untitled -- Beatle's song

play me that
Beatle's song
one more time
the one they never
recorded
the one they never
wrote
the one
implicit
in the whir
of your
espresso grinder

untitled -- shorter

shorter and shorter poems
soon, like a Neil Young feedback solo,
they will be two notes

twasted youth

drunk on whiskey
we vomited together
in the women's room
in adjacent stalls

I shit my pants that night
while asleep, fully clothed
sharing a pillow
with the homecoming queen

in clinical settings

there is a correlation
between lost virginity
and found dreams
a fluctuation in heart-rate
measured between
first and fourth base

everyone knows these things
why must we dissect their love?

first, there is the parlance of
longing, next,
a drowning in ketchup
of greasy fries
on fabulous summer nights

they eat too fast,
give in too slowly,
lay on the hood
of her father's Cadillac
arm around shoulder
there is never,
never enough
of this

why must we put
frames on masterpieces,
industries
around music,
curfews
on what our expectations
will process
out of them anyway?

why do you think

why do you think
you're better than everyone else
why do you think
you're worse
why do you think
the middle
is so difficult

you're right
it is difficult
it is...stretching your heart
as wide as
space is empty

but, oh, those stars
would be so close
their warmth
would help you push
to the ends
to touch the farthest sun,
the one, in its generosity
that gives birth
to us all

sing to it

sing
to your losting

the heart knows
when it ventures
too North
too reasonable

summon your human
that foundational feeling

and in the prosthesis
you know
your whole being

your senses
never trusted
a sight
so
sweet

no self bittersweet

the bundle
of nerve
touch and tremble
the Total
Marc
Experience

the ceiling is tile
and track light
the floor
abstract carpet passion
the high-backed
comfy chair
and generic
cafe table
the journal,
the only thing here
of sentimental value --
a Christmas gift
from a sweet,
curly-haired friend

this is my world
the sum of my perception

my thoughts --
the image
of people listening to this poem
my agitation
at the noisy kids
at the neighboring table
the ball of gut-grief
in the pit of my throat

something is
missing
broken relationships
vacillating
over repairing them
or letting them be
the cloying bittersweetness
the aggravating uncertainty
all hold this bundle
of me
intact

cornered

the compassion
you witness to
wanders into
the nexus of all worlds
the center spins out
your heart
reaches me
I find myself
cornered
by the beauty
of hope