from love. I breathe in long and slow as i turn the doorknob and crack the door with my other hand being sure not to make a sound. closing my eyes i take a long step inside while gently breathing out. it's the time right before i open my eyes that always makes me smile. the short moments before i realize that she isn't there anymore that seems to keep me going. and week after week i make it my routine. not because i have delusions of grandeur or because i have trouble letting go. but rather because those 7 seconds are mine and no one else’s...and because for a short time i get to be in love again. and no body can take that from me or even offer up something better. unless of course, the day arrives, that i find her sleeping in my bed.

CARVE MYSELF A DREAM

some nights i lie awake
and convince myself i'm fine.

that the breeze through
the metal screen is really comfort
calling me for sleep.

though knowing one thing
and pretending another
becomes a cut so fine and deep
it goes unnoticed
until infection.

maybe it's pride
that screams intelligence
is the only help we need.
maybe fooling the mind
enough times can actually
change its make up...to
renegotiate the truth.

but something is telling me
that i'm so very wrong.

that time has never really healed a wound,
just lent itself to getting used to.

the fact is, we're all of us
bleeding from somewhere ripe
desperately trying not to look down.

in the tiny corner of my room
the curtains swell
like giant lungs
then exhale across the bureau,

the book left open
next to the bed stand
has started reading
with a pair unseen hands,

the slightest breeze
which can turn a page stops,
then looks
for a place to keep going.

the night draws out;
a serrated edge on a blade

and i can't remember the last time
i'd met myself
and had something interesting to say.

in the soft quiet of my sheets,
i do the very first thing
that comes to mind, turning
my head ever so slightly,
closing my eyes,

to carve myself a dream.

SELF IMPROVMENT

it's no coincidence
that the number of
heartbreaks each year
is directly proportionate

to the number of Revlon commercials
on television. and it's no accident
that part of us
wants to stop the car
next to a field

and go running out into the landscape
arms flailing in discontent.

for all my meditation
i still feel as insignificant as ever...and
maybe that's the point.

because that's how self improvement goes

you end up answering a question
you don't remember asking
but have always wanted the answer to.

i've been twenty something forever
and have given my love to far too many woman
who couldn't possibly give it back.

and looking back i find myself
just as fucked up as they are
but in different ways...

running through the orchard of my childhood
trying to fetch the tarnished apple of my mothers love.

TO MEET HER AGAIN

one morning in early june
i returned to the forest of my youth
and laid down inside those woods
with no intention of getting up.

the moon like the sun
were still in the sky
as if for the first time
they had ever met, while

inside those places
between my breath
the whole world sighed within me.

the rustle of a squirrel celebrates a win
a centipede’s legs chatter in mandarin
the wind never blows
through branches of trees
but whispers conversation
with needles and leaves.

and when i think of all these things i'm made of,

a pond puts on lipstick in the rearview,
tendrils of light move through skin,
fields foam at the mouth with flowers,
a mountainside defines the place you're in,

and because this is what makes
my body's subtle history,

my eyes can backstretch
to childhood warmth
behold a gust of life
run through that place
that resides just below my clavicle.

i can see the dew tamped paths I have traveled
the overgrown love that i've never met
i can brush back desire within such silence
simply in order to meet her again.

TEN FOOT POLE


i'm sad after losing a sneeze,
so i can't imagine a child
as i watch the "pro-lifers"
picketing outside planned parenthood.

since signs mean attention,
and attention means power,
and power means importance
and sense importance
is about the most important
thing that anyone can think of--they
all bare signs.

the woman wearing fur
(or should i say
gal gowned in carcasses)
screeches "god is pro-life"
with a false sense of confidence
that only alcohol or religion
can bring.

but in the spring
i will have forgotten ignorance
on the lips of a girl. while
simultaniously remembering
how not to get her kncked up.

because in such cases
forgetfulness can mean marriage,
and marriage that way
means becoming my parents; a fate

we all try to avoid
but strange few of us
succeed in.

it's been a while now
watching women
wail their beliefs
with signs.

passersby honk from their car windows
acoompanied by either
a friendly wave or the middle finger

and i'm left here
as indifferent as ever.

thought decisions were never
my cup of tea.

BLAME IT ON KARMA

they say that animals
take on the personalities
of their owners. so when
i first set foot through
your front door
and your cat started flirting with me,

i should have know that something was up.

but you were so far out of my league
back then. so far from my reach
that the blue/green of the horizon seemed
like an easier catch.
and you proved this by doing
almost anything, how
you made the simplest of things
so very beautiful.

and perhaps you name might be all of this:

pouring a glass full of water, biting
into the red of an apple,
or laughing in such a way
that your whole body lite up.

though who can really resist
the things we can never have?
you can blame on eve, flirting with desire
or on adam whoes pride
made her leave.

but i blame it on the fact
that part of paradise
still resides today
in the form of beautiful women
like Jennifer McLemore.

who to this day
can make the most
dominate of males
swallow down pride
to make room for desire.

still--just once
i want to see
a greyhound pause in mid-stride
pull a 180, and start
to question whether
the rabbits path in linear
or if it will eventually
come back, uninterested
in a professional relationship.

just once,
i'd love to see a donkey
spark a thought, quit hauling
the load and start to wonder
about the string attached
to that goddamn carrot.

but they don't
they're busy
swallowing down what they
have to. comprimising
in the name
of desire.

an how can a woman
take such things from us, and then
act shocked at our reaction? be
the fuel behind
everything that a man might do,
then scoff at the march
of evoloution?

and would anything worth while
have been built, or written, or painted
or said, if that beauty was never
used like a tool?

because a woman can
loosen every screw
in a man, until
he is dosile and kind
and beaten.

the proof is men everywhere
starting to question physics.

they wonder
how beautiful women
can possibly walk in slow motion,
or how when they toss
their hair, it lies
suspended there
a second longer than gravity
normally permits.

we can talk all we want about masculinity,
but a part of the brain still shuts down
as soon us we see something we want,

we'd do anything to get it.

blame it on karma,
several thousand years
in the making.

