http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtSFyHt7QIE

EITHER ORION'S DOING CARTWHEELS OR LIFE IS PASSING BY

if you look up often enough, perhaps
you'll get the hint.  we were always made
to be baffled by stars.

this monochromatic jackson pollack
splattered across the sky inspires either something real
or confusion by the chaos.  yet, either orion's doing
cartwheels or our lives are passing by.  because one day

he's fully upright, bow and arrow ready to take down the moon, the next
he's fully prostrate, an old, brittle man, unable to move.

it's simply a small glimpse of who we are,
where we came from.  it's innate and overwhelming, and
being trapped in the terrestrial never helped the cause.
never truly inspired anyone to accomplish anything.

"in the beginning there was nothing." but most parts
of us don't buy that, not for a single second. never
a solitary moment do we agree while our heads nod in forced approval.

have you ever treated an idea as a seed, a tiny delicate thing
struggling to root almost anywhere for life?  watched it grow?
more than several steps are taken back at this point.  this promise
we made to ourselves but have since forgotten.

and without a doubt,
we are a species with amnesia.  still it's not our fault.

eden was only paradise because we didn't know any better.

take eve and adam to six flags one day
and they'll say, "fuck the fruit.  can we ride that again?".

the real trick is that it was
never their decision to make.  never ours either
for that matter.

it's the conscience mind
never believing in beauty.  refusing to
acknowledge that paradise could ever exists.

until getting over this false notion, this unbelievable inaccurate thing,
that we've never once earned it, that deserving it requires more than

being alive.

THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT BAGGAGE

once again,
spring won't make up her mind, or perhaps
it's winter's inside joke.  just enough warmth
to get used to before the bitter cold crawls back in.

march is as fickle as it gets, a child
given permission to pick a single toy
alongside an everest of shelves.  there's not enough
oxygen in world to scale those hills.

the heart often follows suit, then
gives in this far north; one day excited
about even the possible love interest
in the cashier at the co-op

the next, her mention of the kabbalah
has you shopping hanafords for weeks.

but we forget
how the flowers come up once again.  everything
seems ephemeral, fleeting.  then don't mind so much
waking up again, as

we're reminded to both dance in the sunshine, and
collect snowflakes on the tongue.

the weight of all the things i haven't done keeps
me both chained down and in fantastic shape.

dragging mistakes behind me around the baggage claim
at the airport of missed opportunity.  personally, my
luggage never closed correctly.

the zippers get caught on the choices i never made.

THERE WAS A NIGHT...

dark and forgettable,

that's how it was
when i slept on your front porch
after the fact, far after the world ended.

then walked
away, still drunk
before you rose:
before you woke.

to this day, never noticed.

that was the night
that hindsight caught up with me.

an idea of you being perfect,

as if there were such a thing.

and how out of love i'd fallen with myself thinking in such ways; i was

further gone than i imagined.

and of course, no one told me, not a friend in sight.  not just even one
pointing me in one direction or another

and i wondered
how i got to that point.

i'm smart, and charming, and hidden well, and so on...

and so

the fact that you lived on the same street as me
didn't make up for the
perfect; fucking cliche metaphor
of the pedestal
i'd conjured up in my mind.

(a place to place you.)

those things didn't happen, nor exist.  why would they?  why
would the universe ever tap you on the shoulder, whisper in your ear; and

then be wrong.
except perhaps he wasn't,  and maybe  never could be.

yet still i divide...
directly in two:  part one

hopes i get a piece of me in the deal,

standing if front of the mail box
waiting for the letter,

"save the date",

the other part existing somewhere else,
another beast all together

a hair extracting skeptical, knees bleeding across the floor, heart: well...
giving all it's got,

not for even one second, "holding it's peace".

not one of which,

are of,
nor ever will be

any of these far worse images conjured up:

an elephant scared of a mouse.
shingles falling on a roofers head,
the same shingles licked slowly across one's tongue,
a different (and of course; somehow better) man fucking you.
the smell of pavement

as it gradually turns a hard, your nose first

experiences, the scent then
up in disgust, and soon high
from the fumes.  high enough to entreat the texture
of the shark as the remora
bites down.

a grain of sand
might as well be the pyramids of giza
when you want something bad enough.

Probably the worst thing about California breaking in half and falling into the ocean is not being able to laugh and point at everyone and say, "Told you so!!!"

THE GHOSTS OF NOTHING

sometimes, in the country

(when even winter is exhausted by itself)

the stillness and the cold forget to argue over

who is more important, 

so they don't.

and all things usually harsh, become soft.

the part of you that used to simply tolerate

wears off, while acceptance creeps in.  

you let it.

the quiet that so easily, once before, haunted your past

allows translation.  it's not your fault she left,

you were always good enough.

the end of august

autumn takes the last
of its luke-warm tongue
and warps it around
the soft seashell ear of summer.

if trees had eyes
september's breeze
would cause them
to roll back into the
forest's canopy. half appauled

by the pleasure, not knowing
what it could possibly mean
having been
seduced into letting go.

for each season without a lover
the heart finds new ways
to compinsate: a bottle of wine

and a good book, a hot bath
or a cold shower.

come spring, the woods give way
to wild flowers, and it starts
all over again. an ephemeral

race for beauty and grace, as your

chances for love close in around you.

