Hello

Writing is hard and dumb
and sometimes I hate it
so I took a vacation
from the punctuation

Again

Why not this blog more?

Why not the last three slices?

Why not muncie? why lafayette?

why so excited to see some, and not others?

why not another drink?

why bars? why not!

why?

please?

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

here is a poem about bridges. it's called "the trouble with bridges":

there are bridges everywhere

gaps have to be breached

rivers must be crossed

point a to b

san francisco to brooklyn

we're going places, america!

and bridges are, well,

the bridges to the future

the metaphor is solid

the metaphor is sturdy, like oak.

but there are bridges that sway

in the wind. iron ropes stretched

from trees. the river flows beneath.

why jump the creek

when a plywood slab

rests its ends on both sides?

strut across, live the dream!

bridge the gap, or gap the bridge!

when you get to wherever it is you're going

the future has happened,

and you are in it.

turn around. see where you've been.

there it is! there it was!

and now it's done. the creek

has already forgotten.

Grace Kelly

I know I’ve seen her before, dancing

maybe, or clutching a graying

Clark Gable, the tidal wave of her

blondeness fluttering into his mouth

But this is the first time I’ll remember her

and her lips, half open, like she’s been

holding her breath since 1954, the date

on the photograph. How could I

forget her profile jutting into her

reflection, as if it were whispering

“the only thing that can cut

a diamond is another diamond”, or

her loose curls swallowing the edge

of those immaculate eyebrows? I wonder

if the photographer thought the same

when he snapped off three quick shots,

The first click caught her eyes half open

and mouth closed, the second catching stray

wisps of hair as she turned to face him, and

the third photo taken just prior to Grace

sweetly telling him to get her good side, which, I suppose

is all her sides, save the bottom of her feet which

may have been bruised by ridiculous footwear.

It only took three clicks, but he took more anyways.

The Maid

She moves

her hand

from right to

      left to

clean

a mirror

that shows

the hand

she moves.

Spring is Broken!

So I've been watching Breaking Bad. Essentially, it shows Bryan Cranston as a chemistry teacher getting cancer and, reasonably, selling crystal meth to pay the bills. Cool show.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Distracted Sonnet

I've been having these weird daydreams: I'm like

a villian in a suit-and-tie

or a pro-basketball point guard who likes

the paint. I could be driving smoothly by

a burning church, thinking only about

the inevitable threesome between

myself, my ex, and Avril Lavigne.

Hearing the screams and the fiery shouts

of the hopelessly talented orphans

burning alive with a crucifix of

a six-second abs Jesus Christ above,

I am a hero all of a sudden,

kicking down flaming doors in slow-motion.

I drink and I have a lot of free time.

How to Give Great High Fives

The trick? Look through
the elbows
inside, where muscles
are, the place amino acids
dissolve, how reflexes
happen, verbs of action
or something like sleeping.

Two children stare
at each other with their
eyes and their mouths
are showing rows of
connected white lights.

Not moving eyes or lids,
it happens, the clean
noise, a tree cracking,
or axes landing straight blows.
This was
a success
Although it usually ends
like a rubber chicken clapping
when their palms fail
to meet and then, strike

It moves without us

"Don't write about man, write about a man."

-E.B. White

They build, we build
out of straw, stone, and soon
plastic and space metals.
They thrive, we live on
the backs of women, then
of slaves, and now for
wage slavery. They fight,
we war for meager crops
and hollowed-out, crusted
loaves of hard bread. Still,
their pain is our pain, the
opposition, the others,
those with better grass
and short brick fences, those
with rifles and we with arrows
or knives, those with clean
water or those in drought,
the sun burning their faces
lined with years of squinting,
staring into the distance.

The fields are level, but saying this
to a man born on a mountain
and one born in those fields, well...

Can anyone say the man from
the lowlands can't feel the
earth beneath his bare feet, and
know that it moves without him?