the juilliard poems 10/12/09

"Alice Tully Hall," (untimed)

here is future

foghorns and exhaust and

our best and brightest lined up

to dance

to sing

to scream from this tallest stair

in twelve months only ghosts

will sit on the second-to-last step

of the stairs at tully hall.

"Admissions," (11:35)

bing, bing, bing

more nerve than i can count,

inmore than one way

the future is gray and

orange and kind of plush

oh, and less than one percent

anthropologically speaking,

i'm fucked.

"Argument," (10 minutes earlier)

i got distracted by gay rights

and suddenly your diatribe

on the future was eggs and cream,

whipped and

inconsequential like the

objective reality i'm trying so hard to refute. but yes,

i can see myself on either side

of the desk

or poster, or fence.

and that's what's scary.

"post-everything," (3:00 pm)

i can give you several million reasons why this train wreck

we called a life should sink below

divide the dividends until 

there's nothing left but smoke,

ashtrays, betrayals and sighs

and you can't give me one why

i should survive. why is

all the world in deadly accord?

the tray

why do we keep memories
stored in boxes with dust
degrading cellulose that seems to encapsulate
all of these firings of all of these neurons
which somehow all add up to
love, betrayal, joy, tears, pasts and
the futures we no longer have?
why, when the earth is so large
is a little box (or a big one)
so
understandable, relatable, normal
but a man sitting alone doing nothing thinking nothing wanting nothing
is hard to grasp?

yogi's toes

i'm learning, i know.
i'm learning to grow.

deep digs and ivory smiles
like roots, i stretch for miles.

your hands, your seeds
pull me inward, up like trees.

i know, i'm learning
i stretch for miles
up like trees
like roots, your hands
pull me inward
deep digs, ivory smiles
i'm learning to grow.

forgetters

there are beaches, in the emptiness
pipe organs for our loyalty
rivers for our spirit
there is us, in the emptiness
proud and irreverent
us, sitting on mountains of words
and swimming in the cool green waters
the music riveting upwards and ever louder
in absence, in presence, samsara, my friend
let me hug you close in the void
let me play alongside
propel myself
expel this red, this burn
scream hymns to moons
whether or not they are full
in the emptiness there is all of this
it dances before my eyes
it longs
stretches
grasps strangely and strongly
for you, friend.
one soul. standing on the shore
a silhouette
undone by the nothingness.

rollicking apocalyptic journey through ashtanga

the end of things
gradually and careeningly, i'm hearing
trains where there are none, massive crashes
the steam and the rage and the crackle
a fireplace beside me in my
big, glass house. the ghosts of
mass transportation stalking me in my
sleep. oh, sleep.
i know a girl doesn't remember a thing
stolen, petrified like wood
put away somewhere and never retrieved
in the morning, emptiness
so,

the beginning of things all sudden
sharp and beautiful
like water not from a spout
trains again, coming and going and coming
i swear the don't know my name
they never call out to me like in the movies
"you, sir! last call! all aboard!"
the glare and flicker of the fire
threatens to burn
it's burning already
it isn't fire if it isn't burning

words, words, words. and so on. ad nauseum. three thousand more.

come again no more

aaaee

YOuuaRE

in(ME)ANim

at

e

:

a poeM,

alsO A scream

scram

a slow mope

uNreQUITEdSL

a

ndEr

Where?

under where

HAHah take ME

fOR exAMPLE

i am not

ee

CUMmings

roof access;visitors

that is what dark spaces are for
soft ones, redemptive ones with their alabaster
on one side, and on the other: hope
shadowy places that obscure
your alice-down-the-rabbit-hole eyes
your searching, roving whimsies.

this is what the nights are for, the good ones
soft, shadowy kisses. punctuated by the glimmer of a smile
in the corner of your mouth.

another try

draft 1:
are you better? are
we on different planes, served on
separate plates; driven apart.
i have no self i have no
shelf for all of this...

draft 2:
goodbye, today has been
one long goodbye
(i would like to lose my virginity
on the last day
that i see you)
i am, however, unsure to whom
my hand is waving--
to you, silly thing--
or to the mirror?

draft 3:
i do not know the phase of the moon.
i am pursued.
i am a pursuant.
the orangepinkyellow of tonight
will not be forgotten
the synapses will hold. the
cosmos are incorrect.
these things do not happen without
words, beautiful words.

contact

breathe. do not jump, do not twist.
your spine cannot take it, friend,
your head is too heavy and your heart too free.

