We weren't built for this

There are nights when I’ll sit and stare dully,
Fully aware at the ridiculousness of it all.
To see so clearly in the dark the way we all
Have fallen.
Our houses in disrepair and the yards full
Of leaves and bits of paper. Shudders loose
From the siding, roof caving in, roof crashing in.
There’s a terrible finality to it all, I think, as dully
I count the cracks in the wall. We are afraid of the
Wrong things. We go through great pains to explain
Away, and exonerate ourselves of wrong doing.
But, in the end it won’t matter because when
Our time is up it’s up. And that is that.
Our soul will float to the Cosmos because God
Won’t have us. The Devil will not have us either.
Neither wanting to pick through the leavings.
So, finally, we’ll reach the stars and maybe see
Where it all began but, we’ll get bored
Of that as well. Bored of mystery. Bored of intrigue.
Just bored. But silent. Graveyard silent. Silent
Like a tombstone.

Aimless vagabonds in space adrift in the thickness
We’ll bask in the ever-present vigilance of the Sun
Dance with the satellites. Eat the moon. Pass
Over Jupiter and the Rings of Saturn. Battered
Down one and all.
I am thinking now on the Columbia and all
The horrid things man has died for. All the
Dreams man has strived for. Helen’s face
Launched a thousand ships. We’ve died for land
And love. Love and land. But my hand
Is clean of blood. I am thinking of the Columbia
And how it’s never as romantic to die for science
The way it is to die for God, or love or the love
Of God. We’ll die on the job or in a car crash
On the way to our job. We’ll die on our couches
Crouched and ready but not really ready at all.
And I’m staring pathetic eyes on a wall thinking
On the Columbia disintegrating over Texas skies
And how all the poetry in the world cannot save us.
No matter how hard one tries. All the great topics
Have been beaten to death over and over by writers past:
Love, God, Life, Death and Undeath, binge drinking, and
Feeling alone in a room full of people.
I think I’m finished for the evening. There’s a singing
Bird outside reminding me it’s much too late. Or much too

I'm the last of my kind

Dear Mr. McAtee,
I see now the err of my ways
Waves lap a shore yonder and
It has brought me to a realization:
That a demoness can haunt me
To dying days in unreal ways
Taunting me, taking me by the ankles
And shaking me free of my shackles.
Where were you in years past, Mr McAtee
To see unconditionally my surrender?
Do you laugh now at it all?
Do your eyes light up at the notion
That I’ve imbibed one too many
Heavy drinks from love’s potion?

There is a world out there for the taking
And it’s taking me under, utterly.
Open doors beg me to enter my
Very own Lady Chatterley.
Perhaps I dream too big in this
Too small town.
A king uncrowned in a landscape
Nigh impossible to escape.
I’ll set my sights lower as I
Walk down streets named after dead presidents


sometime in March

One of the most horrifying things
I've ever seen was the way
My father's mouth moved
on the hospital bed.

He didn't utter a single word,
Only quick breaths could escape.
He wouldn't give death the honor
of letting Her know the pain
was killing him.

His mouth would move and
His face was alert, and he'd stare
Out of the tall windows but his
Eyes seemed more focused on something
In front of him.

Years later it would occur to me
That he was talking to something.
The mouth formed words, sentences, he'd
Stop, wait for a reply from the invisible
Something then he'd start moving
That mouth again.

There would be nights, awful nights
Where I'd be in a fit trying to
Remember how that mouth would move.
Try to recognize moving patterns and
Unravel the mystery of his words.

My entire family was there in that
Horribly decorated room with it's wires,
And tubes. Savage machines and wilting
Flowers. I'd bring up the way dad's
Mouth moved but no one admitted
To seeing it.

This is a terrible time to start
Losing ones mind.
I was at the foot of the bed after
Having grown enough courage to see
This isn't the Colossus I remember!
Give me back the mountain!
Give me back the Goliath!

I had moved to where my failing father's
Eyes seemed to focus and started flailing
My arms about in total fury. Whoever
It was he had fixed his beam upon
Would know death this day.

Having spent all my energy setting myself
Upon Death I remember dropping to my knees
In submission. There were arms around me
And I was being escorted out of that
God awful room.

One last sentence.
One final chance.

"Dad you can't go now. The crappie will
be biting soon. We need to go fishing
one last time, dad."

"We will, Sam." He said.

We will.


we were on rt 6...

tires tearing up the road and
turning it to flame.
our terrible mouths moving
unceasingly talking all kinds
of madness.
saying a lot but saying
very little at all.
Gorganea Secundia
peers in from the moonroof
accusingly. They are the eyes
of my father staring
into the passenger side
seat. All is well with
the world. Tomorrow
the sun will rise and
greet our backs.

For now we're carving
lines into the road.
80 miles per hour and
going nowhere. Strings
play over the radio and
all is well with the world.
We'll hit the light where
rt 6 collides with rt 29.
Yellows, reds, and greens
whirl across your face setting
freckles to fire.

"you dress like poetry," i say.

the light is red. I beg it
to stay that way forever.
this is as good as it's
ever going to get.
this is the last red light
I ever want to see.

the light turns green.

and we tear down rt 29
the lights around the foundry
carve through the fog.

eyes skyward

*work in progress*

oh, poverty
what do you know of poverty?
who do you think you are?
these aren't my hands
I swear it to you
but blindly I reach
for it.
northern light eyes
staring through the smoke.
geysers shooting blood.
have you any idea why
I scream my throat raw?
oh, poverty
the broken out windows
of some old steel fab
factory are all we
have left to prove we
were ever here.
the yellowed ribcage
of old bony buildings,
scoured clean.
this is our soul for
this is our final
this is the tangled
roots of the body
politic heaving
the foundations to heaven.
oh, poverty
the rivers have turned foul,
and we sink ourselves
stupid to depths we
knew not existed.

oh, poverty
I have seen this city
it is like all cities.
crushed under the weight
of the sky.


I can smell space
the places between planets, stars.
I can feel ozone pass through
my skin.
light years lonely, dancing
with debris.
radio signals bounce off
my face at the speed of
the distance between us
is a lesson in wave/particle
miles across yet so small.
it feels so cold, and impossible
but I will be there soon.
to bounce off your body
and send shivers down
your loins.

the inevitable separation
closing in under the
watchful gaze of the sun
this is hydrogenicide

gravity pulls me in
a climax.
sweet impact.
sweet sweet impact.

let us lie here for
as long as God allows
or until your beautiful
body consumes me