GREAT SAYING # 613

when i wake up one morning
and scratch the dust off my old, withered bones;
i will finally be outside myself enough
to fall like a single piece of skin
off the back of a sunburned stranger.

THE METAPHOR REGARDING SHEPHERDS AND SHEEP

a shepherd
tends to sheep
in the green hilled
distance, as a woman
cries here in my arms.

I stop,
inside that moment
thinking to myself
something metaphorical
is going on here
but just can't seem
to place it.

the old farm house
bears a rooster
on its roof
who never hesitates
to point east.

in the green
hilled distance
blades of grass
watch a girl
cry in my arms.
snickering as they sway,
understanding the metaphor
but reluctant to let me in.

a tear drop
from the girl
falls on a single blade
and soon the others
are persuaded enough
to whisper
gently.

so i do what any logical gentleman would do,

i turn my head closer,
and listen to grass speak
in million year-old tongue.

HERE WE ARE

halfway between october
and nightime, and back home
the leaves have begun to fall.

i miss the sight
of foliage in vermont
because sometimes we don't
long for things
until they're gone.

it's far too warm to be mid-october
here between nightfall, where
the mountains cut the sky
in such a way, that it seems
courteous and polite.

in the distance
i see a couple lock eyes
and caress...they too
i think, are courteous
and polite.

i wonder if they known
how orange can seduce green
in such a way, to seem
like he's not intruding.

though don't bother
asking those questions
here 'round nighttime
where back home
leaves fall from grace
so very gracefully.

instead i focus my eyes
to the two
whose caresses turn to kisses
and i remember my own jealous lips now,
how they haven't touched another's
in over a year. here,

in between october and nightfall,
where sand seduces stone
and it seems a little cold
for this time of the month.

CHURCH STREET

how could that woman
walk alone down a street ever?

with a beauty that ferments my lips
with just a thought of their arrival,
to a place where we might kiss
in the dark corners of imagination.

she's the kind of person
that i'd hate to meet.

the fantasy falls at unimaginable speeds
into fragile pieces against
rock hard reality.

so instead i like to watch
her tan breasts reverberate
within a too tight top, as
the gentle bow curve
of a perfect neck
rolls hair across the face,

then return to my drink
where even the possibility
of such things amuse me,

and smile at the threat
of loneliness...with standards

too high for love.

HAPPINESS

and if there are any
flower metaphors left
then i'd like to use one
for happiness.

in the same way
that commenting on a cliché
always lessened it's effect,

i'd love to be right in saying
that happiness is like a flower.

because the more
you fuss and hold to it...the
less you can close your eyes
then step back and smile,

opening them to the beauty
such a simple thing can hold.

i've held it so few times
i'm frightened, like it was a place
i was rowing to with my heart's exhausted oar.

and that tide across an ocean:

the world's enormous lungs
expand and contract,
take something from you

then only dare to give it back
if you promise not to ask...like
a cosmic game of keep away

you play to keep afloat
until sickness taunts too far,
pull a 180 and swim away

only to find happiness again.

as if the whole time
all you had to do was give up
and head for shore.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

when i think of my mother, i think of being young, she's pounding on a door and screaming, "you're a loser!" at the top of her lungs. i'm not sure if i've yet to prove her wrong.

FALLING FROM A GREAT HEIGHT

i miss the salt in the summer
coming off her skin,
i miss the shape
i'd always be in
after getting drunk all night
from talk.

and she smelled like a home cook meal
which i didn't cook her often enough
maybe that's why she always feels like home

because now i'm feeling homeless.

i beg for her time
like quarters on the street
and when she can't spare change

i wonder what that could possible say about me.

i feel not only helpless
but so very weak and whatever peace
i find with sleep...is lost

on the indentations
between my sheets.

THE INTERRACIAL TADPOLES ARE DOING IT AGAIN

they say that everything comes in threes.

and that's why
if you get knocked in the head
then fall flat on your face, someone
is bound to kick you in the ribs.

it just the price we pay
for waking up to a sunrise
on beach next to someone beautiful

because even happiness has its costs.

and we all walk around so confused and ashamed
that we forget even the simplest of things:

like the fact that the universe
has never been mysterious.

there is a ying and yang to everything
and we choose to learn what we want to.

there is a curtain we can pull aside at anytime
but think that we deserve the dark.

and maybe that's why
you can dine on imported veil
each night for dinner...

then die before ever being loved.

TASTING HATE

it's times like these
i'd give anything
for an emotional lobotomy.

a shot in the head
after the life you were gunning for
is over.

but then i remember the beauty of such pain.
how the finest of chefs in japan
leave the slightest bit of poison
still lingering in the flesh of the fugu

to tingle the taster's lips...
to remind us of our own mortality.

their have always been
plenty of things to say
that i haven't

as the blood from my tongue
slips through my teeth and

leaves a warm salty stench
in my mouth, i wish i had.

but speaking one's mind
is a negotiation of other
people's reactions,

the mind is a filter for the soul.

and i save so much pain of others
by holding back
then bottle it within myself. leaving

the effervescence wanting to be tapped.

maybe someday i'll have a trademark...
a brand of drink consisting of
fermented hardships and aged perfectly
with hate.

what a thrill!
what a thrill that would be to taste.

FEAR OF ASH

i must be on my third or
fourth lifetime by now as
the notwantedness of rejection

can add years without compassion.

after lifting the bitter wine
of heartache to my lips
again and again
with the willingness of a volunteer.

because i raised my hand
in the classroom of chance
thinking "pick me! pick me!"
i deserved to finally be called on.

and knowing a fire is too hot
does little
in eliminating the desire
to touch it. and that's just

the way it goes...

until one day our hands
are charred with experience
and blackened past the point
of saying "no."

and the finger we'd love to point
at someone else
is burnt and curled
towards ourselves,

we become fascinated
by our own disfigurement

we'd clap our hands
but for fear of ash.