cramped

all of my selves, and the ones outside
the dwindling summers and the billowing sands
the landscape of my love
has been pulled
a deep, purple bruise appears
twice, once on each eye
totem to an unknowable
(unbelievable)
god

you, subtle mountains in my gaze
you, shifting shadows on the sill
you, daring thorns on wilting flowers
all of you are me today
outside of me
and the ones inside
shivering with the winter of a great, hard fall
i silence their calling, cover their mouths

why did this happen?
by what device did i end up here
incapacitated, dribbling beans and garlic
staring up at the ceiling, through it
at the painful brightness
the mountainous, shadowy, razored edge
of a cloudy day?

to see this. to see it.
all of my selves, crying for peace
are really only crying for you.
and, since i cannot have you
i must have today. i must drink all of it in.

roomy

i.

some of us are confused
unwilling to love
the trees will hug the earth
even until snow snaps their arms
what burden is the weight of love?

ii.

what burden is the weight of love
teaching others the art of it
and learning from their eyes
the infinite release;
you are no muse.
rejoice in your unimportance.

iii.

how much there is to rejoice at
the pain, tears, and crisis
your glow is vivified in their existence
your smile is brighter
with every autumn day.

iv.

each new winter my heart dies
my mind recedes into the weighty snow
you may ask
"why do you stay in the cold, cold north?"
i will shrug and smile
with each new winter i am reminded of the heavy warmth of love.

v.

there will be no weddings
not for me, not for now
for my love i cannot say
he is not mine to give
i will bask in the passion of his freedom
this is the way in which i love.

vi.

i curse your ribcage
for keeping your heart out of reach
on desperate days i would give you mine
but it rips at the fiber of love to want spitefully
it does not do to weep
love is a basin not to be filled with tears.

vii.

look at the beauty of today
undiminished by my pain
unyielding in its hearty glow
the night will descend, and the stars will shine
and while the world sleeps
i will ponder:
if the earth cannot be saddened
who am i to be so sad?

caliban

the night is starred, lover, and i have come distances. years.
finding you alone and my skin aged, my wine gone bad
i glanced in windows, i peered. i hurled coins, what little i had.
my money is gone and frost will overtake your sill
you will never love my leathered hide, my subtle will
beneath this canyon of stars (an abyss)
there is nothing left but your fogging window
and my secret, spreading itch to live
(finally)

an even ten

and so another month falls blankly over
blankets and swaddles and enervates with an insistence
this deep, abhorrent will to be held
me: oh and you: oh and of course everyone : oh well inside
of me
without you?
there are other ones, little me and big and the deep
coat of winter may stifle or even stilt
the long white tarp will drag and also tear
and so another month falls blankly down
chills, freezes, preserves.
for another day: oh, and another him: oh and maybe you
in the end: this, this. enough.

wings, man

it only follows that there's not much more to discuss
the delicate ripping of strong things
violent sounds in silent places and deep, empty chests
the very things of which i am made, my brightest qualities
make me less than
make me beneath
and what can i do? detach, be still? stifle? seduce?
these are things i cannot do.
it only follows that there's not much more to discuss
and very little left to say
only that--

well,
you get the message.

beyond reproach

"this is not okay"
the deep, metal grind of a long, untethered fall
re-possessed feelings, uncompressed or unfelt
uncut grass falls slowly overhead
dying clouds settle calmly in
this is not okay, no, but it's here
and i cannot walk away from me
my spine is crushingly heavy, my head is achingly full

i was wrong
i would not cry
i taste salt
but i would not cry
this is not okay

oh, manahatta: an epic

this
it was supposed to a letter
it is not.
i was supposed to be a shepherd
and i am not.
the grass was meant to grow for months
and it, too, did not.
the many things which are not and may never be,
they will linger and stab
and i, i will sit here with hands clenched, heart peeled and
lungs shivering in breath
waiting to inhale all of this ecstasy and pain and
you, you will let me
you will have to let me suffer in your stead
in gratitude for
and maybe in spite of this thing
of ours
what am i supposed to do?
this

the past

sometimes i dream of violent sex
hands grasping hands, lungs, chests
the inside of everything forcing its way out
the deep, gut-wrenching satisfaction
the safeness of trusting someone to use me well
validation in every strangled moan

the kind of thing we never did, because
you were too kind to let me try
the pulsating, throbbing articulation of your words
deep in the night, far beyond the point at which i knew--
tomorrow will be our last--
and we will never try to force ourselves into each other
not ever again.

so that is where i'm left, miles
from land. a buoy
a boy
a strange,
tepid man.

lit

before the deluge
when all of my words were smooth,
kempt and clean and seductive
without ego, productive, lucid
before the deluge
when the nameless death was far-off
crouching in the wiry distance
waiting without warning; no lantern eyes
before the deluge
when i built my levees tall
but not so very strong
i prayed for rain, floods, mountains of water to sink us all
then watched as everything occurred.

