Home / 2012 / December

Copenhagen – Collaborative Poem with Drew Boston


Local man,
are you looking forward
to the trip?
Arrival in mud
90% of survey respondents
say they are very happy
in this club.

O Scandanavia,
which I imagined as a kid
as lobster boats arriving
at ice floes,
like the Maine of my parents.
Coping pagans of the small town
outside of a big town.

Grinding it out
caught between growing and shrinking,
lighting candles to that soft dream,
selling the IKEA bookshelves and
eloping, aging
like trees, fat and stationary,
planting grass seed
in an infertile back yard,
not worried so much about it.
Things’ll grow or they won’t.
Thing you leave are either there
when you come back,
or they’re not.

Rewriting ‘Romeo + Juliet’
so it is about six popes
or one true pope
and five anti-popes,
sniping at each other
in the hills surrounding Verona.

Is there enough rope
to tie us to wooden beams
and streetlights
far enough away from our
cell phones to hear each jingle
and hiss but not do anything about it
but assume we are wanted?

Is there enough rope to carry
a children’t playground
suspended by fighter drones
on their way across the Atlantic?

Rope is too much the property of sailors
and sexual deviants.


Tale Unstuck in Time

for the causings

A tale unstuck in time
where broken syllables seem to rhyme
and the sound of chandeliers being dragged through the streets
teaches us something about interior design


All the screaming ghosts sound like opera singers
and it’s hard to know how many graveyard bacchanals
have outlasted themselves with the invederate music-making
of the dead
but why should I care about what’s been said
I want to tell the the truth from scratch like Heidegger did.
There’s something in this life worth shaking so hard
it falls apart and i wand to be there to
dirty my fingers with whatever’s inside,
to stand tall and not to hide
while other’s just philosophied


The casual daydreams of kisses executed
by my much more skillful stunt double
standing in his long duster coat
looking magnanimous and defiant.
I owned a secret once
took it out for walks on weekends
before always swallowing it whole
in some ways
we are like a suckling pig
only in death do we become delicious
like anything
only a small percentage of adjectives
describe us at any one time and the others
exist out of reach and invisible
like mosquitos past the aureola of a smoky fire.
There is no artful way to write down breathing
except to say that when I see your picture
the ocean enters me
and in return
I expel the flesh of my lungs into the dust
What is it called when humans rust?


Dancing at the fountain there,
yes, you in your white and blue
all ribbons and perfume.
I was clumsy
but you stayed my hand
and the little boys marched on like soldiers or a marching band
and I felt your breath on my neck
and it was the ocean
and it shattered me
and if I imagined you between clicks of my mouse
would it change the way you though about
the twist of my brow
the nerve damage in my lowerlip
no, you are as imperfect as I
and none of us picks what makes us


The kids are playing Call of Duty
on an XBox made of human thumbs.
They say the verisimilitude is uncanny.
They say you can almost smell the death
mingling through the console
with the wet-stench of their breath.


A lonely animal with a horn cries out
across an empty sports arena.
It’s seen the archival footage
but has everyone gotten a red card?
It’s gotten quite good at heading the ball into the net
though sometimes the ball is punctured irreperably
on the spire of bone.
Fortunately, there are plenty of soccer balls around.
Forunately this animal has all the time in the world.


**KSSSSHHHKKKIT***KACHIK***THIS On? Can you hear me?
The ship’s sunk, it’s all lost.
Yes, yes, twas the ‘whale’ that did it.
Radio room’s the only thing left intact,
hermetically sealed HA! Thank you modern engineering
for the privelege of drowning in my own breath
rather than the ocean’s.
the air’s getting a bit thin and I’m not sure how long
this transmission will last
so I better make good of it.
Yes, tell my daughter to carve her name
into the desk in my study,
there’s enough of my blood in ther
I might still feel it.
Tell my wife to buy a telescope and never stand
for looking at things their proper size again.
Tell them I love them more than breath or time will allow
and I exhale their names with every gasping breath,
ah yes, just my heart’s beating now,
yes, that’s just fine…***KSSSSHHHKICH***KACHIKIT***


A weird silence
with just enough noise to highlight
the general absence.
We’ve each said goodbye before but never
with such obvious cinematic quality as to make
the lack of a soundtrack so noticeable.
And still, even in our quietest moments,
somewhere a clock is ticking.