You Out There

Where are you

out there?

I don't think you sit at the table.

I think you delight

in the mundane

and people

you don't know.

How are you

out there?

I worry you're lonely

but I'm probably lonelier

with my playlists and journals

for friends.

Are you

out there?

Now like I don't see?

You remind me of a ghost

but one day

you will be.

And will you miss me

out here?

Do you miss me

out here?

Since the Days Are Few

Since the days are few
and far
between
when you can actually turn off
the yakking, the grinding, the lurching,
the smacking, the shooting, the blistering,
the shrieking, the shrinking, the gasping,
the gossiping, the hurting, the whining,
the sinking, the soaking,
when you actually do,
actually do think
with some foreign sincerity
"Things are very good,"
grasp onto the line,
be hooked by it,
take the bite,
lose your cheek meat in the metal,
bleed--fine--
before you're yanked out of the water,
before you're hanging in the sky,
gills dry, unable to breathe.

Lt. Fran

Little old lady
with no legs. She said, "Under
my left boob. It hurts."

Barnes and Noble book
club. Can you return the ones
I didn't get to?

Her body was in
a box in the church in the
town she lived always.

This was the same stained
glass as in 1970.
Familiar wafer

slipped into pockets.
Paul bearers, and you got out
of the car, saying,

"I want to see that."
And you listened to the stuff
people say every time

in the first pew, same
windows as 1970.
There's nothing inside

that box. There's a dish
of potato sour cream cheese
something we all like.

The pious cooks hint
it's time to move on from the
congregation's gym.

Tables are folded
and suddenly there is a
basketball at play.

Then a few. The men
in their ties and black slacks shoot
around. The moms and

daughters and sisters
watch on. Watch on. Not a bad
way to go in June.

JUS DO YOU

Yesterday I was looking for a Robert Frost poem, and after I googled him I noticed one of the first results was "ROBERT FROST 8.5/10 out of 277 votes." Arguably the most popular American poet of all time has a B in popular vote on the internet.

Someone asked me how I liked Boyhood, and I was like, "Eh, whatever. It was fine." Person: Didn't it take Linklater 12 years to make it or something? Me: Yeah, I don't really care. I thought it was fine. THERE YOU GO.

I'd rather be 9 people's favorite thing,
than 100 people's 9th favorite thing.

Newborns

All the pieces of writing.

They resurge over time. My mid-term from Poetry II in 2009, my word.

The new play. The old revised. Like baby bunnies

crammed in the nest.

Can't possibly mother them all.

Reproduce, reproduce, reproduce.

The Hidden

Where do the things we've never told anyone go?

I've touched the bottom of that one warm man-made lake in Michigan. It never ends. There's gloop, leaves and all that, feet and feet (a mile?) deep. It composts and compounds and you don't feel it unless you go diving, even then, it's a mushpit more than a collection of debris.

Where do the things we've never told anyone go?

Volcanos erupt with all the disease they've pent up. Lava flows, destructs. But sometimes not in a lifetime, or in human existence. But sometimes in your granddaughter's.

Where do the things we've never told anyone go?

The stains on the Wendy's table. Frosties spilled over. Right in front of everyone. You did it in purpose. You spilled it in a grand gesture. TAKE THAT, DAVE THOMAS.

Where do the things we've never told anyone go?

The puff of smoke from the fireworks, everyone is already walking away.

The smallest rose in the bouquet, thorny and pink on it's own, invisible with it's brothers.

The manuscript she begged him to send, sitting in the starred file.

What are the things we've never told anyone? No one asked. We forgot.

Dream 12.22.13

The craft studio was sort of like the one at camp. I don't know why I was there, but so was Steve Martin. There were a lot of people milling around this studio, but no one else recognized him. When he didn't seem too busy I sat next to him and tried not to gush. "I love your work, all your work," I said. I quoted my favorite poem of his from Cruel Shoes. He smiled and asked me about my life. He set to work at his table covered in cheesecloth.

James Earl Jones was kitty corner at a wheel. He had overhead our conversation and presented me with a clay figurine. It was brown and sort of looked like an offensive rendering of a black baby. James Earl Jones told me it was a talisman. Steve Martin then presented me what he had been working on. A big card designed with light blue clouds. In cursive he had written encouragement about my future, my writing, my life. At the bottom in bigger font he had scrawled, "For I am not long for this world" over a doodle of his feet in 50s loafers floating to heaven.

