Poetry by Marshall Piotrowski
NIGHT POEM
I miss my parents. I miss a lot of things.
I miss the way I felt when I was so young—
I’m talkin’ tiny, adorable—
while on a walk in the old neighborhood
with my parents.
Back home there exists (please believe me)
a wonderful, wildly comforting smell
of sweet browning leaves and dry, silvery sagebrush
that just doesn’t appear in my life anymore
Sad, I say. It makes me so sad.
All that missing.
Stuff that deserves a good missing!
THE TREES OF FORT GREENE
there is a park near my apartment
I buy coffee and walk there, here
and I read, write. the trees here, as in all
great parks, are magnificent. they
say: “We are the park! We are the main
attraction”. and they are right. we all dare to
say back: “We, collectively, own you.”
politics aside, I believe the trees here
whisper to each other of us. they watch
with bated breath our love unfolding as
a pigeon’s wing. they bristle as I do at just the
thought of it.
look up!
don’t you realize how anxiously they wait for
us to fly to their highest boughs?
AFTERNOON POEM
Orange light on orange bricks
we used to call red
an old woman sits outside the
wine shop
her cigarette smoke drifts in and
I inhale what I can get of it and
if you can just imagine with me
for a moment, please understand that
what I miss most about home is the
way I always knew you were around,
somewhere in that not-so-large city,
somewhere near, in the green—life felt
safer that way. I liked the way
the opportunity of us was always, potentially,
near
POEM
Night after night
my skin bristles not, to nobody’s
touch
the milky pit of my back
remembers your eager, plum face
your sleeping breath
its trusty rhythm
moisturizing our air.
Thank You.
We liked to laugh at each other’s somnolent faces,
in a fun-not-mean way
in my closed eyes I can still see
those woods: a swirling, mysterious,
piney, pining milkyway, dark and not
your sleeping breath, in the pit
of my back, between the blades
now I fill entire rooms with myself
my shivers bounce from wall to baren wall
BROOKLYN, NY 1/25/2022-3/15/2022 OR FIRST WINTER IN BROOKLY
The trees now as bare as a back
or ass
in the act of fucking
winterous cold has fully set
and I take the long, long way to work
reclaiming some small amount of time
to read poems and walk, collect myself
against the coming pain
Cooking isn’t everything, you know!
~
Last night
I found myself gazing into the dive bar’s
aquarium, my attention sinking into
a large tank which holds two turtles.
“I hope this turtle likes my smile” I thought.
“How strange” I thought after.
Hmm…
~
I float down rivers both pristine and
disgusting, down waters nearly still and
torrential, and it sometimes seems that not
one person watches.
I like that better sometimes anyways.
That anonymity. Sinking into the city
in silence.
“How strange” I think, finding myself
once again moving towards an ocean
and how strange to get off work,
ride the train home with a new text to
read and respond to from someone I’ve
been missing dearly. “How wonderful”
also works here.
I miss you too, you know!
~
The ghosts of my dogs crawl into bed
with me and lick me between the eyes
and behind the ears. They push their favorite
orange rubber ball to me, begging me to throw it,
eyes ghoulishly, endearingly greenish, and wide,
but when I reach out
my hand closes around nothing but filthy,
disappointing air
and my own disgruntled flesh.
They still appreciate the effort.
They do these funny circles.
~
I am working on my cleanliness, and it
seems to be working on me too.
For one: I am cleaner!
~
Last night, into the East River I sank, and sank,
and sank, and sank, and while I sank I began to
sing, inhaling water and trash,
I sang a song about my family and how I
miss them so, and the East spat me right back out
I’m not sure if it was in mercy or disgust.
I pitifully crawled up its eastern bank, spitting it back out too
heaving and sobbing and green
~
My desk, at this moment, is:
purple tape, blue cup, golden box, green water,
smooth sand sinking into the sapphire hourglass. And sinking,
and sinking, and sinking, and sinking and…
My hand throbs, aches in waves.
I yawn, re-read old love letters
~
I am so very wet.
~
Trudging through snow today I found a rhythm
in the cold
remembering days
on sleds and skis and the wonder of seeing
our own home wear a new and classic outfit.
“So pretty!” we would exclaim on those mornings.
We’d tie bread bags over our shoes
romp til we shivered soaked
Then I arrived at work.
~
I want badly to be able to stare at this page
all day if need be. I have bitterly discovered
that it will in fact
NOT
fill itself with words
just because I am
too busy with work to write
~
I remember a river in the Idaho woods where we’d
float down just on our bodies
in a quick, narrow run of water
which was exhilarating
and then we’d go catch trout just upstream
eat our sandwiches.
Oh Bliss!
The sun is even more intense in the mountains
than down in lowlands like these.
The skin burns easily as buildings
and the lips
chap and crack like sidewalks
over the roots of the trees we rush past
~
Tonight on my walk home from a very long
day in the kitchen
I saw a quail standing in the
snow before me, maybe twenty paces away
and I smiled in a giddy excitement.
At five paces I realized it was in fact a small plastic
bag, the type you get at a bodega:
litter, standing contorted, frozen, and astute
and I cursed New York once again.
~
Spoons haunt my life. So, so much time in kitchens—
believe me, they clatter loudly, roar even, at all hours
~
And still, well into adulthood, I am learning
how to walk.
~
How strange to be stretched so thin between
two oceans, peaks poking painfully at my
waning skin, which threatens to pop like some
continental balloon.