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
trying desperately 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,

and carve myself a dream.

...so i'm in rutland for the next two weeks before heading for my 7 month adventure in the wild, teaching young minds how to fall in love with the woods. dear god, i'm bored...i don't think i've watched this much tv in my life. it's a pretty damn good thing that there was a battlestar galactica marathon on before the brand spankin' new episode last night. of course, the sobriety doesn't really help. i feel like crawling out of my skin and clubbing someone over the head so that i can take over their body. i'm so bored that i just called my mom and asked her what she was doing..."big lots" she said. i said "what's a big lot?" she laughed and said that she'd call me back. i guess i deserve feeling like this, having put feeling anything at all on hold for years. a haven't gone a week without anything in a long, long, long, real long time...even my pee smells different...like it misses jack daniels and herion. shit bird, this sucks. but all will be well when i get to the woods once more. and my dad won't have to worry about why i'm sleeping for 18 hours a day. i think i'm in love with the chick from "everyday italian," she's got great boobies.

-m-a-t-t-

LIFE, LOVE, SHOPPING, AND SUNSHINE

the sun looks like a daughter
tugging on the back of her mother’s black skirt. one hand
holding tight, the other stretched out like the whole
world could end if she doesn’t get picked up and held.

I spend the morning walking towards the sunrise
as a way to digest the week and more
than anything it’s the calm I morn. and find it unsettling as
the darkness who clings to the greedy half-light of dawn.

I’ve always had this notion that I could fix my life
by over thinking it, that my mind could somehow
rationalize all the things that I’ve done wrong.

it’s one of those days in mid-january
where dead Christmas trees garnish the sidewalks, the
germen shepherd next door only stops when I start
barking back. the coffee shop on the corner percolates
patrons in and out on their way to meet mediocre people
in incredibly important places.

the year’s hottest fashions start to go on sale. and soon
you’ll see that pair of jeans marked down to forty-three
from one hundred and eighty-six.

you’ll shake your head and bite your lip
having bought it...but will do the same thing next year knowing
a moment is the only place to live. because

by that time you’ll forgotten the foresight that's important
for life and love and shopping. the sun will have finally
risen and a new day means a brand new chance

to fuck things all up again.

...when someone 'seems intriguing'...you should read their blog. because after that, it could go either way. i do find you cute though....and intriguing as well...and well, "cute" and "intriguing" can't be too bad a combo. i hope you continue through the long, drawn out, and sometime creepy archives though...they're worth it.

SIX MORE WEEKS OF WINTER

it's the purple dusk of summer
that's kept me around this long. the
phosphorescent warmth dripping down
one side of the inside of my skull and the sun
refusing to go to bed early. it's the scent
of freshly cut grass that's got me sticking
my head out the window of a moving car at night. the
sight of a thousand fireflies blurring in a field
while i'm speeding by. and the desire to get out
before slowing down. to tilt my head at the stars
who scatter like a giant monochromatic jackson pollack
across the sky. it's the being alone that keeps me warm
at night, as if the winter were kind enough to take pity.
self aware enough to wear my own faults like a blanket.
I don’t think that it’s too much to ask, to grab a hold
of the world with both hands, turn it upside down and squeeze
every last drop of life into my dry upturned mouth. to quench
this hidden thirst, as if all things boiled down to two simple
and very clear choices and i couldn't possibly exist
without making one: either say farewell to this tiny ball of dirt,
or fall madly in love with it forever.

FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME TOMORROW

-for kate


...maybe it's just
that time of year? you start
noticing the subtleties
of winter’s sun.

a friend
you've long but seen
starts home. that's what has

you sentimental...

the scent of cold.

even as a child
you can't remember, ever having

felt so scared. it's january,

you're still so very much in love
with someone you've never had
the chance to.

the rain
that's now turned to snow, causes
a blush so very pure and warm, that
it simply caters the blood
towards reminiscing. a blush

starting just below
the ear and then tickling
your clavicle. and it

decides, symbolically of course, to knit
a scarf made out of kisses, from one lobe
to another, the same way i used to.
not hard at all to remember

being so young at that time,

that all we
could possibly do was make mistakes, excelling
with blunders at one another's expense. learning

to simply miss a step
then to keep on dancing unless...

both of us became surprised
at how it came. so natural at falling
from impossible heights,

excited,
un amused,
enticed, and as if landing
wasn't necessary.

tonight,
i played your phone message twice...

to complement my imperfect evening,
by myself in the early morning, maybe
it was just
to hear your voice,
i used to tilt my head
to hear you breathing, this was that same
kind of thing...i just needed
something familiar.

to sleep next to something other
than my pillow.

obviously,
it's just that time of season, everything

falls in small deliberate flakes.

the streetlights type cast with reason,
the snow's decent make the sky ornate...and i still
believe that if i make a wish, that wish
has a chance
and might come true...

dear lord,

...please lift this sorrow

...so i could meet her for the first time,
for the very first time tomorrow.