AFTER THE WOMAN I LOVED TOLD ME THAT SHE WAS SEEING SOMEONE ELSE

it's so calm tonight
that even my thoughts end up on the couch.

and i'm sure that there's a 'Friends' episode
that caters to this:

the Ross in my head
is on the skids
with the Rachel of my heart.

it's so cool tonight
that even my sarcasm
comes off as cliche

and hangs in the the air
for the thirty second intervals
of commercial spots...while
the sitcom world solves
all it's problems in twenty seven minutes.

and i'm left talking to the breeze.
with a grain of salt.

not to trivialize the conversation
but because salt is always carried away to somewhere else...
whever you are talking to the wind.

FLUSHING YOUR TEETH

...sometimes when i brush my teeth before bed and my mind is extra tired. i'll pee real quick, squeeze out some toothpaste, and then run the water over the brush. then, without thinking, i'll flush the toilet...causing the water coming from the sink to slow down for a few seconds. i can never help but think that this is pee water coming directly from the toilet, through the pipes, and onto my toothbrush. which isn't true, but just the thought of it, is pretty gross. and even though i know that it isn't really pee-water, i still end up going to the kitchen, rinsing out my mouth and brushing my teeth in that sink instead. it only happens a hand full of times each year...but i was wondering if other people do that, or if i'm just some kind of freak. any thoughts?

PEE-PEE

...female dog piss kills grass, where as male dog piss does not. it's an unknown fact in many dog loving circles. and what people don't know about dog piss could destroy a pristine lawn in a single season. i'm not sure why folks don't research dog piss more often...it's a mystery. their was a time when you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting someone reading up on the subject. i mean personally, i was just at borders the other day looking for a new book on animal wizz (my old one being out of date). i replaced Guldman's "guide to golden doggie showers." with the much more p.c. work "dog piss, drool, dingleberries, and you." by the now famous Dr. Sarah Beechrum. i do love bookshopping so very dearly though...so that part was good. not that i can read...but their's just something fun about scanning through the poetry section for hours on end, scamming on potential smart chicks. but then something occured to me...and i stopped doing it all together. what if these people are just doing the same thing as i am? faking literacy for the chance at meeting someone special. i mean if i do it...why wouldn't someone else? i think stupid people are underestimated in our society. just because i'm retarded...it doesn't mean that i want to go out with someone retarded. i know that we should all stick to our own kind and that theirs some beautiful downed misstress out there just waiting for me to swoop her off her feet (which wouldn't be hard if she has trouble walking anyway). but i refuse to settle. it's 2006 people...and i'll spred my retardation wherever i damn well please. i'm going to hell aren't i? at least they'll be people there that can make me laugh. as a side note: i honestly have no idea what's gotten into me as of late...but i find myself to be very, very funny.

...i just got called "hot in a weird way" by some random chick at the bar. it made me feel really good inside. the funny thing is that i think the word "weird" stemed more from how she felt in finding me attractive, and less about my attractiveness being something...well, weird. but maybe i'm toatally wrong...and i am in fact...really weird looking...hot...but weird. regardless, i'll certainly take it wherever and however i can get it. she was also unbelievable drunk at the time...and i think her friend dared her to say it...and she also might have been a man...does that matter? i think not.

"if your inner child is crying...just rub some whiskey on his gums."-m.marro

THE DAWNING OF THE AGE OF AQUARIUS

...i had a dream last night about NOT cutting my hair. who the fuck has dreams about shaving their head? you know, besides me? i cut my hair two or three times a year and i've been iching to shave it all off for awhile now. it's been a spring/summer thing for me for quite some time. but last night, no joke, i dreamt that a beautiful female voice asked me to keep it long and shaggy. not in so many words or course,'cause what would be sexy about a intoxicating female voice saying "keep it shaggy darling"?...but strangly enough, that was the just. i was looking in the mirror with clippers in hand, and it echoed through my head. "i love your hair" she said. please don't cut it." so until i dream other wise...or get a sign from god...long it stays. jew fro and all

p.s.-i don't even think a yamaka would stay on at this point.

CRAB APPLES

one of our clients ran over a flowering crab apple tree while painting a church in richmond. i'm not sure how that happened...the tree being ten feet tall and being at a church. where were you on that one god? anywho, it needs to be replaced today with another 10 foot flowing crab apple tree. the trouble is...they're kind of hard to come by. not flowering crab apples...they are in and of themselves common...but a 10 foot tall flowering crab apple is a 25 year old tree. most places don't carrey full grown plants...and the ones who do charge up the ying yang for them. did i just say "charge up the ying yang."? is that even an expression? here's craig...i gotta go. crab apple hunting. yea!

...i miss you...

EAT AN EGG AND FUCK A BUNNY

"Having been fucked is no excuse for being fucked up" -kimya dawson

it's wednesday again...i'll be wearing bunny ears at the bar and (perhaps) some rabbit makeup. 'cause something happened with jesus sometime coming up soon. 'Ichtar' i believe the pagons called it (thanks to the church for once again stealing a perfectly good holiday). the whole bunny and eggs thing was a fertility ritual in celebration of spring. bunnies have lots of sex and babies...hence the phrase "fuck like rabbits" and eggs well, that's pretty much a menstration in a shell isn't it? (doesn't that just make you want to eat lots and lots of eggs?) so i hope to have a great dance party usa tonight...and by dance party i mean orgy...and by orgy i mean that i'll be pouring drinks wishing that i had a girlfriend who loves me. in addition...i love when people say "you deserve better."...like you've been selling yourself short for years and just happen to end up with the absolute wrong person. maybe i'll shave my head and go monk again...at least then i'd have an excuse for not getting any. wow! that's bad...but instead of erasing that last part...i'd rather just say...i'm feeling rather shallow today...which obviously is the way i tend to be most of the time. i think it had something to do with the "live in" i saw on the uvm campus today. apparently it has something to to with livable wages...that's fucking great people...did you buy that tent with your parents credit card?...get a job you fucking hippie-crit...like i said...feeling shallow.

p.s.-i think i just invented the phrase "hippie-crit"...patton pending...patton pending...you saw it here first folks. april 12...2006.

