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from the nicaragua notebook

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the long billed birds

cruising the break

in sevens

ascend fishless

the long billed birds

beneath the bay window

someone told me he was hiding

he vaguely details his abuse

what it feels like the intimacy issues

the shrugging arrogance of love

someone tells me he is dying

on a napkin he inks out the invisible

unwelcome suffocating in a dream 

he stabs it into his mind's eye 

someone will talk about hope

this dear fear of dreaded things

washed and rinsed honestly undressed

then playing, again, momentarily hidden

beneath the bay window.

tuesday tapeworm

Tuesday Mixtape:
http://www.mediafire.com/?vazh5ut33qnomg4

Other People's Poetry: Tony Hoagland's "When Dean Young Talks About Wine"

When Dean Young Talks About Wine

The worm thrashes when it enters the tequila.
The grape cries out in the wine vat crusher.

But when Dean Young talks about wine, his voice is strangely calm.
Yet it seems that wine is rarely mentioned.

He says, Great first chapter but no plot.
He says, Long runway, short flight.
He says, This one never had a secret.
He says, You can’t wear stripes with that.

He squints as if recalling his childhood in France.
He purses his lips and shakes his head at the glass.

Eight-four was a naughty year, he says,
and for a second I worry that California has turned him
into a sushi-eater in a cravat.

Then he says,
               This one makes clear the difference
between a thoughtless remark
and an unwarranted intrusion.

Then he says, In this one the pacific last light of afternoon
stains the wings of the seagull pink
               at the very edge of the postcard.

But where is the Cabernet of rent checks and asthma medication?
Where is the Burgundy of orthopedic shoes?
Where is the Chablis of skinned knees and jelly sandwiches?
with the aftertaste of cruel Little League coaches?
and the undertone of rusty stationwagon?

His mouth is purple as if from his own ventricle
he had drunk.
He sways like a fishing rod.

When a beast is hurt it roars in incomprehension.
When a bird is hurt it huddles in its nest.

But when a man is hurt,
               he makes himself an expert.
Then he stands there with a glass in his hand
staring into nothing
               as if he were forming an opinion.

- Tony Hoagland

"clark answered with an apologetic no," or an acting exercise

practicing,

"no?"

it just rises signifies nothing sounds

porcine i think of her bent ass exposed

the o lurches sunward then slumps

waiting waiting — a tick — i know but she does not

punishment is anticipation the second

guessing her nostrils tossed up into the air

surrenders her pink neck bent back ass exposed

again: 

"no?" 

better, 

i think i've got it now.

untitled 12292011115, magic [revision]

a thumb jammed deep in the eye of some tragic blonde

and stain her clothes her bedsheets teach her blindness

you get over pain like with the flick of a magic wand

when she sleeps you open your eyes and inflict love 

preferably she shows you a glimmer of affection

preferably when she is tired and you are tired

just long enough so she lets you beside 

to heal a wound inflict a wound

to inflict a wound is to be kind

to heal a wound inflict a wound

just long enough so she lets you beside

preferably when she is tired and you are tired

preferably she shows you a glimmer of affection

when she sleeps you open your eyes and inflict love

you get over pain like with the flick of a magic wand

and stain her clothes her bedsheets teach her blindness

a thumb jammed deep in the eye of some tragic blonde.

untitled 12292011115, magic

you get over pain like with the flick of a magic wand

a thumb jammed deep in the eye of some other

preferably someone who shows you a glimmer of affection

the only way to heal a wound is to inflict a wound

the only way to inflict a wound is to be kind to another

just long enough so they let you lay beside 

preferably when they are tired and you are tired

when they sleep you open your eyes and inflict love upon them 

and stain their clothes and their sheets and teach them blindness.

sad little de sade

i'd 

love you 

to know

here sit

grey things 

night springs

sad little 

de sade 

no more

at present

the wind

at my back

so far

the moon

at my rear

everyone

blind broken

held near.