your auburn locks are drowning

your auburn locks are drowning
me in a peachy aroma
(not peachy like the hip kids
mean when something is alright)
more the overwhelming smell that
draws hive after hive of bees to
a fresh spring orchard.

but escape, let the bees have their fruit,
as alone at an ocean peak i stand,
offended by the way the waves
explode against the sand;
something too violent(physical)
to be shared with something beautiful.

so i say, shall i muss up your auburn
hair (and have my fingers tasting
of the sugary sweet of peaches) ?
or
destroy the ocean walls (violent,
too harsh for tranquility)?

and i reason, i am too wanting of
tranquility,

(wait until high tide has passed my love
to tempt the seas)
So I lick clean my fingers,
delicious.

Street Spirit (to be read while listening to Radiohead's "Street Spirit (Fade Out)"

torn apart piece by piece,
we (fade out, fade out again)
we gasp until there is no air
left to swallow (fade out)
we push and pull at the
fragile morrow of life-like twigs,
snapping under careless feet
(fade out).

horrified of what we’ve become,
whispering over some obsessive
plucking tone, ringing low hums
in our ears (fade out).

we see something truly terrifying:
ourselves.

(fade out again)

Too Warm For My Favorite Peacoat

It is cold;
I’m enchanted that my navy blue peacoat
and knit scarf aren’t too much,
Because damn it I’ve been looking pretty good
in both.

Let’s twist and tangle,
Not for the desire, or the pleasure,
(because it’s too god damned cold)
to do anything other than make
heat(love).
Hold my hand and drag me there,
I’m still right behind you,
Shredding off layer after layer;
the coat the scarf everything.

Falling asleep, I am still enchanted,
but unable to whisper something
that needs to be screamed,
I hesitate, too tired from lovemaking.

can we be brave enough
to love?

Preface To... (and) Strange Girl

Preface to Strange Girl
a series of images that i cannot repress
like a sun-stained yellow sun dress,
sweeping across blooming fields of snow,
is this where all the pretty ones go?
where the mimosa flows like crystal lakes,
and the dissatisfied lovers lick the surface
from all the flakes.

Strange Girl
a series of images that i cannot repress
(oh how i promised i wouldn’t rhyme)
Autumn
no longer can honest men live,
no longer can living men die,
i perish, i perspire, i fumble my words,
and i retire.
to think that i could branch out as far
to your heart and soul and let fall
my most eloquently browned and yellowed
and crisp and dying thoughts;
(guilty and pink in the cheeks,
a little nip of the cool breeze)
i could never,
i retire.

a series of images that i cannot repress
(crawling into the depths of what i imagine
lies behind closed blue eyes, swimming)
Winter
a season long enough to bear grief,
oddly calming and serene,
ice spreading along familiar creeks
like a rambling mad man tells stories:
lies truths and morals all interspersed
and woven in the blanket he creates
across the water.
but that moment never came, but that moment never came
but that moment never came, but that moment never came
cold.

a series of images that i cannot repress
(kissing ice sculptures with frozen tongues
frenzied and frustrating with such warm hands)
Winter
i wish i was special
unique, like each snow flake that finds its way into
the sludge (the filthy wet blemish on my shoes).
unique, like the uniform rows of trees complimenting
the grey streets with a splash of green.
even desolation has its methods
of cheering itself up.
(with my chin down and a chill in my feet)
everything goes by slower and slower,
a function perhaps of the cold,
but more likely manifestation of something missing
(other then better boots)
that i need so dreadfully.

a series of images that i cannot repress
(bodies melting into each other
in an extravagant dance, mine and yours)
Winter
the longest verse of prose is usually
the saddest:
quickly dragged away and
carelessly strewn aside,
found amiss in a garbage heap of grief,
the wind howling and screaming to
be let out; to be
disassociated from the unfriendly
cold still of February nights.
meanwhile the stars are busy in the sky
and the lights are all busy flashing,
going dim and burning out,
as fickle and failing as lovers
too many years too young
for such big words like
adore or vulnerable
or love.
and blushing as one would
after saying something dirty,
we whisper i love you
and goodbye goodnight
as quickly as possible before the
stars steal our breath;
but they are too busy being blue.

V. Winter
a series of images that i cannot repress:
(shadowplay in the corner of the room,
dreamingthinkingfeelingactuallyfuckingfeeling
your touch;

VI. Spring
can pleasure be felt strongly enough
to break free from the creative confines of
imagination and fantasy?
more pleasures are derived by deaf
ears hearing a tinny piano’s chime,
then any fluttering cluster of words
will ever muster.
receding into a morose state
seems more welcoming then
waiting for the snow to return,
so that again i may dance along the tundra,
sweep across the ice in bare feet
pale in the cold, warm in the hands
while the furious ice melts below
there will be contact, physical shadows
not in the corner of a room,
but licking the sweet mimosa off
each other’s lips, satisfied at last,
and no longer confined
to reappearing images;
finally: drowning behind beautiful blue eyes,
(frequently and prominently breaking my promise)
no longer swimming, the mimosa soaked
tongue kissed lake swells, dries, and finally:
dies.