SESTINA

ONE

Inspiration (n.) 1. a breathing in, as of air into lungs; inhaling 2. an inspiring or being ispired mentally or emotionally 3. a.) an inspiring influence; anystimulus to creative thought or action b.) an inspired idea, action, etc. 4. a prompting of something written or said

in a small room on the edge of town where the creek flows by, the boy's pupils dance in enjoyment as they pass over the letters, words, and phrases of the stimulating document. More is the word he longed for. A model for a life he could aspire to become with enough determination. He loved the way it made him feel. The sound of it all, the rhythm, the way it fit into his head so perfectly. This will be the life i live he thought. Tic...tock...tic...tock...

pattern (n.) 1. a person or thing considered worthy of imitation or copying 2. a regular, mainly unvarying way of action or doing 3. a predictable or prescribed route

the girl goes for long walks every day. she circles a three block radius in her small town filled with oak trees and the scent of late autumn. but today she decides to do something different. she thinks of the park and hides a smile so that no one peering through windows would notice. there is creek that runs through the park with a bridge over it. a perfect place for walking. so when she comes to the part of the block where she had previously turned for home, she walks straight and tries not to falter. she feels guilty and strange, but full of pride. she wonders what walking somewhere new could mean.

journey (n.) 1. the act or an instance of traveling from one place to another; trip 2. any course or passage from one stage or experience to another.

the blind man is miles away from his house. miles away from anything that could conventionally be defined as "easy." though all he does in his travels is make his observers experience a momntary lapse of sight. look at the blind man, all the people think as he passes. isn't that amazing? what a fool i am complaining about all the unimportant troubles in my life. though later, when the blind man has reached the boundaries of the onlooker's eyes, they forget about it and go back to the blindness of their every day lives. most times it's easier not to have conventional sight thinks the blind man.

TWO

eye (n.) 1. conjunctiva, anterior chamber, cornea, iris, ciliary body, lens, retina, choroid, sclera, vitreous body, lateral rectus muscle, medial retus muscle, optic disk, optic nerve 2. the organ of sight in man and animals 3. the power of seeing; sight; vision 4. a look; glance; gaze; an eye on something 5. the power of judging, estimating, discriminating by eyesight.

autumn is the kind of month for breathing in deep gusts of air and only exhaling when something beautiful happens. as the grass waits patiently for the frost to visit, the wind decides which cloud gets to keep its shape. the clover fields prepare to live without children running through them for awhile. and a single branch on a yonder tree feels that a leaf attached to the end of its index finger is making the others too self-conscious with its liquid orange and crimson red, so lets go prematurely. now the others will have inspiration to drop, thinks the tree.

next to the creek that runs through the town, a small, brilliantly colored leaf slowly makes its way towards the earth. it glides back and forth as the wind cradles it as if a mother putting her child to sleep. sight seeing tour? wonders the leaf as it touches the crisp autumn water. it emarks on a journey down creek to visit things it will see only once and then never see again. i better look more closely at this than i have at anything else before thinks the leaf. he smiles and travels with the creek as the cold water begins to sink in and his colors begin to run.

the boy goes and sits down next to the creek by his house, feeling strange and new to himself; wondering how words can make pictures so vividly. he watches the water and thinks i could be a rock in the creek and shape myself around something that is always moving. he stands up straight and steps lightly into the cold, crisp water. then lays down and smiles. the water passes over his body while always moving. some stays in his cloths to remind him of where he is. to remind him of the cold. something else traveling down the creek becomes held up just below his face so the boy sits up quickley. where are you going? asks the boy. to the park says the leaf. but why? says the boy. because i have never been there, answers the leaf, and soon i'll be dead. then i will give you this says the boy and writes his gift upon the leaf. this will help you on your way. thanks you says the leaf and then travels on.

the girl sits on the bridge that runs over creek in the park and waves her feet back and forth across the very top of water. strange she thinks. why did i come here? the leaf passes below her and catches he eye. so standding up quickly she travels creek side to investigate. she grabs it out of the water then sits neatly back down amongst the cold tall grass. what is this written on you? asks the girl. Only what the boy knows says the leaf. but am i to know what this means? she questions. am i to know why i pass through here? asks the leaf.

1.) 1,2,3,4,5,6
2.) 6,1,5,2,4,(3)
3.) 3,6,4,1,2,5
4.) 5,3,2,6,1,4
5.) 4,5,1,3,6,2
6.) 2,4,6,5,3,1

7.) a.)5,6
b.)2,4
c.)3,1

THREE

most patterns can be found anywhere. the age of a tree, the veins of a leaf, even tiny snowflakes that will soon cover the small town entirely, have patterns in them.

most boys of that kind had eyes of blue, with sparks of fire in them. the girls with brown eyes are most often wise and much older looking. but the eyes of blind men take the cake. their eyes are usually the lightest and kindest shade of green that ever would have existed with just a slight glaze of uslessness to them.

the girl takes the leaf to her seat on the bridge. i don't understand you, says the girl do you know what it means? i already told you, replies the leaf only what the boy knows. are you to say that i can't know what the boy knows? inquires the girl. the pauses to collect his patience and the speaks soft kindly to the girl. you he begins are not the boy.

inspiration had been given to the leaf in the form of tiny numbers scrawled upon them. they would always repeat, but the leaf could never tell how. it puzzled his and he wondered in amazement over it each and every second.

the boy runs home to put on new clothes. he is cold from the river and shaking violently. underwear, socks, pants, shirt, sweater, jacket, boots. to the park he thinks...maybe i can still catch it. he runs and steam flies from his hair like his whole head is smoking.

no one but the bridge paid much attention to the water. bridges respect water very much. often, the bridge over the creek through the park would comment, looking good today creek. good luck to wherever it is that you're going. say hi to all my friends you pass under. safe journey.

FOUR

synoyms for journey: expedition, trip, excursion, trek, jaunt, pilgrimage, tour.

Analogy: a pattern is to life as?

a.) desire is to the boy
b.) pride is to the girl
c.) true sight is to the blind
d.) wonderment is to the leaf
e.) respect is to the bridge
f.) journey is to us all
g.) all of the above.

arriving at the park, the boy sits down to catch his breath, then gets up and goes to the creek.

synonyms for eye: organ of sight, optic receiver, simple eye, oculus, compound eye; intrument of vision.

the girl leaves her spot on the bridge and sits down on a bench next to the blind man. he must know of pride thinks the girl. she waits patienly for the blind man to ask her a question or start a conversation. nothing. the girl taps her foot and thinks about the things written on the leaf. what does the boy know? if i, nor the leaf know what the boy knows, does the blind man know what the boy knows?she doesn't want anyone to think that she doesn't know what the boy knows...so continues to sit patiently next to the blind man.