TIME TO TRAVEL

i remember his mouth
pushing air across the contour
of his lips, except no sound was
coming out as everything else
gave in. i remember the cold

sitting up in the hospital bed
and how that giant white-rolled
paper felt, the kind they'd let
you draw on as a kid. and if i had

some crayons i might graffiti it. a nice
house, some trees, the sun wearing
sunglasses...how i envy him. i wish
someone could have drawn a way

to protect me from myself. so many
words have no meaning. they don't
stand up or carry weight but hide rather
in a sentence. they need their friends

for relevance. though some words
stand alone. like a naked man
on the street, they stick out. and

what an awful face it takes to pronounce
the letter "C". squinting your eyes almost growling
while showing half your teeth. and
the tongue disappearing before it starts
flirting with the "N's" sound, humble
not quiet it lives towards
the roof of the mouth. and "R"
is simply all throat with a quick in and out

and your left staring at an ansel adam's

wondering why in god's name haven't you
been to that place yet?

THE NEON

the neon above my head
flickers in its unnatural rhythm: millerlite.
millerlite. millerlite. miller. they don't
even serve it here anymore but hangs

still. like an old family portrait with
the soft blue background, sweater vests, and sunday bests. each face adorned
with the most perfect smile one could muster
at a Kmart after church. long since
divorced parents hands
resting on their children's shoulders who might be

old enough to drink here by now. and billy
who once loved baseball is leather clad
in the corner. brandishing nose rings, and
skull tattoos, a chain clinging to his wallet.

maybe that's julia, the oldest, leaning over
to ignite on a match held calmly by a man
who won't respect her in the morning.

and that incessant buzzing hums on as
a reminder. what's here today will
be gone tomorrow. that history might
as well be hanging from the walls
of every dive bar in america. a shrine

to things never working out as planned.
and with every sip the buzz gets louder.
drinking to forget in the first place.

I'm not sure what you each need around grandpa but it looks like he's getting ready to finish this lifetime fairly soon. He'll be entering the hospice facility today and their job will be to keep him comfortable...the hospice nurse let me know that she's not certain how much longer he'll hang on and has encouraged me to get down there fairly soon. She'll be calling again later today with an update.

I'd love you all to be there but understand that might not be possible. I'll pay for you tickets etc if you decide to come down. Clearly the decision is yours and I respect whatever decision you make. Let me know what you think ASAP - preferably this evening. I know Matt's at Keewaydin so I will call him there.

Love to you all...and know that Grandpa loved you each for the incredible individuals you each are!

Hugs - MOM

In the end what matters most is:

How well have you lived;

How well have you loved;

How well have you learned to let go?

OPEN INVITATION (NEED ALL READERS HELP)

...i'm getting ready to send out some poems for publication this fall and need all the help that i can get. if you tend to read my blog once and a while and have some spare time on your hands, i'd love to hear which poems are your favorites. i'm looking for around 10 total but am having one hell of a hard time deciding which one's are the best. sometimes you're too close to your writing to actually be able to choose your favorites, or choose them wisely rather. if any of you out there in blog land want to go through my archives and pick your 10 favorite poems in ranking order (1 being your favorite and 10 being your least favorite) it would not only mean a whole lot to me, but it would also be doing me a huge favor. and who knows, maybe with all your help i'll be able to get a few more publications under my belt. just type them up and send them as a comment to this post. if you'd like to tell me who you are that's cool, if you'd rather not mention your name, that's okay too. it'd still be a huge help either way. look at it as a way to give back to the person whose given you countless minutes of mediocre reading material while you're at work/at home/prolonging your homework/getting home drunk from the bar (you know who you are)/ or just stalking me in the only way you know how. thanks again....

-m-a-t-t-h-e-w-j-o-r-d-a-n-m-a-r-r-o-

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.

THE FRAMING

maybe it's because we learn
each way save forward?

sideways in our convictions,
experiencing life
with what's peripheral.

it's not that hindsight
has great vision, but rather
that the past stands still
until bumped into again.

there's a winding path
through gentle woods
and wisdom is a river there
if fall asleep next to.

dreaming of stones
shaped by time, i hold
ever close to me.

my heart is so very similar
it astounds me.

made of all
that's passed over it,
blood.
water.
flesh.
love.

the ideas of something
better hinting at, and then
leaving nothing behind
but shape.

carving out the negative space,
around the man

i'm soon to be.