Who knows what might come
hissing out of me if I did pop?
More poems I hope.
~
I miss tiny creeks that run angry in April but
dry out meek in July
the lightning bursts
of little lizards and the eponymous call of the Chickadee
the soft orange alpenglow on purple sage hills, the bench
that overlooks Eastman Street where my first love and
I would meetup to make-out on school nights, our dogs
unsure of whether to watch or not.
So quickly we rushed out of that high desert.
It seemed only right to learn the hard way
just how good we had it.
~
I yearn horrendously for a good whiff of sagebrush
in a crisp, dry wind
~
It’s been this sinking feeling
in my stomach for a while now.
And sinking, and sinking, and….
sometimes I just get so angry I
need to pop! Usually when the
exploitation becomes painfully clear
to everyone in the room, and still
nobody moves a muscle.
Oh my fucking god I could just
~
Driving out to the coast with this person
I’m in love with…
We hold hands on the center console
and I try my best not to kill us both
~
We need help! My friends and I
need help!
I am begging you…
~
The ghosts of my dogs moved to Brooklyn
with me. We walk past brownstones
a united front. On last night’s walk, a rat
scuttled by and they leapt,
overexcited.
They circled back, remembering their translucence.
Their utter, pathetic, holy deadness.
We all laughed and cried.
I stop, in the middle of the road.
Look up.
~
The snow mounts. It is early.
Like, really snowy now.
And really early.
Cooks and dishwashers
and servers and bartenders and bussers trudge
to work, soaking their boots through,
thick clothes drawn tight, cursing rent.
~
Today I need:
Focaccia proofing
Medium gloves brown towel 4 sheet trays and
parchment and towels
lid for burgers
clean fryer run grates
Scallions, apples
Butter, herb tray, sweet potatoes and
delicata squash and bechamel and mixing bowls
and squeeze bottle with water and
new mousse upstairs, clean breakfast radishes
focaccia in the oven by 11
a long hug from my parents
Blanch at least 88 quarts of fries
Help with chanterelles? Help with lemon feta dressing?
Portion focaccia.
3 count on squash gratin. 3 count frisee salad,
Side projects, cheese? Cutting pickles,
Brussel sprouts.
What am I forgetting what am I forgetting what am I forgetting what am I forgetting
FUCK
~
Deep breaths Marshall Deep breaths Marshall
~
The streets here chatter and howl. They turn green
with illness, which stems from a primal envy.
They freeze and they sweat. Ooz their horrid mucus.
They like to imagine themselves as rivers:
Truly flowing, beautiful, renowned, alive.
This is their deepest insecurity.
~
My sore hands yearn for someone to hold them. They
are heavy enough to crush a small bird if uncareful.
The right grips this pen for its very life.
~
My right eye developed a massive blind spot
this year. The doctor had some hope that it
might go away but six months later it remains.
On the bright side, I become more like
myself with each passing moment.
~
The trout to human ratio in New York City
is utterly abysmal.
The Gay to Nazi ratio, however,
is superb. At least 100:1. Easily.
Seeking a place where these
indices are not inverse.
~
Steadily nearing “A YEAR IN NEW
YORK CITY” and I contort my sore legs into my
favorite black sweatpants, a delicate
little dance on tiptoes
~
Writing recently is accomplished sporadically
and the spurts are fewer and fewer.
Into winter I’ve sunk, and sunk, and sunk, and…
~
Spring now pokes its head out. Everyone feels
a little better. I for one elect to walk to
my new job despite the fatigue already festering
in my legs.
I take the time to write out a five-year plan for my life
listening to my friend’s endearing, sweet music.
One more year in New York, and I’m gone.
One more winter here. The thought scares me into
action. Time to really notice the trees, give them their
due credit, time to hear the birds, for they are my
neighbors after all, time to start dreaming of the West
and to thank it for waiting so patiently for me
time to start giving myself little kisses again
Speaking of dreaming of the West
I have dreamt of the same river every night
for a week.
There is a large boulder
in the middle
and in the slow pool immediately downstream
of it lives a large cutthroat trout, and a black bear is on
the opposite bank, and my legs are scratched up
from walking through red dogwood and from falling
on sharp rocks, and my shins are half-submerged
in the chilling current, which whisps my blood toward the
Pacific
and the sun nears the top of the granite canyon wall across from me,
drenching me in warm, welcome orange
When my dad too notices the shaded bear we look at each other
eyebrows high on our foreheads, eyes large as moons
smiles wide as the Columbia, where this water
will eventually find itself, hearts beating as they
always have
UNTITLED
On the way back to New York
I watched closely the jet
fly me into night
things turned hazy quickly
the sky one large blurry rainbow
red on the horizon, indigo up high
and before long, everything was blue
and then of course black
little yellow lights on the ground
pushing against, through the darkness
how is it still true that I’ve never
known someone I like as much
as you?
this all gets hazy.
Recently I’ve felt us slip quickly
into the dusk of our own lives, plum-like
promising, but dusk to be sure
I’d love to know if you feel at all similarly.
do you too take anxious pleasure
in watching yourself slip silently into night?
that night, the lightning in the distance,
at plane-level, made eye contact with me
and I shuddered at the thought
A CHANCE
I believe a terrifically nice rock
just presented itself to me
like a stork presenting the famed infant
if it were the infant
swimmingly smooth, there is a letter ‘M’
in this felicitous little rock I now observe
seemingly just for me, a spectral whisper or
validation or cue of sorts?