Last Camel

if only i could drown
suck down more of the toxins paying visit
to my chest.
would the smoke i breathe hold some answer,
would the ash slowly burn down until my searing fingers
were ready to grip a pen?

could i but cough out blood water
and something worthy enough
to clear the cloudy smokey haze
that pollutes my mind;

for i would like to see more,
less a dingy red glow,
and more an eloquent stare.
audrey smoked, why wouldn’t any
other girl,

gladly i would pass the pack,
snap the lighter,
and we could drown in the smoke.

and i cough, choking down
one last Camel.

Oh! Poetry

Quietly keeping cold evening company,
Curled up with a volume or a new collection,
How often do readers stop to view the
Laminated covers, or the fraying corners
of paperbacks.

How many colors and pictures have
Came adjacent to line after line of
Beautiful prose?

Oh Poems, everything about you
Warms my heart; your pretty evening dress,
The firm binding that keeps your insides
Cozy and complacent, thank you, oh thank you.

I am comfortable tonight. My eyes are light,
My mind is warmed, volume after volume of
verse, I have adorned.

Poem About Samantha

I promised myself long ago,
That I would not allow another head
of brown swoop bangs to steal my soul
Away from my writing, but alas,
Samantha,
You have robbed me and all the beautiful
Trees and shadows that I used to write about.

Somehow each extended metaphor leads back,
Dancing along the sticky red lipstick,
Glittering along soft plump lips,
To a smile and a kiss that no West Wind
Could confiscate, for what is the mastery of nature,
Without some blessed from to compare it to?

Nodding through my recollection,
Easily confused by the trips of isolation I have taken,
Deep into rows upon rows of morose, browning pines,
I seem to associate the color schemes to the wildly
Calming mocha-colored depths of your wide eyes
(Ah, the coffee I drink no longer sweet but still warm)
How I wish I could envy the man whose reflection He
Saw within those-
No, it is just the trees who stand tall, firm, alone with me,
Rustling and restless in the winter wind.

It is a sickness like the disease that killed Keats;
Holding hands with the thing itself that is killing me,
I lust, I pine, oh how i could reshape the ways of time
(as well as create a rhyming scheme to fit your mood)
Because, Samantha, what torments me more than
An unfinished poem,
Is the slow process of memory.

Disappearing like the sad mounds of snow in the Spring,
Strand by strand of the hair that dances atop your
Cheery body, goes to the wind,
goes to the left above your eyes;
I count myself lucky that it is the swoops that go last,
For I could never forget your kiss, your touch,
Your kiss.

Here are these words, songs and prose all
That amount back to you, I cough, I roll over in bed,
Restless and remorseful, while long stretches of road
Tear at my sides like tuberculosis.
Lovers in feverish kisses in empty corridors of the schools,
Where surely my poetry will never be taught,
Hand-holding gimmicks that result in the softest clasp,
Of fingers and soul: I am jealous, I am jealous.

Searching for some form of clarity, some form of stability,
I suppose I will continue to let my thoughts dance and swing
To the music we should have shared,
I will hold some black-dressed girl;
she will toss my heart across an empty floor,
And while new, shiny Bostonians clack underneath elegant legs,
I wake.

Dreams of trees and shadows and all the beautiful things,
You robbed me of; I do not want them back,
Just chance one more glimpse of your swoops,
before they go like the leaves.

Chalkboard, My Love, Our Mother

for my future students

No longer dreaming about
the next mornings’ courting in class,
I receive friendly advice from morning things:
my alarm clock, my comb,
the shower head, my lightly browned toast,
they all cheer me on as I put on my hat and coat,
walking out the door into an autumn morning,
they tell me the red collar biting the neck
of my knit sweater is perfect.
The sun is rising as I come to my love’s door.

Clinging tightly to my chalk rose,
I present to her my love, with my best intentions,
and kissing her softly her face brightens and fills,
and when my students, her children, walk in,
she will blush, smiling brilliantly with cheer,
she will share the love I gave to her:

like a wonderful mother
passing out hot apple pie,
in the winter cold,
the boys and girls will all be given
slices of Keats, Shelley, Byron,
With a hefty dollop of Wordsworth on the side.

Even Sillier

This is the last of new posts that will not contain poetry, I promise. I have to plug my radio life, and my Faux-Hawk....


Tune in to the Wildcard! go to wobn.net, and listen live, I have a show every weekday, with the exception of Thursdays; the show is good fun. I'll let you know when I have another solo program!

Return to Glory

Hey readers new and old, I know it's been quite a long time since I've updated, and for some reason, the cold Otterbein air has me writing lots and lots of poetry, so I have an abundance to share.

Look for updates more frequently.


Oh, and I've been growing up a lot too. I look silly now: