Should Have Done This Months Ago

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-MPM

Chirping

Through the window

of my country apartment

I see birds gathering:

a bluejay tweets to a cardinal,

who trumpets back in unison.

It's amazing

how a raven's call can scrap a roof.

I wonder why robins dance as they do,

perhaps chirping out of sexual desperation

or lamenting the lack of food or perhaps

it's something thinking creatures living

in houses can't understand:

the use of music as a mode of expression,

casting those single tweets

into a chorus of feathers and claws.

A Little Night Music

We drink because we must

imbibe the nectar of attraction,

the silky syrup that moistens

the lips of every man and woman

seeking the closeness

of sweat-cemented shirts

a flooded inner thigh

uncertain kisses that never say

goodbye.

Impacts

I. 

Dozing in bed by the window I see

the sky thrust its lip upon the earth,

carving a crater like a cat's tongue 

with a strike across the horizon;

before I can react I am frozen

and all is light, death.

II.

Dozing in bed terrified of the heavy breaths

that grow more hoarse by the moment

against the frail glass window,

the low ceiling and its peeling paint, the coarse sheets--

I'm running downstairs, drowning in the calls

of the names of my family,

my legs entangled as if in water

struggling to swim against the front door,

trying to get out, to taste the living air--

the hard pavement speaks through the cracked wood

I'm lying on top of; the wind whimpers.

A red star in the sky pulsates

like a tumor in my chest. I clutch

my face, run down the street for hours

to wherever the hell the road goes,

past pick-up trucks limping on axles

to the center of town

until a firm hand grasps our throats,

we have no air to scream.

III.

No longer dozing within the sheets,

aware of the growing light on the horizon,

aware the darkened heart that twists beyond

any possibility of personal salvation,

I wrap myself in a blanket of warm cloth,

slouch, breathing slowly, slowly,

my chest crackling like a melting ice cap,

unable to stop, unable to will myself

to stop. Crying to bring the sunrise,

to have to get up again, to have to run

or just do something before the next

asteroid, the unthinkable impact 

against the window,

the shattering of continents

whose vibrations echo through my chest.

FWD: San Diego

Of course it's on St. Patrick's Day that I wrote more haiku in one hour than I have in my entire life...a, c'est la vie. Big news coming, hopefully soon...

Dead Word Sitcom

Alack writing poems in a black notebook.

Fain sifting through the mail. 

Upon babbling shit-faced on the floor.

Envision waiting.

Morrow doesn't talk and flips channels for the next one.

Wherefore on the couch chewing his cell phone.

Methinks wants to say something

but the door knocks and screams about rent.

Cuckold at the keyhole: "It's Mr. Webster!

And those Oxford guys are with him!"

Bruit starts to shriek.

Prithee and Fie trip over themselves,

Rheum sobbing madly;

Forsooth is at the window.

In the upstairs apartment Cool and Sweet,

grateful for the occasional paycheck,

read quietly and drink wine.

Asked to Leave for Staring at the Wrapping Paper Too Long

You are told to perfect the outside because 

that's where it starts like a fresh layer of dirt, 

fertile to sing morning's glisten 

so something profound sprouts.

It's the grabber--you must

or your gift is useless, 

vague,

misleading

or worse: "Okay Mike, sure, sure--";

they sound like an empty mailbox.

Fine--just drink up, hello to friends,

breathe tobacco, moon watch

leave the party early

and keep sending those e-mails.

It's pathetic to stay in a gift store too long.

You hold that tiny glass bauble in your hand

wonder how to wrap and forget 

that the truth is right there.

Pace the aisles, sweat but put it back

grab it again! No...

back on the shelf--they might not like it.

You finger the premium soils for hours.

Eventually, the clerk comes over, gently

touches your shoulder--he has to lock the door soon.

"Tomorrow? No, sir, we're closed on Sundays."

This is Not a Post Consisting of Just a Poem

Re-reading Gatsby the Great. Will muse/extrapolate at some point. Blog, I am so sorry. I do not deserve your unconditional love.

--

And now, the poem!

Beautiful

I am beauty full from this youth of mine.

Date for lunch, then I pass through the quad, 

its grass, to watch wind tempt the tips of trees

while the sun refuses to kiss the grass. 

Sets of corduroy jackets and beards smoke a hookah, 

and the prettiest girl shares a puff with me 

because September is a generous month.

I leave as the stars strut the sky 

in the early morning. I become hyperaware:

my collared shirt is as smooth as a whetstone.

Then we pass, she asks for a light,

we turn off the lights...experience the beautiful

blindness, the steaming rivers of chemistry

until next day conversations,

questions (1, 2, 3...) arrive like an awkward breakfast

until I'm alone and numberless again

stomping hours later on a giant sundial tucked 

somewhere between my dormitory 

and the interstate, I look up. 

The sun lifts her hands from the stone's shoulder,

oh there is ease before the twilight;

she winks as her beauty falls.