I am going to ask the Pacific Ocean to
grant me myself back
STEP, STEP
walking on my feet
slowly, slowly
pacing I guess
just to experience, express a small forward
progression
slowly, slowly
so that maybe it might transit
into my own course, the act
of moving on, again & again
slowly, slowly
I stop, freeze
often—the joy
is in the first instance,
the first blink, of
carrying on—
tonight it’s an asparagus
cauliflower & potato dinner—
a late, thrown together bit, a
creation of my dear-friends-turned-
roommates and I, an improvisation, one
of the last we’ll act out in this home, as this
specific triad
—that first blink happens in the brain before the toes
happens in the soul before the brain even—
we’re waiting on the roasting while I write this
we’re all in separate rooms, doing something
we feel we must do, now. It’s good that we are—
WRIGHT BROTHERS
Back in North Carolina, on the Outer Banks
for the family trip
the hurricane rolled, luckily not too close, but
Aunt Beth was stuck in the elevator & you knew
what was sent–
wild horses went up the beach, down the beach,
remember & Kitty-Hawk, showed
me flight, that infinitesimal opportunity–Mother I miss
you; the lavender scent remember the beans
the sucking on sour lemons, baby blue by the
scorpions tarantulas our own big blue house
mama mia papa pia baby’s got a pizza pie
my scooby doo room & the Iwannaskis
the chicken, we yelled chicken
the man who only ate butter, the clutter of my room
& the Nat-Geo Puma special, the VHS
remember?
Like a pissed wren I swooped upon this gritty, fucked up megacosm
& I was unstoppable, & widely reviled
but we cut the essay, didn’t know we needed to
but it was precise
exact, better than
I ever imagined; a prize pig or a prodigal symphony
you showed me process, the craft, you had the
long experience
my green necessity begged— driving me round the continent
despite my boiling snark
dozed from Portland to Seattle, in
Bellingham we ate mediocre pizza, sleuthed out Orcas
your favorite
you sent us into Canadian Rockies, happened by
the college president, you asked the better questions
I was glad to have you along, still a toddler in your wake
You said, the day of the funeral, that Poppa was there
listening, laughing, stirring up jokes, & I believe it
fully
TRIP TO THE WESTERN PLACE
this time there were Sound-loving pear trees
and blackberries
ripe enough to stain the fingertips
of my picking hand
and there was my old tree and my old love
and there were flickers of that love
and that was both exciting and scary
and there were hugs from my parents
my sibling
my dear friends
there were matching tattoos dotted and orcas spotted
and a shitty lunch that we did not complain of
at least to the restaurant that served it
I quietly cried my little tears in Madi’s lap and they stroked my arm,
my hair. Bless them.
so now, young Marsh, it’s back to the big city! The goddamn apple.
to work! to struggle, in your own chosen hell.
Are you ready?
No.
Do you have a choice?
MAY/COMMENCEMENT
To anyone watching
it must have looked
funny
One Dumb boy with
two green beers
a bright
red shirt, a momentary, shimmering
shivering golden light
afloat, weighted between
the ground & the high cloud
a prayer & celebration
so much color & joy
spread the corners of my full lips
lips let loose & laughed
bellowed
a self-amused clown
my pale purple nail polish
chipped, still dipped
with a budding love
driven by fierce hope &
forced endings
I sat there, under my full tree
its leaves back after loss
in incalculable bliss
at the end of four years,
of dark times lighter than
those to come
I sat, beamed
SILVER FALLS
we all got together today,
those of us who still live here
and I was in one of my moods
and maybe I wasn’t alone
maybe it took me a while
to leave it
but I did—I was glad
to. and we all, us friends,
walked through woods
and some of us smoked
a little weed
and we all walked beneath
two waterfalls
and Shoshana
kept us talking, and we
munched on cashews in the
rain, among moss that lives
PUGET DWELLING
been sitting here for days
watching the swelling and deswelling
of the tumescent waters of the Sound
with my parents on their new beginnings
there is the keening of gulls
the sideways glance of a
cruising seal
the sporadic drizzling of
Pacific sky
the friendly taunts of family
the salt-encrusted hulls of boats
O how we’d like to be on one
to float on this inlet, to cruise
on day five the mountain appeared
Rainier, in her potential for destruction and
predilection for soliciting gasps from
people like us
her ventricular cap still enshrouded her highest heights from
the yawns of breaking tide
that day
the volcano scolded me for daring to leave
THIRD BIG MOVE
I’m stuck
between places
I’m planning to
move
to flee really, from
one city
to the Big One
once again
leaving behind
memories and
comfort, all I’ve had
trading it all in
for a change of pace
and smells and
tastes and
I’ll never be ready
so I’ll do it fast
MASOCHISM
Masochism is a survival technique
for those consumed by pain
a way to bluff god
& gull the body
quell the brain
to feed
the soul
when
all it
has
is
this
& this will no longer work unless
you somehow love it, the pain, with
your whole heart, & the only
alternative is dying entirely, so
bravely, really, you pick the pain & make
it your fucking sweetheart your
goddamn honey-bunch your slutty
little sugar tart & drink it quickly
faster than your red, swollen,
closing throat can take so now
scalding purple pain spills hot
down your shirt down your waist
as you sputter & choke
& now pain is
all over the
floor
&
all
you
can
do
is
lap it up & roll around in it
LEARNING CARTOGRAPHY DURING A PANDEMIC
Dote on me
Oh, Melody – oh sing, I will too, sing as a bird
I already am, I already do
‘tis due to you
Strapped me down with wings
sent me out!