FIVE

the girl takes out the leaf and studies it carefully. keep quiet she thinks to herself. don't give away what you don't know.

as things quiet down that day in the park, and all the noise of regular life recedes, the creek begins to sing quietly to calm itself on its journey.

the blind man sits quietly and listens to the creek. what inspiration he thiks. always traveling, always seeing new things, and always singing to inspire. thank you creek.

1.) 1,2,3,4,5,6
2.) 6,1,5,2,4,3
3.) 3,6,4,1,2,5
4.) 5,3,2,6,1,4
5.) 4,5,1,(3),6,2
6.) 2,4,6,5,3,1

7.) a.)6,5
b.)2,4
c.)3,1

behind his glasses and a slight glaze of uslessness the blind man's eyes inspect what the leaf is feeling, and sees that he too understands the song of the creek.

the boy runs to the bridge that crosses over the creek. have you seen a leaf here? asks the boy. i've seen many leaves pass through here answers the bridge.

SIX

what to do now? wonders the boy. i need to sit down and think. the boy goes to the middle of the park where benches can be found next to the walkways and the playground. i'll sit on the see-saw and maybe then the answer will come.

the girl sees another on the see-saw and wonders if it's time to play. she puts the leaf in the blind man's lap and walks over to the playground.

my eyes can see this thinks the blind man, rubbing his thumbs over the leaf. this makes perfect sense. this is what the girl wanted to know.

i have been on an immense journey says the leaf. can you tell me what has been written?

a pattern. answers the blind man, the most wonderful pattern that could grace anything on this earth.

what inspiration! exclaims the leaf, and to think all this time i had no idea.

SEVEN

some eyes can only see the sights on their journey states the blind man but never what that journey has to show.

both the boy and the girl sit on the see-saw. desire thinks the boy. pride thinks the girl. they each stay perfectly horizontal in the air and the see-saw doesn't falter.

sometimes a pattern brings inspiration says the leaf.

SHOPLIFTING

...so i was working at the bar one day and having a fine old time. it was a pretty average day for the most part: the garage door was open, the sun was shinning in, beer and liquor flowed at a steady pace. i think i was blasting hall and oats and the time..."rich girl" if my memory serves me right. when out of the corner of my eye i catch a gentleman in a yellow windbreaker (windbreakers should never be yellow if you ask me...only rain coats...am i right or am i right?.) He was holding a canvis pack and walked nervously into the bar which felt unusual for the laid-back mood the day. coming straight at me he stops and claims that he had just stolen a bunch of groceries from city market and was wondering if i would hide his bag for him. my brain struggled to wrap around the situation. "no" i blurted out finally "i can't do that for you." "they're right behind me," he whispered "what should i do?" looking up i noticed a uniformed officer in the window staring directly at us. "i'm going to hide downstairs," the man said, realizing that i wasn't about to help him. the cop opened the door and came walsing in , following the man down the stairs. a few minutes later they came up; man in cuffs...bagless and frightened. i sort of felt bad for him for a second...then just poured some more drinks.

C O M F O R T...
Phrases on life, love, and the universe

“the talking leads to touching and the touching leads to sex…and then there is no mystery left.” –rilo kiley

Aren’t phrases and quotes supposed to be taken as good advice? Aren’t they supposed to be universal truths? Rocks that won’t erode through billions of years of water wind. Aren’t they supposed to be emotional anchors that hold up through the ages? Then why do they always have to contradict each other?
For instance, I know that it’s much better to “have loved and lost…than to have never loved at all”. But isn’t “ignorance (also) bliss”? I mean think about it. I have…and it just makes my brain hurts constantly. Also, if you love something, then aren’t you supposed to “set it free” and if “it comes back to you then it was meant to be”? But isn’t “the grass (always) greener on the other side”? What the fuck? If a woman is willing to give you her love than isn’t that “the greatest gift in the world”? But when she ends up taking it away…you tend to be “better off dead.” If “all is fare in love and war,” then why is “compromise the key to any loving relationship”? If “the universe tends to unfold as it should,” then why is the most confusing thing in world…the times when it doesn’t? How the fuck is anyone supposed to figure all this shit out? I think I have…so I felt obligated to right down the secret.
It’s comfort. Plain and simple…comfort is the only thing that makes this crazy old world feel tolerable for a change. Think about it…and I mean really think. There are some people who just feel like home to you. Like the whole world shuts off when they’re around and all that ends up being left, is this perfect bubble made of warmth and happiness. They say that “home is where the heart is”. But that obviously needs revision. What if your “heart is where your home is”? Comfort is love and love is so very comfortable. Think about your five senses and how that comfort would translate to a person. How it would be inside that bubble. It’s the place right between the breathing in and breathing out. Where everything is calm…and where nothing bad can ever happen. It’s that frame of time that lets you remember that such things as time don’t exist. I’m rambling…so here’s what I mean about such comfort.

Sight: it’s standing in the maternity ward and staring at the newborns through the glass. Watching them sleep in all their miniature glory. It’s the way your heart feels seeing the exact moment when they realize that they do, in fact…have hands. So completely serene and wonderful that you almost forget to breath.

Sound: it’s the sound of a match being dipped into a glass of water. It’s the same sound as opening a bottle of soda to let the effervescence gush through the narrow, usually constricted neck. It’s relief. It’s the sound of finally being at ease. As if it were for the very first time…utterly pure and amazing.

Taste: it’s your favorite dish cooked on your birthday by you mom or dad on a beautiful day. It’s when figi water hits the back of your throat after a run or bike ride…figi water that did not come directly out of the fridge but it’s not room tempurature either. It’s just warm enough to not be cold and just cold enough that isn’t warm. It’s the taste that makes you close your eyes uncontrollably…a reflex mechanism for joy and happiness.

