Hug

It’s a good day for a hug,

raining though thin flannels,

gray and autumn drizzled on a rusty bicycle

chained to lean forlornly on the fence.

I’m gay today, but that’s just another day, really,

and I want to hold that You in an embrace,

that You I assume (with no small amount of entitlement)
I will meet or have met.

It’s a good day for a hug,

whether you are a hugger or not,

when the concussion machine

fills every neighbor’s mouth across the country,

and traumatic injuries compound.

No one smells good,

not on their own,

without the help of commodities

if you have never learned what someone’s body smells like.


September 22

I remembered a dream

It was a good day

yesterday

but I woke up from another dream

I’d remembered in weeks

leg under leg

like you never ever used to sit

on a beach

an unlikely visit

I had wrestled with

public transit

all of the way there

I wished this was something I could figure

out is that

old love

proof I could only do it for you

or that I would never

love

someone else


September 15

I was afraid to read that book

I was afraid to read that book

Of poems about black women and history

Displayed in the “African American Studies” nook

Of A Room of One’s Own. It’s no mystery

I felt I was not worthy

Of its power or its secrets

By the virtue of my birth. “He

Is too hard on himself?” Yeah, I have regrets

About leaving it behind

On the shelf.

How many times had I declined

These kind of opportunities to challenge myself?

I promised I’ll return for it,

Like other books I have refused,

But promises are forfeits

When my ego gets scuffed and bruised.


September 13

Lake Park

I am falling up a slide

At the amusement park the next town over

A toehook to the navel,

An attractive force dragging towards

The slide built by people both not and like me

Who planned it, designed it, paid for it,

I go up wooshing I could stop

To beat the crowds

We would visit on cloudy days

After dinner

To beat the crowds it was easy

I barely worked and found myself in positions of leverage,

At some point I worked there, too,

Attending to games while families who looked nothing like me collected in lines

Spending their money on cheap toys

And I was there smug

I would spend my money on CDs

I am shaking hands with Donny,

At least in my imagination,

And I know I won’t return for another summer

I will never have to do this to survive

I am falling up a slide

A decade later

It’s not too late, is it?

Can I turn myself around

And come back down where you are?


September 13

I Asked You Not To Say

I asked you not to say

“I could never take machine learning

with him. I would kill myself.”

or anything like that

I shared my stories

I didn’t want to police your speech

control what you said

but less than a week later you said

“after that exam I just wanted

to kill myself”

and all I felt was sad

maybe you had tried

or you had never listened in the first place


September 11

Long term communication

It will take time for you to get this message,

Snail mailed, or telegraphed,

It will take time for me to write it you,

I will cry into the pages.

It will take a week for you to get this message,

Two thousand miles of postage,

I will run to the mailbox as fast as possible.

It will take little time to put it inside.

It will take time for you to respond to me,

Peacefully sleeping for once,

It will take two weeks later to hear back,

I will find your reply and leave it facedown.

It will take time for me to get your message,

Snail mailed, appreciative,

I will cry into the pages,

It will take time for me to sleep peacefully.


September 10

New Math

That’s not new math at all

That’s old math

That’s cold & dead math

That’s past & pasteurized,

Unread & rasterized

That’s not your math

Functionally & analytically

I squint at the numbers

September 9

Some nights I pretend

I pretend I’m too tired it’s time for bed,

I want to dream to leave this world,

I text you tell you I want to evaporate,

I mean in the most innocent way

September 8

Th is is ve ry di ff ic ul tf or me

Id on tw an to sh ar ew it hy ou

wh at ju st ha pp en ed to me ic

ra dl el ik ea ca mp fi re fl am

es sc ar ed bu rn my se lf or br

ea th et he sm ok ea nd ch ok e.

September 6

I've heard that if you are in grad school you need

eighty hours of work

four hours a day to eat shit

the rest of your life

September 5

Self Portrait, September 2019

“I love you,” I remember

to tell the mirror

that but not this week

two weeks gone

beard scissors drawn

across my cheek

dipped chin down

finger thinned round crown

longing for length

acne shoulder scarred

pectorals triceps hard

I hardly own my strength

am I large enough?

trim that stuff

bend knees

I do not think I am a jail

pale

no cavities

“I love,” you remember

it was this early in September

September 4

Bus

I fall in love sitting on the bus again:
pretty, or something like it,
can I help it?