Dote on me, please, Oh, Melody,
my heart soars
‘tis due to you (‘tis due to you ‘tis due to you ‘tis due to you)
Mapping my town, marking where
I see you
(I am now the city cartographer)
(it’s easier with wings)
Please dote on me, Oh, Melody
Your eyes pierced me some time ago
now when they are not
theholestheyleftopen
gush
I do not see you often
but when I do I remember I’ve been gushing out for months
going empty running empty
Dote on me Oh, Melody
in the cemetery
your eyes flashed they flashed a (bright!!) light I have never seen now I’ve been
recovering my vision ever since – {a blind spot will forever remain}
Dote on me. Oh Melody
My ears bleed to hear your laugh
whispers most of all
send my neck an invisible lightening
Dote on me, oh, melody
the world is sick, ‘tis you I miss
‘tis you I’d kiss, had I a chance
TIME IS MONEY
commodified time
weighs & wastes
every moment
like a busted
gold mine
it leaks cyanide into the
stream of
every sweet
moment I have
with the people I
love
an ‘opportunity cost’
I’m supposed to be working
it taints the matter around us
presses in
from all sides
we cannot escape
we can only try our
best to ignore it
& implore it to
fuck off
WRIGGLE ME TO HEAVEN
High in the “Cascades”
Maggie & I found
fifteen mountain goats
feeding, sauntering
careening on a crag
over “Goat Lake”
in the “Goat Rocks Wilderness”
We scaled up like them
swarmed
by baleful black flies for three days
in that torrid August heat
hands swatting as a cow’s tail
futile, we gave in at some point
consult with marmot
watch goat
eat snack
our camp perched above cliffs
peered down a cosmic abyss
of smoke
stolen land smoldering away
somewhere beneath
on the empire’s watch
LOVING SOMEONE
Quick moments–
a glimpse of mythical garden
through just-spaced-enough fence slats
a first euphoria after a dreary day
the realization of “Woah I’m still
sitting here” of “Woah I’m still alive”
a needed reminder of insignificance
a flutter in the bottom of my chest
nodding to a bird. nodding to a neighbor
stress walks; an idea found mid-pace
seeing myself in my family’s faces
mid-word, or look
filling my water cup as silently as
possible at three a.m. & making poor
work of it, puttering & putzing
in my room at three-thirty a.m.
remembering to make eye
contact with the full moon
remembering to glimpse any moon
catching blue-silver moonlight on the
glossy tile in my bathroom
waiting for, riding, getting off the bus
shivers of the neck/cranial type
finally feeling emotionally ready for bed
a meal that leaves whole face tingling
remembering to breathe extra deep
on this one. waking up
caressing my own face with love
giving myself a little kiss
not being able to hide a smile while
thinking of an old, funny memory
thinking of something for the first
time in ten years–
are the ones I most wish to share
with you, with someone
the ones I will most miss when this
ride is over
PROLIFERATION, NEVADA 1951
Poor Jackrabbit (1949-1951)
of Dust, walking arid desert
highway could not
presage the coming
Obsidian night, eyes imbibing
milky skyway, couldn’t
know she should be running
& come six a.m. a test bomb
dropped: brewings of
nuclear war
& right on top of her
it plopped, & it
quashed out many more
Now we’re waiting
every day, to anticipate
foul drumming
Bombs away
climate decay
our world needs new
plumbing
Every day more
are lopped; greedy
men spoil on ore
& on the Earth those
bombs will plop, and
we will be no more
WAITING, WAITING
Up in an old castle
I laid patiently
waiting
waiting so long
& once he finally
got the nerve to
face me
I stayed waiting
waiting oh so long
& once he finally got
the nerve to speak
I said no, go, I’ve
waited too long
So he climbed back
down the castle
& I’ve waited forever more
8/26/20
It’s the end of the day & I feel empty, still
felt this this morning while
reading the news
A friend jailed for protesting
Protesters murdered in Kenosha, all
because some kid felt the deed of death apparently
not done, for somehow, thank God, Jacob lived
another day where the whole
world feels altered from the one before
a new era, again, somehow
the start of a civil war
“the citizens are taking their property back” one
fascist said. I couldn’t tell where she lives
from her facebook, but she lives everywhere. She is
my neighbor, my friends’ neighbor
my worst fear, the large gun happily in her picture
she lives everywhere, &
she thinks I’m a dirty fa**ot
the start of an era of new fear, for me at least
it’s been worse for others for a long time
ah yes, that reminder.
my physical therapist giving me a bit of hope
my wrist may heal, just a prickle of hope
dissolved again as the world takes it back
But a buffer is worth something, a lot today
me,
rubbing my scalp with the shampoo, an attempt to cure this
chronic dandruff, an attempt to ward off what I know this
day holds, an attempt to let the water work its washing wisdom
that magic of disappearance, of a worthwhile cleanse. It didn’t work
putting on a bra, shaving my beard as close as I can
drawing several small pinpoints of blood on my neck
putting in my earrings, fake round diamonds surrounded
by a glistening gold, a gift from my grandmother
imagine myself as a beautiful woman in the mirror
maybe, maybe
PANDEMIC LAUGH
I astral projected today
what did you do?