Smell: it’s your bed sheets at the house where you grew up. hitting the pillow face down and taking it all in. you smile with that scent while every single pore in your body relaxes on cue. It’s like all that you are inside suddenly gets better, feels a little safer, and lets go of worries just a tad bit quicker. And all from a smell…one tiny comfortable smell.

Touch: it’s wrapping your arms around that person while running your finger across the contours of their skin. It’s doing it so softly that they aren’t even sure if they’re being touched. So soft that it would come across as ticklish if it weren’t so extremely delicate. A touch that denotes the object as something so fragile and expensive that you might lose your nerve at any second to even be touching it at all.

These are the way my five senses feel when my heart is at it’s home. ( Metaphorically speaking that is). So why is mystery so important to us? Why does the grass have to be so fucking green over there? It’s going to get dull…we all know that it’s going to get dull. Sometimes you go out of your way to make the trip only to get over there and find out that it’s not even fucking green…just crab grass that played a trick on the eye. So why do it? Why not be comfortable instead? Because by the time the mystery fades on the other side…you might have blown your chance to go back to the comfortable grass. And of course as a kicker, a way for the universe for really piss you off…you realize that your grass is inhabited by someone else…someone who must have found it extremely green, wonderfully soft, and amazingly comfortable. Home my friends. Your heart is where your home is.

THE DATING GAME

"all my lies are always wishes" -jeff tweedy

i've always wondered if i'd ever get to a point in my life when i'd actually be 'dating'. but i guess i have...and it's horrible. since all i've ever been REALLY good at doing, is judging other people...i naturally hate being judged myself. so as you can imagine the whole process makes me sick to my stomach. i wish i could just have a badge or card that confirms i've passed the cool test before. "yeah, i'm in the union. the union of cool bitch." because i can't stand trying to prove it over and over again every single weekend. and i feel as though i shouldn't really have to. they should just know...but they don't and i think that that's what saddens me the most. it shatters my fragile little mind that every single girl across this great land hasn't gotten the memo that states "matt marro is cool as shit." maybe i just hoped that it was general knowledge...like something your mom tells you when you're growing up. "make sure to comb your hair, don't talk to strangers, be home by dinner, don't forget to brush your teeth, and oh yeah, matt marro is cool as shit." but honestly though, i have to admit...i really can't imagine what it must be like for the girl. having to deal with me...christ, i can't even deal with me most of the time. i'm either loud and obnoxious or quiet and reserved...i talk bullshit like i have a bachelors in it (i do actually), i'm old fashioned and inconsiderate all at the same time. what a fucking joy it must be trying to get to know me. i'm sure it's an amazing process for them sitting across from me at a table...trying to figure out when i'm being serious or not. for example, a couple of weeks ago i was on a date and i made a comment that "women shouldn't have the right to choose," and that i was "thinking about moving to north dakota." needless to say...it didn't go over too well. i spent a half hour trying to explain how that could possibly be anyone's sense of humor. good times.
another thing that fucking sucks, is having to tell your life story again and again. besides the fact that my life hasn't been all that interesting...it makes it worse having to repeat it. from the woman's perspective it comes across like the best thing to ever happen to me is when i go home and have my father cook for me. (secretly...that is my favorite thing in life...and the most exciting...but i don't want a girl i just met to think that). it's just so fucking obnoxious. sometimes i get so sick of talking about myself that i just make shit up. "what do i do? motor cross mostly...yeah, i race the 587's. what's that you say? oh sure it's dangerous...but that's what i love about it. there’s something really spiritual about almost dying every single night...i love the rush...plus the chicks i get...fuck like prostitutes. are you going to eat that?" dating is such a ridiculous and embarrassing process that more often then not i can't even muster the strength to call someone back. i used to be scared about it...you know, in a nervous way...but now it's just a matter of pride. i can't expose myself to that kind of thing anymore...it ends up being more depressing then staying in and hoping someone amazing will call. it's sad really...i mean it's not like you can just see someone riding around in their car and yell "i like your hair," meet them weeks later, and fall in love instantly. that kind of shit doesn't exist...

THE CONVERSATION THAT I HAD WITH A YOUNGER VERSION OF MYSELF

"in a field, i am the absence of field. this is always the case. wherever i am, i am what is missing." -mark strand

it was somewhere between may and june because i remember either the mayflies being late or the june bugs being early. but the whole place buzzed with life. it was the time of year when the dusk had just relearned to argue against the coming of the night. you could tell because the dead oak tree at the far end of the field silhouetted against the sky like heaven's windshield had been shattered. and i remember the wheat rolling with the wind. how i loved to watch it roll. it complemented my mood. swaying like a metronome to an ancient rhythm long since forgotten. a whispered cadence that only nature knew. grasshoppers jumped in step as if mortar rounds were soaring to unknown foxholes. a quiet war for a beautiful day. and let's not be mistaken...it was that kind of day. perfect and serene, somewhere out the pages of robert frost. it was the vermont i had grown up in. the vermont where i'd spend my life.

underneath that giant oak sat myself, seven years old and unassuming. what else to do but make introductions? i walked slowly taking in what i could, breathing the air, and feeling the stalks flirt against my thighs. i remember whipping my palm across both lashes of my eyes; clearing out the pollen, brushing daydreams from my mind. as i rounded the tree and came up next to myself i remember how unassuming i looked, how innocent, like i hadn't a care in the world. my whole life was ahead of me and i just sat there with a blade of wheat in my hand swiping it across my knee like it was my job. as if the whole world would end if i took a breath and stopped to look around.

"hi." i said with a surprising weakness to my voice, "mind if i sit down?"

he didn't look up but stopped playing with the wheat, then paused for what seemed like an eternity. "sure." he said, "i've been waiting for you." He spoke slowly and deliberate, strange for a boy of his age.

i brushed off my jeans and leaned quietly into the tree sitting down beside him. "how did you know i was coming?"

"because there was something you wanted to say." he never looked up. just out and into the distance, eyes fixated on the horizon as if waiting for something that was bound to come shortly. and he never stuttered or hesitated. his voice rang out; young but clear, awkward but full of confidence. and suddenly i wondered what i possibly could have to say.

