clearance drinking song

drunk on your, what?
in my bed under
the covers, singing
"push came to shove!"
fingers said, "glove,
isn't an obvious fit
enough, must we
wait for signs above?"
so we took a long trip together,
all around the department store,
a sterile commerce smell led
us away from cosmetics to the
clearance-rack alternate futures
appropriate for any budget,
but, i'm
drunk on stale beer
in my basement, we're
connected and seeing
HD and maybe never clear
one and two dear
see them graze the back
yard at a safe distance
for one or four years


could we sudden auctioneers
willing volunteers
callous racketeers
steadfast pioneers
be sick with what we engineered?
nausea-bounce stomachs, we
pound the pavement,
increasingly cavalier
convincingly sincere
could i just talk
with my lips for a second?
no -- wait, maybe, see,
what did i mean by that?
do you know what
i know you know?
come over
make this stanza twenty-three lines long

power

tonight it feels as though our recourse
may have thinned. tonight it feels as if
ugly distance has shortened. tonight
all metaphors wobble as flimsy tin
warble tin. tonight backed time up and
reminded me it isn't supposed to feel
like this. tonight was a feeling afraid.
tonight i am a coil electric and racing
and connected unexpectedly to ports
i picked on a map. clear skies tonight.
good sailing weather. nautical themes -
ugh. but no other way to catch turmoil of
tonight i want to leave someone for good.
tonight i know why. tonight. tonight
i almost picked up my cell phone and
called why. tonight and wide awake. i
mentored a heartache assertively,
said 'things are better when they're
backwards anyway,' said 'which of
these arrows points backwards?'
>-----------------0--------------------<
said 'whichever one points the way
you've never, ever been!' said 'you
have never been daring, always
conservative, always relegating
your verse to neat little columns
and adhering to the safest of old
patterns and motifs -- mature fence
boy is not safe from the judgmental
brigade. prepare yourself.' tonight
i almost picked up the house phone and
called gertrude stein. tonight i raged on
an incredibly anxious insomniac daze
that knows exactly what to do and
is doctoring circumstances and is
being dishonest with me and you and
is putting her and her and others at risk
and all for more ell oh vee eee that i
might not understand one bit anyway
TONIGHT TONIGHT OHHHH BABY
tonight i am prone to sudden outbursts
such as these. tonight i withheld deep
emotional lashing-outs not once, not
twice, but three times; sign me up for
the competitions, i can slug it out with
the best of them! said 'are you listening
in class? who cares about your lousy
feelings? banal angst of a mind-whore.
elicit some sympathy!' why the fuck can't
i fall asleep? i would much rather sleep.
i don't even want to write this poem.
i don't even want to write this poem.
said 'what did we just tell you?' said
'we thought you heard your professor
say not to repeat lines like that.' but
it will be a repeat line whether it is
appreciated or not. the results will be
different next time. the interpretation
will be different by another reader (what
would she have said if i called her?
'darryl i need to sleep, i have work in
the morning.' it's ok. i understand.) said
'ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha' tonight i nearly said the
lot of it but tomorrow might be better.
the sun is coming up.
i should have called -
i don't think you'd have minded, and
we should really chat more at six a.m.
we should no longer be afraid of the daytime

perspective

split 'til you run out of seam and
see tension is real godliness
be spiritual anxiety forever
no one can take this away from me
or you. i see it in you
it is aurora borealis in twos
an itch and an itch when
alone, an old, tired bruise.
it is an apple that will never fall from its tree
rotting in safety
a child who hates to eat
shriveling hungry
an artist afraid to dream
selling groceries
we must scratch this until it bleeds
and dab it with a map of grotesque America decaying
until She thrives as one with the diamond matter
we'll generously have shared with her (it is important
that we allow our work to the world, though it is tempting to shield it)
at night we'll try uncurling the corners. the red spot will dry
between Frisco and Monterey, crowded by fancied hipsters
slovenly and unambitious
existing as they'll dream themselves
but we won't see them
we will be alone. the dust of California One
bellows across north Jersey light pollution,
a choking, timber voice
seeking companionship. i hear:
there is no one here
now is your chance
you were born too late
and you will die too soon
Jack is among the redwoods --
he is cirrhosis and love
and the passenger's seat
of a '49 Hudson, from which
this ancient invitation's fabric was culled:
these who are people who are not fit for truth
only guesswork
do not come to cabin-dwell or vanish into clubs
but to build, to
wonder aloud or pierce plaster or each other in moments of
creeping, insectile doubt
to raggedly trip on singularity and zen and utter time-death
on prism segues of being.
now, dutiful; though we abandon this one
there will be many more
while we are on the way