monkeys

shukran, merci, gracias

thank you more than you can know

for days, nights, and mist covered moons

i howled and nobody was looking, i watched it

echo out over the hill. the sound bounded back to me

ricocheting through my pupils, ending abruptly and no one

having heard it but me. i howled and nobody was looking. i didn't

care.

salutations to the void.

it is good to be, in spirit, exactly what you are.

high times for patroclus

'come! my legs are anxious and my heart is bared.'

i much prefer the version in which
they did not sleep together, legs intertwined
mouths caressing. i am so much happier
with the version in which
they slept side by side, hearts touching

'i felt your mouth and i knew every pair of lips that it would kiss and i thought 'okay' but i also thought 'each and every lip is a gem and a blessing and i have nothing to be sad about' so i knew that anxious legs and naked hearts maybe didn't matter so much.'


'how did you know?'


'i loved, a lot.'

all of it

i suppose the destructive force
the one that really gets me, that comes back for more
is the idea:
you can't do something special and live a long, healthy life.
you can't be better; you'll never be better
because you're not willing to give certain things up, or away.

that blue tape we use to put everything on our walls; painters tape,
i don't see it until (well) until i do
poking out and under, up and behind and peeling and
suddenly it's kind of hard to live in a space
that grew without me
i carry last year's tension on my back and in my neck, too
the fear of losing things that aren't yet rightfully mine
taking things that don't want to be taken
waking up to find
if i never came a-knocking, neither would you.

spontaneous prose

the absolutely undeniably lurid fact is that

when james says, "hey go get me that, kid," i smile at

the moniker, the request, i go get him that (kid)

and he doesn't even have to ask sometimes sometimes i'll just

go get him that

because i want to get him things

because waterfalling and valentines day and red roses

because lips and hair and eyes

all of the things that make me romantic and self destructive

and i go get him that (kid) i'll never stop and question myself

because why would i when it feels good

none of us can decide i sure can't decide about

is it better with the trees and the clouds and the green things

or the hair and the eyes and the lips and the waterfalling and the

saint valentine stuff, they're not exclusive but they're not

inclusive either, rumbling rocks blown-out down and  far away

maybe it's all just a goddamn avalanche of stuff-stuff-stuffing myself

with words and feelings and--

oops.

of breaking and things

i.

"-are you?"
the violent wreath of smoke bears your voice off
we will not listen, even hear your name
the soft, swollen echoes of memory haunting your every action
we do not aim for satisfaction but if it happens
well, so be it. we will not change. we will
watch the cancer billow out of your mouth and
not change, we will answer your laughter
with polemics and not change, we will
validate your every insecurity
but we will never change.

we, the mind and body.
arguing into the chasms of arizona
ricocheting through the desert, freezing in the night
holding our morals up with every sinew, every flexion
sweating our charisma and our grace, watching it
drench the hungry and cracked earth
leaving us, the mind and the body.

the underwhelmed,
the mind and the body.

ii.

forgive our debts!
pay our rents!
let us through your ivy-covered gates,
arm us for the war, give us guns for our waists
extra! extra! extraneous but beautiful--
jumbled brambles, mirthful--
sorrowfully obsessing--
great billowing gulls--
deluded love--
liberators and libations--
wise, wisecracking, wrecking--
jetting truth overtly--

the soldiers are marching
the soldiers are marching
bombs! nuclear bombs!
bombs of all sizes, colors and shapes, and acid rain
to wash the sins away.

there are no fights
if there are no people.

iii.

we left ourselves in two shooting stars
you and i and the great weight of the generation
back on earth, we looked for constellations
failing those, approximations
apellations
names for all of the things we couldn't explain

iv.

"you're not listening to me-"
no, i'm not.
outside, the cicadas reduce my mind to fog
the crickets march
the sun fades into a peculiar orange yellow pink
i watch the mosquitos bounce against the screen
waiting for things to end
waiting for things to begin
waiting
waiting
waiting

the things we do with train tracks

the steam engine, skating
whistles past and through,
over and under on crisp autumn days
its own violin, the tracks are its strings
a cello, viola, its music remains

in sharp october air
for eons, the dry reminders
of futures we've never really had or lost
pasts that grow and squirm in its wake
nows that come, but always a cost

i remember pumpkins
small frogs and Constable's clouds
the endless, abandoned railways
broken down cars from Kerouac dreams
cul-de-sacs where i learned to scrape hands
the grating of metal, the popping of seams

the swelling of seasons, crescendos of sound
the trains are returning, boring me down.

life as a tree

to the ones i best adore:

each night, at nine, my eyes begin to quake
the light falls down, it waves, it blusters up my name
for only i can swim to Silent Sea.

the beaches there are peaceful, without ache
with azure tides that give and never take
fish that sidle up and look at me

corals, scallops, oysters sitting still
no people here to rouse our sleeping will
to Silent Sea I swim. To Silent Sea.