"i guess i just wanted to tell you what it's going to be like when you grow up."

"oh?" he said with a strange candor to his tone. I remembered how he grimaced, looking down with his eyebrows raised, chuckling to a joke that he’d never share and one that I wouldn’t understand if he did.

"it's not like it is for you now...it's" i hesitated, wondering how to explain to a little boy the complications that life had in store.

"how is it?" he snapped back…butting in the way I still do to this day.

"it's different.” I finally blurted out, “hard i guess. things get really complicated."

"complicated how?" this wasn't going how i planned.

"there are a lot more problems...serious problems that might be hard to figure out."

"but there's never such thing as a problem without a gift wrapped inside." he said as if he'd been rehearsing it for years.

"what do you i mean?" i asked, surprised at what my younger self had to offer.

"we create our problems because we need their gifts. we need to learn from how we fail." i knew he was right but couldn't be sure how to respond. "why did you come here?" he added slowly but brimming with force and self-assurance.

"um...to talk to you about getting older."

"do you like yourself matt?" he asked.

"what do mean?"

"do you like who you are...it's a simple question." his words where so clear but there was still that childhood lisp that took away from there meaning. I swallowed back a laugh while digesting his phrase. The words rung clear but they took longer than usual to sink in.

"of course i do." i said finally, as sure of myself as ever.

he looked at me and smiled. his young eyes fixating upon mine with the familiarity of a mirror but with the strength of an untouched knowledge. "then this conversation is over,” he said, “I’ll see you when I get there.

IN PREPERATION FOR THE SPRING SOLSTICE

...i've started a five day fast that's going to bring me right up until the spring solstice. i've felt so disconnected as of late. not only from people ('cause that's always the case) but from the old guy in the sky with the big white beard. we used to stay up late and talk all the time. sometimes he'd call me at home and we'd have one of those conversations that feels as though the conversation is having you. i'd curl my index finger around the telephone wire, lay down on my stomach, and lock my ankles in the air. "hey god!...what'ch you knowin'?" i'd say with an earnest boy-like charm. this winter has been far too lazy and gluttonous for me to deal with. i've fallin' out of love with the world and the resulting bitterness has left my relationships with the one's i love suffering. i want to emanate pure kindness and joy from every alaivable orpheus of my being. i want to touch someone with a hand so full of love that they can hear what i'm thinking. easier said than done of course...a problem only intesified by my general dickheadedness. but it's something i need to do. so...as such, this begins the process of cleansing. an urban vision quest if you will. no cigarettes, no booze, no caffine, no food, no vitamins, no moives, no sex (or masturbation i should say), no talking, no phone, no love. to plug myself back into the universe...i first have to suffer. that will be the cost of my reintegration with spiritualization...a price i'm willing to pay. if i continue blogging in my weakened state than i'm sure my sense of selflessness will increase while my articulation rapidly wains. for that...i'm sorry...sort of. wish me luck, send good juju (as michele would say)...and fill your hearts with love and happiness.
(yes...i've always been a giant hippie) -m-a-t-t- (the really hungry kid)

FULL MOON

what most people don't know about the moon could fill up a small planet...or even a moon. the moon was actually invented in 1898 by a french physicist named Randolf Anderfrench. and like all great inventions the whole thing happened completly by mistake. he was searching for a way to cure arachnophobia one day in his science lab, mixed some chemicals wrong, spilled a beaker or two, and poof...the rest is astrological history.

A WALK IN MY MIND

sometimes i go for walks when i'm feeling sad or lonely...but when i don't feel like leaving i go for walks in my mind. that way, if i don't like a particular block i can just jump it, flying over the houses and trees, and land on a more scenic path. sometimes i'll sit on old man patterson's porch and smoke a pipe with him and talk about the old days when we were young and times were different. "back then," he'd say "you could buy a hooker for the same price as a candy bar." "i like candy" i'd tell him. "how 'bout hookers?" he'd say. i'd laugh but wouldn't answer...we'd just rock in our rocking chairs. sometimes his wife would bring us lemonade...but not as much since she died. once in a while i'll go hang out on a cloud and take a nap and wrap myself in blue. clouds really are as comfy as they look. soft and white. and warm too. no matter what tempurature it is outside, clouds always stay a perfect 73.2 degrees. most people don't know that. everytime i'm up there though i can't help but look down at the tops of trees. they always look so funny that way. and you can see millions of shapes and pictures in them. "that one looks like a bunny rabbit! that one is a dragon! oh yeah, and over there...there's goya's 'saturn devouring a son'!" what a good time i have. i need to comb my hair.

LOVE IS

Webster defines love as the following: “an intense feeling of deep affection. A deep romantic or sexual attraction to someone. A person or thing that loves.” Great! Now I get it. What if it’s the universe sending you the same lame postcard in the mail every single fucking day. What if it’s an emotional stocker of the subconscious mind? My love is not unlike the story of “the cat came back”. Kick it out, lock the doors; brick up the entrance…the cat came back. Drive it off in the middle of nowhere, blind fold it, tie it up, throw it into the depths of a bottomless pit…the cat came back. I’ve tried and tried and tried to get rid of it…but it won’t go anywhere. I’ve even tried NOT getting rid of it (as in the rule of polarities exemplified in the tao de ching)…still here. so maybe i should be defining love. i have to know better than webster right? here it goes: Love is the booger you just can’t flick. a cruel joke with an amazing punch line. a toy troll with a real dimond in it's navel. it's collecting those little peuter knights and wizards but not putting them on display. it's falling asleep to another chapter of "a clockwork orange" every night. it's wearing pajamas to work. A horrific accident on the highway that you drive by and resist the urge to look at. A beautiful day with the curtains pulled tight. Your favorite movie in a foreign language with chinese subtitles. The cutest baby you’ve ever seen getting eaten by a fluffy white rabbit. blasting alanis morrisette's "ironic" out the window of your car, singing every word and loving it. wearing adult dipers before needing them. love is making that chalkboard sound with your teeth instead of your fingernails. it's playing the piano with your ass. it's not telling anyone that "mac and me" is one of your all time favorite movies. it's taking someone elses medication and thinking "that probably wasn't a good idea". love is eating the black jelly beans at the home of a black person because you don't want to offened them...even though you really can't stand the taste. it's wearing new born puppies as shoes and going for a jog. A giant boat of sushi that gets dropped on the floor right before being served. love is having a funnybone that never feels weird after getting hit. it's having the same seamonkeys for 50 years...who actually wear crowns and live in those little castles. love is the family car getting sold for scrap. a poloriod stained yellow with age. A pet kawalla bear developing leprosy. smoking through the hole in your neck. riding a bike without tires. love is huffing gasoline not for the high, but because you genuinly like the smell of gasoline. love is spending a lifetime looking for the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow and actually finding it, only to realize that no one excepts "that kind of gold" as currancy anymore. love is throwing a hotdog down a hallway and finally getting the joke. love is why your knee flies up when the doctor hits it there. love is beautiful and i miss it when it's gone.

I LIKE TO WATCH

another monday...it's raining...pretty hard too. and i kind of like it. i'm gearing up to go to work. to serve the masses that social lubricant we call alcohol. i'm not really sure if i love my job or hate it with all my heart. maybe neither...maybe bolth (i spell both with an "L" for those of you who don't know). i love watching i guess. seeing how they act around each other...wishing i was good at doing the same. it makes it easier though, being behind that bar. i kind of equate it to photographers who are usually very shy, reclusive people. the bar acts in the same way as that lens does...kind of a barrier that removes you from the reality of being in a situation. i sit behind that bar and talk and joke like i'm one of the gang. but i find the most fun...is just serving people and listening. hear guys try pick-up girls, see the girls look right through it. it's a game we all play but strange few of us grow gracful in. once in a while you'll see true interest in another person. and it's quite charming actually. to see the attraction in the air, smell the farmones, hear the sincerity in someones voice when the ask "so, what are you into?" it always makes smile...and then like clockwork end up longing for it myself. i can bullshit with the best of them...but when it comes to actually talking i always end up mumbling or coming across as a idiot. which i guess i am in the long run. maybe i'm just waiting for the day that someone finds that charming. anyone out there like idiotic, mumbling, jerk-heads? let me know...i'm the best you'll ever find.

EAR HEROIN

...so either there's some kind of "ear heroin" in q-tips or i have some kind of O.C.D. because i can't help myself each and everytime i go to the fucking bathroom. wheather i sit or stand, brush my teeth, or take a shower...it always ends with the cleaning of my ears. it kind of scares me actually. because i've tried to stop...and it's not a "hygenic thing" (i also have a "quotation problem" as well apparently) and i'm not a clean freak. i don't see germs everywhere or wash my hands with a strange look of zeal in my eyes. and i could care less if my ears are actually clean. they just call to me from the cuboard. (quick recap: i don't see germs everywhere...but yes, q-tips sometimes talk to me.) they yell (in a tiny, yet charming kind of voice...more like a baby midget and less like a fairy or elf)"matt...hey maaaaatttt?...we're here for you. use us baby...use us good. we're your little bitches...you can use us and then just through us away. the perfect relationship...common'....you know you want to...just pick us up, insert, and twist...you know how good it feels matt. you know how much you like it."

THE TAO JONES

...i wish there was a spiritual stock market...not an exchange or anything but at least that electronic board with numbers and initials constantly flying right to left. it would be a great way to keep track of how you, your friends, and loved ones are doing with the universe. "oh, look at sarah" you could say, "after that near-death experience, she's up almost 2 points finally settling at 3 1/4." or "man! mjm's dropping fast after that girl lost interest in him" we could even call it the "tao jones" (clever huh?...just proof that i've actually thought about it). how amazing would that be? it would save on conversation too. when somebody asks me how i'm doing i'd much rather say "down 3/8th's", then saying, "ehh...alright i guess." because "why? what's wrong?" is such a human reaction that more often then not we just lie and say, "fine...i'm doing fine." 'cause who wants to go into it? feeling sad is so fucking normal that we should only comment on people when they feel "happy, or up." i love going into stories about the great days i've had in my life time, but hate explaining why i always feel like shit. let's change the "what's wrong?" to "wow! you look happy." it might just save the world...and the "tao jones" could be the very first step.

CHIN UP, HEAD DOWN, HEART OPEN

...i wake up every day and ask myself a question. something hard, illusive, something only the universe would know the answer to. then i listen really hard. and the answer always comes...certainly in strange ways at times...but it comes none the less. people who say "life sucks" tend to really piss me off. that's like saying "i don't like tom watts." it's just such a badge of uncooledness. you could say "i suck at life" as a great friend of mine always states. but never "life sucks"...'cause you'll never get answers that way. sometimes i miss the world...or the one we should be living in anyway...i miss the teachers who i still haven't met...the friends i'll never know...and the loves that pass me by. chin-up, head down, heart open...these are the things that will get me through.

THE EMOTIONAL BROWNIE

...remember the beauty of catching fireflies as a child?...putting them in masson jars, poking holes in the top, and running around in the dew filled nights with a make-shift lantern? some of us still do those things i think, collect different beauty. have you ever known someone who fills those jars with groups of friends or certain emotional states instead of fireflies? because it strangly translates as an almost half ass attempt to live many different lives at once. set up like a social t.v. dinner with each seperate item carfully divided so that the salsbury steak never drips into the sweet yellow corn. but i often wonder how much comfort there truly is in seeing that cubic chocolate square waiting for you untouched...as if everything can fall apart in your life completely...but at least the brownie is still left? it's a back up plan for existance, a security blanket for the broken hearted, a fucking trust fall you make with one eye peeking below the blindfold. i kind of look at this as complete emotional laziness. i mean sure it might be easier to have a lollypop that rotates on a colorful electric spindle...but how fucking hard is it to simply stick out your tongue? the lessons learned pale in comparisson to the lessons lost. and i wonder if these are the people who end up mumbling frantically to themselves on the street. "where's my brownie?...gotta' have the cordon blue before the mashed potatos...before the mashed potato's."