note to me at this "crucial" moment:
remember lessons as you've learned them and not just as themselves
you've done
all right but
im a vestige to you useless folks i resemble
but future times dictate
the passage of importance more
than actual meaning memorize

mad

somestimes i explode in happiness and laugh
that ive been able to conquer it all despite
how many people have drawn their eyes in sharp circles
arrogant though but i secretly despise the world
love despite myself but me i dream about despite
the hopes of
academics alike
im gone to the common man despite
its stupid vanguard bullshit i embrace
but i know i know
i can learn more forever and die
happily unlike these
uncertain drones
in heaps they pile
like machine parts theyve held it
in their heads theyve seen
the fantasy they know

goodness

i dont know what to make of the fact that
some of my most happiest conclusions have
come indirectly or directly from committing
the exact acts happily that
They told me not to do
by law or otherwise
isnt it all so artificial though?
moral codes and boring old
sets of something valuing something
beyond that
which we've already been told?

whatever

they slim down to get hitched, punctuality is key
for monday night confidence workshops
and friday night fights: manifestos galore, spoken from podiums
in slave train cliches and midlife regrets,
unsure and soft in the ways of the world he holds onto
in collected poems and letters from 86 on.
i hear tomorrow too often but it never quite ends;
forgotten the time
and everyone else.

im still learning nada surf breezes down the
easy street lemon trees

forgive me, i forget to believe:
like morning light nun eyes split wide
still uncrested with the deep grooves of christ's thorns
and daggers in her side

those are marks that his eyes know that
suffering inside them grows until
she dies inside his arms again
their blushing sweats entangled
with the scent of that unimagined

opposite the tracks the clatters train down
hawkishly sped unveiling
wet petals spread across more dark crackled benches.

humor us, another moment;
another story of gold and glory
and the fabulous fates of folks we hate
in lunch table rounds old
prejudices we can't relate

rivers

i build better fences in my sleep
because greasy talons
grasp and clutch but
no twist of grip
without seeming it;
me (unlike
the music climbing
in my ears)
keep my secrets
guarded by dead
memories
and riddles
of personality

all these lines are shithouse fare, ground out
plumply with supple digits worn white by
childlike sexuality, done festering in the vaulted
hollows of wounded pride and driven into the
blackrock arms of weary streets with theories to spare
and a doughy surfeit of stupid memories

i never say no to lady white:
she often dresses black and blue in fond remembrance
of finer things blank summers saw despite you.

my leaves uneaten in gutter pipes white
sprighted unignited lining window frames alike