NEW DELHI HOTEL ROOM
3/23/2017
I can convince myself
I am ten years old again
My sensory experience–
laying
hotel room
nearly total darkness
taste recently rinsed
peppermint toothpaste
warm fleece blanket
covers me under my
waist
ceiling fan throws
sultry air & a calming white
noise, a whooshing, at me &
all else below it–
brings with it an old but
fervid familiarity
allowing me to transplant
myself back to 2008 or
earlier if I want to
in different hotel rooms
with different hairdos
The room is comprised of
two single full beds
a wooden night stand with
sliding drawer separating them
a tv directly across from the
nightstand
seated next to a desk
complete with office chair
& its own sliding drawer
a broad set of sliding doors
adjacent my bed with
dark blinds drawn
nearly opaque against
moonlight, yet still revealing
one small silver sliver bright
stretching diagonally
across the ceiling
illuminating a small vertical
kite at the top of the wall
over the foot of the other bed
a puzzling portal of temporality
has opened & I take the opportunity
to cruise
My love snores beside me
brings me back to New Delhi
to the university
to 2017
I cannot sleep, but I do not
mind this moment one bit
I am not trying to move on
not one bit
It is extracted from
me reluctantly
my passage through time
like a hair yanked out my scalp
follicle and all
FIRST SIT
On assignment for AP World History
to have a new religious experience
a friend & I sit down to
meditate in Boise, Idaho
teacher speaks to all thirty-seven
of us, circulating wisdom
charges: breathe for twenty-minutes
without moving, play statue
I have never done this before
THE FIFTH OF JULY
For the first time since May 30th my bedroom borders on decency.
What was June?
Who was I?
I found some small bits of myself in a drawer
& in a stack of paper & I threw it up on a wall
or four & I swept a broom across my carpet
& I lack sheets on my bed & I
almost feel like a real person again. I showered
yesterday & I didn’t drink or smoke a cigarette
& I masturbated three times today & I’ve bought three
copies of Street Roots in the last two days & on one
of those times I had my heart broken in two & two
nights ago I fell asleep with the person I love on the line
& I’ve had too much bread today & I wanted to cry
today but was too numb & my legs feel like they can’t move.
My wrists are sore & thick & swollen & my hands keep tingling numb & I ate great food today &
sometimes I sing so loudly in my
car I worry the whole neighborhood can hear me
& I love life & some days I do want to die.
My sheets are probably done in the dryer. Some days I swear
to god I should be on the cover of GQ &
when I wake up my eyes are always puffy & red &
I remain ugly until my second cup of coffee & for my
Claritin to kick in & sometimes not even that does it.
JULY SEVENTH
Today
Mazzy Star played on
the dirty little flour-caked
Bluetooth speaker
on the kitchen prep line
at the back of the hall
at the top of the stairs
on the corner of the block
on the ground floor suite
as I scrubbed egg yolks off
plates in soggy heat & I will admit
it made it better
DESPERATE SIT
Tenuous light
of the late
autumn afternoon
eeks in through stained glass
at the graduate school chapel
I kneel, needing to feel something
else, my mind in pain
the coffee thing
is getting
out of control
it’s everyday
twice a day
I’m up late
still craving it
buying shots of
espresso between
classes &
sweating & panicking
in my seat ten minutes
later
I’m trying to calm down my
heart, it’s running away
why am I in school if I
can’t read anymore, my mind
too petrified & yet in flames?
too petrified to do anything of use
my knees ache, & this
fancy meditation bench
doesn’t keep my ass
from falling asleep
SLIPPING
CALM THAT THOUGHT!
child, friend, confidante, don’t
get too caught up in that
‘twill drag you, far into the Abyss
complete with the abysmal
terminus of your short-lived return
to the surface, maybe in permanence
It was so nice, remember? Up Above?
You see, sweet, naive child, you slipped
moments ago
already
we are winched in
See? the interminable tunnel:
tenebrous ink, until the two circles
which were your fields of vision sink
immemorial as
the horrors of your own
mind, memory & imagination grow
now as large as you & burgeoning on colossal
somehow in your own skull
You are small now. You must hide, remember?
PLAYGROUND
These swings are not the
ones I used to play on
But they too give me motion
sickness
I climb & fall off
just the same
TRICHOTILLOMANIA/EMDR
Fingers flail
frantically flutter
forever fucking up
my failing follicles
I dream of ponytails
wiping my long
locks out of my
eyes
I find myself raking
my nails through
my carpet
to clean up in case
I have someone over
WEARING MY FRIENDS’ CLOTHES
flow loose on my skin
kiss me with unbridled love
memories sewn in
NORTHERN NIGHTS
for Thomas
Violet night
an eerie royal glow
while purple blackberry darkness
breathes heavy
on the parched land & on the
eyes, breathes on opened pupils
hazy orange
streetlamps
& a crisp silence
in the North End streets
except
always a few
dogwalkers
we used to
roam around the knoll
in those
purple hours
we were the nightwalkers
we met with the trees
they knew the idiosyncrasies of our
own steps & breaths
cadence & whispers
it’s less scary with two
we felt comfortable
confident, exactly in our place
we knew a secret to this space
I don’t
do it as often now
I’m more alone
The purple hours
are sickly green now, over here, &
are viewed from a window
alone
with maybe just a
step outside
GOOD SIT
In my room in Portland
I sit on the
ground
breathe
count one on each
breath
in through my nose
(one nostril is stuffed)
out through my mouth
(my tooth hurts)
I simultaneously
relax &
face my anxiety head on
this keeps me going
GETTING IN TO GET OUT
With novel Truth
from old green winding hills
new mother travels, barefoot
along a clear river
as the midafternoon sun swells
she decides to
submerge
wades with her clothes
the river running slow & shallow
her child still swaddled
she feels water sedately flow past
ankles & toes & lower calves
like an alpine breeze
at first frigid nerves scream
but slowly they accept
numbness crept
as her grandmother taught
she releases
pent-up past into the flush
fluxes out through insensate feet
swept out to the ocean
to dilute into insignificance
baby babbles, smiles
feeling the clattering of bells
new symphonic found ease tolling
THE BLUES INCARNATE
entering the sadness again, humming like
Blind Willie Johnson
walking slowly down the steep hill
the night dark, the ground cold
trying to turn around
but my legs won’t go anywhere but down
with the gravity, it’s overpowering
I’m so blue
my lips blue, my heart
my abdomen a single knot of pure azul
throbbing & contracting & pulsing
sadness, pure melancholy emanating out
towards my eyes & sinuses there is
mucus & oceanwater pouring out of me
my sleeves are caked
my cakes are sleeved
it ebbs & flows
but when the tide rises, rolls
suddenly everything I’ve ever done is
pathetic
I am pathetic
my writing
pathetic
my body
pathetic
my future
lonely
my hope
nonexistent
my eyes
sore from the rubbing
the mopping
If I had my way I’d tear the building down
DREAMING~
I have a cold & I am too
sick, sniffling, alone, weight on my side
regrets ringing, my chest oozes, I’m
clueless
sweet May, may someday I sing softly that
song in your ear with my hand on your side
your hand on my side
“so that this water may wash us down”
& in that night we’ll close our eyes & agree to see
behind our lids
(it’s us as kids, it’s risks, it rids)
we’ll go elsewhere, we’ll go out
I’ll look west, you’ll fly south, we’ll SHOUT those words once
known sacred
we’ll see old friends. lose all hatred
we’ll both return with opened lids
I’ll bid you
love
sent
sweet
from lips
but now, eclipsed, reluctantly, remiss, I must
confide quietly (with remembered remorse)
to myself, once more
how these heavy ornaments come to hang
they weigh my side into the floor
the tragic, intentional accidents of famous, haunting war
GETTING BACK TO MYSELF
I entered the world
ready for a great
sonorous kindness
this was then
expunged incessantly
my youthful sense of
sanctimonious globosity
but fuck that.
still I seek a
pantomime of wild virtue &
haunting desire
to ride sidesaddle on my
chosen yellow heron &
testify my queer inner fire
closer than ever before
PARK WALK
Rubber soles slap hot
concrete & dry dirt
rose petals & pebbles
grass & broken glass
Rose bushes, test gardens
familiar for both, separately
thorns prod taught fingertips
bees fly majestically
Lovers walk hand in hand
intent on turning a tested day
August’s hard sun beats down
in waves, knocks on bobbing
skulls & exposed skin, politely
asks to get in
Her eyes scan house to house
pulse quickened, against her will
snake & mouse
They pass the roses
those damned roses
nearing the park, she calms
barely, the seed now planted
both distracted with heavy
baggage, somewhere between
panicked & managed
He runs into a friend. hi! hello
this is… etc. Her mind lingers
on roses, emptiness
Lovers walk hand in hand, her
anxious stomach clenching down
working hard to suppress a
frown. He sees the pink house
anxious heart sinks far, far down
He wasn’t supposed to even
glimpse that house, ‘twas forbidden
his pulse quickens, against his
will, snake & mouse
She sings “look at that house!”
smile beaming, teeth gleaming
eyes nearly streaming at the
innocuous exterior
He knows otherwise, the pink
paint but a dreamy façade, a
deceiving disguise, hiding an
insidious interior
He looks away, tries “yeah,”
tries to sound authentic, does not
face in knots his sore knuckle pops
“Are you okay?”
“Yes”
Reassuring smiles
exchanged, the probing stops
Tough, weathered, towering
trees, open fields green, sweet
warm breeze — smiling dogs
saunter ‘round, grouped gnats
hover under effervescent evening
light ‘longside big mosquitos who
love to bite. Lovers sit, hand in
hand, looking in each other’s eyes
open up their carry-ons, their faces
fill with tears & cries, tightened
grips, sweet whispers fly
no no no no there is no need
to apologize, two lovers, hand
in hand, healing wounds from
unnamed men, stand up to face
the world again
I AM 22
I am young I am young
but later I will read these words
or not
but maybe if I grow old I will read
these words
with wrinkled hands
a grooved face &
wagged grin
I will think about writing them
how I was young & dumb
& had no clue what was coming
but how I
knew this might happen, how
I, as I wrote, thought
of how I will read these words
as an old old person & I will
chuckle & chortle & snort a fool
& shed tears, reminded of it all
& oh I
hope that does happen
Beyond compare
that is what I want
G.N.O.C.
Outside McCall, Idaho
in the
verdant forest above
Payette Lake
I got buck naked
took seven
pictures of my pale ass
alone in the woods
in the huckleberries
the trees saw
waiting to pick my
best friend up from summer camp
a counselor & a cook
I watched him say goodbye so
genuinely
to people I’ve never met
my heart warmed
I almost felt bad taking him away
we caught up on life
on the drive home
ONCE AGAIN
On east face of bald mountain
fatigued fawn gasps for water
finds a strange fountain
mad sun ever hotter
drinks a while, in the mayfly hatch
bugs thick as wet falling snow
before deserting the place
to bed down by a thimbleberry patch
where wildflowers glimmer & glow
The water from the fountain
held something mystical
for the fawn awoke astounded
the world suddenly whimsical
lyrical, language rushing through its head
the fawn remembered, for the first time
its own past life
a lonely, puttering hermit
living in landlocked strife
Oh, Mother Ocean
I must return
I must go home
for this I know
will serve me right
will complete the cycle
of my yearning light
swimming in & out of
entities, forever crawling closer
to those callings sirens, the open seas
I am so far
from you, Mother Ocean
can’t drive a car
‘twould cause a commotion
So I won’t work the pedals
but set cadence through nettles
I’ll read the stars
& tramp west
past the reservoir
call it a quest
& so a westward quest did form
through long, dry fields of corn
across highways, forests cold
following scenic byways, through
sagebrush desert he began to decode
what had happened, in the last life
he grew so old, so wanted to hold
that salty liquid in his deep cut hands
to stick a wandering digit to an anemone of
cotton candy pink or froggish green
but he was scared
of the white cresting waves, of the
sheer bottomlessness
so badly he’d fared
hidden away
“safe” in those wide
Wyoming plains
The desert sat crassly vast
illimited
between the Rockies & the
Cascades
one day the fawn almost
turned back, called it off
red air hot, banging down
his tongue swollen, nearly a clot
in his breath, but still risked death
for the gulls called, the seas called
he decided to be calm & trudge on into the
unforgiving air flowing like gas out
in front, brain puffed, enlarged
pushing at screaming skull
one night resting under a grand oak
it awoke: a wretched feeling
a startling sinking
a coyote stalking
moonlit eyes revealing
the fawn sprang up
faster than ignited light
and the coyote tried to keep up
with fanged canis might
but the fawn proved faster
escaped to weary, worried night
& the coyote wept
“goddamn bastard”
then limped eastward
tasting hungry spite
the fawn went on, though shaken
climbed back into mountains
cool shade & thick rain a new haven
for the desert had truly pushed him
pushed to ungulate limit
pushed to reckon with life
he pushed on, trusting his path right
worn legs strained under his own weight
pulling himself up a volcano
to the peaks of the continental plate
looked down to see a shame, home
or what was left of it
Portland, Oregon
in ruins
deserted, appeared the brewings of
war, or an earthquake, or a disease
or just social upheaval had deserted and
leveled the place
plants & trees now reclaimed
their ancient needs
the fawn walked down in a
somber saunter
taking time with a
melancholic descente, his eyes
flashed his mind, the eyes of
the man he had loved in his past life
Earl, sweet, smart, sexy man, had lived
in Northeast Portland, the remains
of which the saddened fawn now
walks, filled with olden pains
how they had to hide their love
& escape on trains after
his parents had given them shove
how Earl suddenly died
how many years he cried
how he then returned inward
to write his
lonely quatrains
How sad, I loved this city
my time here
how bad I’d love to kiss thee
Earl, my dear
Oh how unfair!
what happened here?
My heart’s in despair
the worst, I fear
How long have I been dead?
What year is it? Oh, I dread
the whole world may be
like this
Was it an act of god, or did
humans do this with their own
devices? For my home’s returned
to sod, they seemingly succumbed
to their own worst vices
The park, where they had first
fallen had fallen first to the
now extreme overgrowth
but beneath the foliage was
the bench where they had crawled
into each other’s hearts
under the
falling pollen, plants harness
their plethora of accumulated water
to take full advantage of the sun’s
warmth, sweet ultraviolet fodder
Oh, we used to walk in this Edenic place
his heart in mine
how, wow, he used take me to space
a dreamy globe spinning behind
The fawn rested there for the eve
next to the bench
thought about Earl’s hand on his sleeve
heart tightened, pulled, wrenched
stayed there that night to sleep
the rest of the way
he traveled with fastidious speed
onward, oceanward
through the saturated coastal range
two viridescent days
to the sea
the great greenness of those mountains
beyond words
a medley of jades
fern lichen moss & trees
winds blew hard up the coast
smelling salty
fawn blinking perplexed eyes
sees a strange ghost, checked again
to see if its eyes were faulty
but surely there, an illuminous conglomeration
a nebula
of yellow pollen & petals of echinacea
its low frequency vibrations
emanating from its dense navel, a
deep trance, with true decency
a hum without cessation
what be your business here young fawn
why, still, do you seek me?
five lives before this, & now again this dawn
you think I hold some key
Oh Mother Ocean, you’re wonderful to see
perceive, on this lovely solstice’s eve
I have this inane, profane yearning to be
on your shores, & in your sea, whereupon
I might finally fill the empty hole
where your hydrosphere left
with you here I feel whole
away I’m bereft
always the same story with you, I see
& where is the other?
the one you love & miss dearly?
who makes your heart hover
for last time you came here
two lives ago
seeking the same, & we both know my dear
that what you really fear
is being alone, so I think you must go
Earl, my sweet, I miss him so
are you telling me
I knew him many lives ago?