Never About

IT IS NEVER ABOUT WHAT IS HAPPENING.
IT IS JUST NEVER ABOUT IT.
IT IS NEVER ABOUT THE MATH TEST.
IT IS ABOUT ME BEING AS UNDERSTANDING AS POSSIBLE
WHEN THE KID IS TRYING TO EXPLAIN
HE NEEDS MORE TIME TO TAKE IT.
THE TELLER DOES NOT CARE
ABOUT THE MONEY IN THE DRAWER--
JUST THAT HER BOSS KNOWS SHE KNOWS
IT'S ALL EVEN.
THE WAITER DOES NOT CARE ABOUT YOUR FOOD
BUT DOES CARE ABOUT YOUR GOOD TIME,
PARTIALLY BECAUSE OF YOUR MONEY,
AND PARTIALLY BECAUSE OF, YOU KNOW,
BEING A DECENT HUMAN.
IT IS NEVER ABOUT HOW I FEEL
IN ACADEMICS AND EVERYTHING ABOUT
I FEEL IN THE ACADEMIC BUILDINGS.
NOBODY IN CHARGE OF MY FUTURE KNOWS
WHO I AM YET. IT'S NOT ABOUT THAT.
THEY MIGHT NEVER.

A Bad Poem from the Heart

I think of you when I pass the Game Stop
the one on Harlem next to the store with the picture of the Egg.
I think of you when I pass the Game Stop--
which used to be fairly often when I lived in Chicago,
and even when I lived in St. Louis,
because it's south of suburbia and on the way.
It was a sign of good things to come--
getting home. I didn't like it in that half-lived in house
(my room, freshly painted with the new carpet I had picked out,
gutted besides one creaky twin)
but getting out of a car is getting out a car,
and I always did like our driveway. No,
I liked the rusted lamppost with our last name stuck on.
Anyway, it was the homestretch when I passed your old work.
I know I visited you there once. Why? Why?
I can't remember.

Chicago. September 2012.

I haven't been on that forever road headed north in three years.
So instead I think of the Game Stop when I think of you.
I love you and I miss you,
and if there was a time to believe in heaven
it is now.

Denver Wedding

Murried.

Berger and I finished Adventureland last night
right before it was bedtime. Early bedtime. He had to drive me to the airport at 5 AM today.
I tied my shoes silently in the foyer.
"I made you breakfast," he said, handing me a granola bar and my soup dish of two cupcakes:
cranberry almond and orange chocolate chip mocha.

They were the wedding cake. I gave them as an offering to Chelle when she picked me up from the airport back in sunny AZ.
Oh,
I missed sunny AZ
when the entire 94 guests shuffled outside the mansion
to take a friendly group photo.
"Here's who's here to celebrate this lovely thing!"
we waved up at the camera.

KWall suggested Adventureland to me a few months ago.
Finally, the first day of her honeymoon, I watched it.
I loved it a lot.
I loved the love.
I loved the love all weekend.

I gave the readings for the special day, a mid-morning ceremony.
I read in a dress patterned with greyhound-shaped zebras.
A caterer asked if I made it.
Hmm. Don't think that's a compliment. When the caterer asks if you made your formal outfit.


Kath--the best Thanksgiving guest.

"I really loved it," I told Berger. I folded the blanket and patted it onto his sofa.
"Do you feel like you changed?" he asked, which is a good post-film question.
"Yes. I feel like you should do things that are good for you, and that you should be happy."

My friend KWall has a new name. My first memory of our friendship was a decade ago on a beach walk. We talked about the TV show Blossom. She was dating her college sweetheart back then. She broke his heart.
Games, games, games.

Pizza Challenge

The big one.

Tuesday Boulder pulled up to my condo, radio blaring
Bad to the bone, bad to the bone.
We were on our way
to attempt a pizza eating challenge at a local pie joint.

A three-foot pizza for two people in one hour.
I had only eaten one bowl of oatmeal at 8 AM before
we entered the atmosphere of Italy on soda cups and parmesan in the air.
Boulder stretched. I wasn't nervous.


Boulder channels inner peace to help him complete the challenge.

Our opponent arrived--fresh-baked and glistening with grease.
I was so hungry I imagined grabbing two piping hot slices in each hand and swallowing the burn.
But, I was patient. I patted the first slice with a napkin.
I carefully lifted the oversized triangle into my mouth.
I bit in slow, and chewed.
It was delicious.
I can honestly say I enjoyed every single piece of pizza.
We obviously finished the challenge. Boulder was a groaner.
But, I celebrated each individual piece of crust. Every bit of sweet sauce.
We were given t-shirts and earned our photo on a hall of champions board.


Last piece!

Living in excess every once in a while isn't so bad--as long as it's legitimately improving your life.
I pythoned the calories away and can honestly say I wasn't really hungry again for almost a full day.