(andean new year)

there were christ's portraits
sculpted from infinite
sand grains
on the street
momentarily

and the stuffed rpresentations
of all the bad memories
burning in thin thin air
(sins in the wind)

statues of saints, the paint flaking
from to much time
were heaved up over the crowd
and carried 'round the park

with the mountains rearing over us
from each horizon
sugar cane whiskey was drank hot
from reused plastic bottles

anti-climax

the way barroom nights
and holidays die

tide

the spinning
of all the earth
heaving
its waters
to and fro
twice a day
and the
lovers touch
of the moon's
cool gravity

city nights
are high gloss
wet
we, like the myth
of the banshee,
wailing in the shine
to announce
the deaths
and ills
of this city

we will always be children

my mother always
quoted a poem,
"fog rolls in on little cats feet",
convinced that this one line
was the whole of it,
as her favorite poem

over breakfast
trying to relate to me
as i ate and she moved
about the kitchen

and now i'm thirty
and now i write poems
and for most of
the last
decade
I've known that
my mother's favorite
poem has other lines
and those lines
are just as good as
"fog rolls in on little cats feet"

but i still write
short ones
of just a handful
of lines or
syllables

cuz,
deep down
in a Freudian way
weather he's right or wrong
weather i need to or not

i
am
just
trying
to
please
my
mother

It's Me Against the Moon Again

The human body

contains something like

78 percent water.

My son asks me

about the importance of the moon and

I explain the way tides work

Gravity pulling at the Earth;

Mountains holding on;

Humanity holding strong, but

water giving way,

pushed and pulled

between Sun and Moon;

between Earth and Stars.

He asks what else is important about it

and I think of the moon,

the way it pushes me

and pulls me

because I'm made up

of something like

78 percent water

so I must have an inner-tide

that urges all those

particles left over

from exploding nebulae

and neutron stars

to scatter every which way

and return home

like salmon do

when it's time to die

but instead, I think a little further

and tell him we might need it

to find our way home

should something happen to all of our

street lights, and cars and flashlight batteries.

I tell him it's important

because it makes people,

both children and adults,

look up and ask questions

just like he's doing now.

Just like I do every night.

Condolences (an epilogue)

I often held onto you

when you cried, no matter

how often you pushed me away.

It was never about the rent,

when your roommates let you down

again

It was never about your father, or

his constant disappointment

in you

It was never about your pet crayfish,

his health and happiness questionable

at best

(cause who really knows

or ever asked how a crayfish feels?)

It was always about your mother

When you cried, all those ripples centered

around your mother, and how she died when

you were only thirteen years old.

I never really knew anyone with such tragedy

in their lives, never really saw them cry as

constant reminders plagued them, never

really tried to console what could never

be consoled.

maybe I wasn't

saying the right things, maybe I wasn't

holding you tight enough, maybe I wasn't

caressing your cheeks soft enough, maybe, maybe,

maybe...

When we took that trip with

your family to Disney Land,

another constant reminder,

you broke down in the

gift shop after Splash

Mountain, a ride you

always went on as a kid.

The attendant tried to console you

without ever knowing what it was

exactly he was consoling you for,

offering you discounts at the park's

photo center.

When I think about that

moment, all those tears for your

dead mother, I think that you

really never can be consoled.

And, when I think about those

discounted photos that seemed to

stop those tears, I think that

maybe you never want to be.

Diner Haiku #15

all these electric

synapses firing off,

all thinking of you

Diner Haiku #14

bouncin' out early

from the diner, out from fate,

without direction

Diner Haiku #13

let's light this spot up

with halos and tequila

or it ain't worth it

Diner Haiku #12

i shaved my beard yes-

terday, only to be cut

by stubble today

Diner Haiku #11

let's dance without time,

sing without tune, walk without

beat and rhythm blues

Another Poem About Drinking

A stream of

Bubbles climbs to

The top of my mug,

Defying gravity

Or racing for

A quick breath

Of air,

Something that

Can't be found

At the bottom

Of the glass,

No matter how

Hard you look

under the weight of it, backs shatter, knees buckle, bone grinds to a dusty halt, tendons snap and minds lose focus long enough to convince ourselves were up for another round. say hello to solar powered porn star, and the miles of unpaved intrigue, you're bluffing, the eyes have it and you turn another and another and another.

White Blues

tonight I'm listening to
white blues
young white lads
slamming out blues chords
with hard hurting rhythyms
that can somehow
land on the same vien
as those old sharecropper tunes
I once dismissed these acts
I'm a purist
but every once in a while
we can find Muddy's fingers
or Mr. Johnson's wail and moan
and yes
sometimes even Little Walter's throat
and thinking this
I stop
and I have to smile
I've been a blues man myself

the curls of ash and scent of burnt varnish overpowering the senses as we march mindless through the past. a tuft of grass sprouts now through the old foundation waiting for the temperature to drop and reclaim it. victory is a strange animal, it twists a narrow sliver from your spine for safe keeping.

Bears

We all make mistakes
so forgive yourself foolish one.

The bear who dances with the honey
has none left over
to bring to the pot luck,
and shows up empty handed again,

until next week,
when he will run into fences,
camping out beneath the stars,
zig-zagging his way across this
broken country alone.

Hey there

So, I am new here. I tried to post a few poems, but the spacing doesn't translate when I post them. Any help would be appreciated. Also, is there a way to take down the poems that are all jumbled together. thanks, bunches. Peter

On the Water

we can see a gang of brake lights in the distance
they'll allow everything
except for resistance
empty cans hide the tire marks snaking in the sand
there's a cooler in the dunes
but that's all for the band
water plays with the moonlight
like a cat pawing at a string
there's a rhythm on the land tonight
it shakes everything
and I'm home
I'm home
Remy's got a used van fixed up with track lights
you can get loose in here
but you better act right
the Telecaster's bleating against the tune
poisoning the air out there
but i think we're all immune
I got those shakes again
she's got me some to sip
I won't bite the belt again
she offers me a lip
and I'm home
I'm home

Most People Don't Retire, They Just Stop Doing Things Full-Time

If words fall silent, they still fall. Words cannot be broken or unbroken, only bent; shaped like rivers shape rock; like glaciers shaped valleys. These words will echo. They will break and not break. Someday, these words might save a life or be the wind blowing against bare feet on the ledge of some unnamed bridge.