That is correct
your souls are entwined
& I suspect
‘tis this Earl you will find
if you go on searching
you know where to look
he left a clue, I’m certain
I’m never mistook
Always, in my ear, on the train
in the rain he would say
“meet me at the bench, if they ever
pull us away”
But I was there last night, I didn’t
see a soul, not even one slight
I would have known, the moon was full
something else would have shown
The Moon will shine full tonight
I can show, set your proper track
but we must voyage in daylight
& with those words
the fawn did start to rise
rapidly upwards
into pink evening skies
What is happening here?!
I’m taking you there, my dear
I’m creating a cloud, to help you out
I hope all goes well, when you feel
tender love swell
Back over the green rainforests
of the coastal range
towards the damp remains
of Portland
The fawn sat back in glorious awe
awed by the speed, joyous flight
looked back at the sunset
& in surprised fright saw two eyes in the orange
winking indeed
the ocean set the fawn down
in the old park, near the bench
& the fawn kept its fragile heart clenched
for no one was there, & it neared dark
then the ocean gave a final remark
not a cloud in the sky, you should
not have any problem, we have so much
in common
please tell our love
that I say hi, but for now I
must bid a last goodbye
disenchanted, the fawn laid
down by the bench again
waiting, waiting
in dismay, he got up, paced
& then a glimmer caught wild eye
on the plaque on the bench again
it read “look up”
& as the fawn rotated its neck back to
glimpse night’s speckled rotunda
& saw the gloriously bright full moon
suddenly he was sent up
into space flying with great pace
the fawn screamed & bellowed
the fleeting globe gleaned
growing smaller
he hollered in the fling
he was flung
towards the moon, a huge pair of
chalky craterous eyes beckoning
still he zoomed ‘til suddenly his flight
halted, eyes locked with the moon
& the fawn recognized and swooned
hello darling, I’m so glad to see you
I’ve been in such melancholy too
missing your soul, our connection is graced
in our last life, I’m so sorry I left
I was here, watching from space
I love you
I see you had help from the water, I love you!
oh how I’ve missed you too
but I am in such fright, my dear
I cannot live out here
I cannot feel my body, myself
how can we be united as such?
I had to let you find me
I could not choose to join
but now I can return sweet bee
your love’s my eternal quoin
we can fall back down to sweet Earth
to the fountain
both take a leaping drink
& live out another pure animal
love, high in the mountains
what do you think?
LET’S TALK
earnestly
free as we can.
I,
I am empty—
a Great Vast Vapid
Gaping Gap
a Deep Gorge of air with
maybe some muddy, giardia-ridden
water running at the bottom
where fish feed on bugs and fish
but not necessarily
it could just be more air
it might be just more and more and
more and more air, forever more air
WHY?
HERE IS WHAT DOES NOT FILL THE GORGE:
food, cigarettes, orgasms, marijuana, Moscow mules,
highly hallucinogenic substances, music, baths, meditation,
showers, being outside on sunny days, liberal arts college.
I have tried them all, all of them. But, liberal arts college, being
outside on sunny days, showers, meditation, baths, music, highly hallucinogenic
substances, Moscow mules, marijuana, orgasms, cigarettes, and food
all came damn close. maybe literature will fill it? this would make a certain
amount of sense. Some certain type of love I don’t currently have or know? maybe loving the holes of my swiss cheese existence will almost paradoxically fill it. or maybe if I simply forget about the holes for as long as I can then maybe I will stop spending so much time
noticing
WORSHIP
Zuto’s Sushi
let me sit at the bar
six years old
just a sushi bar I suppose
I—feeling large, highly esteemed—
ate raw fish with my dad
& we watched
& I failed to understand
Lord of the Rings
played on a small television
behind the bar
I liked the horses, the elves
the mountains the rivers
it all
reminded me of Narnia:
my massive single book collection of
the whole series
gold on the edges of the paper
a map on the cover
a scarlet built-in bookmark––
the best feature ever seen. keep those
glossy, color illustrated pages
un-creased & clean––a coveted
treasure
recently, the only things I
value as highly as I valued that
book are people, memories, & certain ideas &
I think that’s a good sign.
POOLS
drizzled: sogged forest
our heads; yes surely
& our
tender hearts tremendous
previously castigated
slowly, cautioned
bloomed, twin lilacs reaching, no
yearned
for wet, wetness
– a certain
pink, daring moisture, no?
drip drop drip drop catch a lash
now snow now rain
mountain streaming rosy cheek
yearned
to feel
assured in love again
two birds, dear friends
separated on migration
wish whoosh wish whooshing on
hollow bones & taxed feathers
caught on thermals, in the vast open
somehow reconvened
back in the exact same place
our glimpsed pools of cold spring opal
together
confirmed it,
the lingering;
magic manifested
a breathing fog of hillside:
imaginations liberated in
ambivalent precipitation
us stuck captivated
hands sharing sunbeams
& a reluctant, bumpy departure
which is all to say, I love you
I FOUND SOMETHING BETTER THAN GOD ON THE OREGON COAST
I claim these back, they
are mine, with the power
of the Pacific behind me.
My body, my
knowledge of
love, of true love
of true love in
friendship, possibility
happiness, sexiness &
unconditional kindness
& vulnerability are all mine
for the taking baby
It’s 6pm
I should probably get going
to start my new life