each night, at nine, my eyelids make to fall
to pull me under, memories and all
the sirens fair, calling out to me

their hardened bodies, jaws of silver-blue
their grasping fingers, breath of salty dew
they cloud the current out to Silent Sea

i then awake and brush my arms to seize
the pen and paper's stinging, empty pleas
my roots are long, my gills do not exist
my bark is growing, swallowing me in
i move to swim, and find i am a tree
and all that's left are dreams of Silent Sea.

viduatis, -a, -um

i am leaving, headed far south
west and outwards. mostly, away.
i am going and it is in your name
silent one
tonight i will read eulogies to your good moods
knead dreams into longings, pretend
just for a moment that when i achieve my deep sleep
you will materialize in my arms and smile with your
lips, not touching me or wanting to
not kissing me, but wanting to

let's dance, some time. you and i and nobody else.
i'll kiss you on the mouth and you won't be expecting it
and there will be no more words or wanting.

buckets

hello again, old friend. today
i found myself spinning metaphors
grasping and grasping for your love
which you gave, heedless of fair warning.
my hurt is plasma and platelets
spilling and dropping and crashing
and silent, too. i ache for things i will never understand.

the swift hit of pointer, pinky, thumb and ring
words running down a page
in lieu of other things, messier things, things
i will not let myself do more of. the time
for that is over and i am left
pulling at your shirt sleeves, your breasts, your cheeks
for a look that is only mine. there are very
few people with looks
that are only mine.

i am on your side

you put the blood back in me, i bled it back
bottomless cup, broken mouth, i am
i mean to sigh out life, it comes out smog and tonight
the sun is orange
it is fire, it is wrapping its
tendrils 'round ever street and every view
highline park at night, the flowers, the concrete, the cut-down trees.
you sew me up, i pop a stitch, i tear at seams
my stuff is meant to flow, to spill into storm drains
i dream sometimes of souls pouring from the shower head
mine, particularly
drenching unknowing hairs
skimming unknown heads.

manahatta, what have you done?

laughing, sometimes

we laughed so hard we peed, and it's not
poetic but at least it's true. we
shouted at ladies to look at the moon
and hoped that they'd notice us
just so
for a moment, we could be victorious
i want to give that to you
in return for the stain on my pants
and the fire in my stomach
and the echoes in the midnight air.

selling things

ninth grade pulled me into vibrant green
and i stayed that way (smiling
and green) for longer than perhaps i should
people aren't good
or bad
and pollution happens for no reason
in all sorts of ways, like noise and light and
things i never thought were evil
or angry
or wrong.

and maybe angry isn't evil
because i'm sitting at a table
and i'm angry
and i'm going to do great things.

tea

some days, your nose would
look better broken.

my tendons won't cooperate or i'd
do it myself.

shin splints

lover, please don't cry
i didn't mean it
when i stopped loving.

it
was just a test, the same as
last january, last june
nineteen years are enough
to learn how to be abused.

keeping tabs

at one or two a.m. (we're never sure), little things
stupid, dumb and funny things
they pull at me, the muscles off my bone.
have you ever been a skeleton?
i have. i pulled my mouth back and stared
so hard i saw mandibles, crania, my zygomatic arch
and i knew i'd look good in a lab.
under your microscope, in your latex-hands
i knew i would never stop looking good.
but sometimes i think
that's not all that matters.

the player's residue.

seamstresses are in my ancestry. long needles and thin yarn
bind my future and my past. and at the seams?
at the seams, where it matters most?
i don't know.
i didn't go into the family business, i am closed out
and what does it matter to me what color thread,
what stitch ties me up,
so long as it does. what does it matter?
it doesn't. and i am left with many points of entry
and very few exit cues.

happiness

at the point where i don't feel my jaw moving
down the road when i can't see the cars coming
around the bend, there are swirly things
distant, cheerful, fiery girls
and wonderful boys with autumn eyes
there are recurring themes and neatly tied strings.
the popping in my head has stopped, but
when i move my neck creaks like a nineteenth-century
staircase, just barely redone.
i might be slippery, but i'm really quite warm.

asterisks all over

sensibilities, left on the mountaintop. i am
bereft of joys and colored books, pages torn
piled to form
soft mountains of childhood
sunflowers grown to fit our eyes. let's eat
their seeds, bake them in our gas-filled ovens
during the summer months. the vibrant greys
filling my mouth and nose, the bleeding
purples and their coiling smokes.

it is not clear to me; you are not toxic, you are not green.

illegitimate fears sweep me back up the chimney,
i do not fit.
i am meant for soulful arms, creased like yours
autumn eyes with sharp corners. i am
lost for words, left with fingertips. i am sinking,
you are smooth.