So I imagine our life together,
how it was what I needed all along,
until I, or maybe
someone else
at that stop before me,
pull the cord and the bell rings.
I step off and thank the bus driver.


September 3

No Adjectives Allowed

“No adjectives allowed,” like a park where only certain kinds of pets can get in,
taking our children out to play and to be judged by the other parents,
where even the philosophy that every parent knows best
how to raise their child is wrong because
there’s always someone else who knows “the best way” to do it,

then they grow up after we dress them, and at school the teacher reads them over
in a measured voice, trying to find out that you failed,
and maybe the other parents are just as worried about your judgment,
or maybe they’re too proud of what they’ve made and are parading
designer bags, newer phones, tougher skins, thinner bones,
but every child has some deficiency and can’t seem to make everyone happy
so the directions are to be more presentable, to not stick out too much,
when you leave the conference and have to get back home in the dark

the teacher says no fantasies, nothing supernatural, they have seen
too many pass through their fingers class after class and know
that you are not to be judged by what you did
that you are not as unique as you thought you could be
and we all make mistakes when we try too hard,

but there’s nothing quite like your children coming home
carrying every single bruise and cut and deformity,
covered in snot and hands needing to be washed and hungry again
for you to realize how unable you are to do anything about it.

February 24

A Softer Greg

This was, just like any winter, curiously
Just like every other winter in that
It was different enough from last year
That we felt the way that weather worked had changed.

This year snow fell but did not land,
Dusting my shoulder a softer color.
The taste in my mouth was my own breath,
Jacket hood pulled over hair
With nose beneath the collar.

Each underarm was over warm
And dampening beneath the layers
As I walked from my house, streets away,
Towards the destination shivering
Quietly

Walking By Itself

I’ll pick up this old pock-marked pen –

My teeth have gone its length and back –

And try my best to write again.

Yet every time I try, I track

The same ideas, the same sincere

But ultimately fruitless lines:

I climb the limbs of trees I’ve scaled for years,

Their roots less deep than they appear,

Their trunks still snaked with winding vines.

I dig the dusty cardboard case,

Spin records on my fingertips

And flinch each time the needle slips.

Their revolutions circle back to trace

The grooves that settled in the wax.

Some revolution, huh? If it repeats

And reproduces all the pops and cracks

But feels so obsolete.

Despite myself, I am once more

Holding the pen and writing down

A set of words that you’ll adore.

I’m meters from my goals, my fingers sore,

And I’d hate to be caught without my nouns

And adjectives and verbs and thoughts –

Objectives pre-disturbed by sloth and rot –

To be mistaken with ideas I’m not.

August 8

Good Luck, Brave Trucker

“Well, gee,”

says I to Stick Marie,

“I thought I’d hate your company.”

She built this netpage on the web.

All day she sells that girly shit

she knits.

My wife was almost Honest Deb.

This chick, I’ll stick with it.

The kid

that Stick Marie had slid

is crawling in a scribbled grid.

It’s running circles in the yard.

It hardly knows the things I do.

It mews

and doesn’t care when I am hard.

It does because I do.

The boys catch trout

and send me pictures from their boats.

I’m driving still and can’t get out,

trying to float,

I text back if they don’t gloat.

The road

until I can unload

is long and all my wheels are slowed.

These eighteen dogs can pull the weight

but in the mirror of the stop

I drop

my eyebags down and shift my freight.

I’m far from home and there are pills to pop.

July 27

Stop Doing Things For A Good Reason

Though it was unforgettable
Do not say it was wonderful.
Did it make you uncomfortable?
How did you know it could be great?

And just as vital to our growth
Is when we do the things we loath.
We have to face that we do both
That which we love and which we hate.

July 26

Sonnet For Teenage Pregnancy

He is chubby-cheeked still, and he clutches the controller

She is third best in her class, someone says, “that’s the girl with no friends”

When they kiss he is the first boy to touch her molars

He is as clammily warm and charming as the evening extends

All five of his sisters are older than he

And her younger sister is, if possible, more awkward and reserved

He’s afraid to buy condoms because of uncomfortable he would be

They both got more than they deserved

His parents got their very grandchild

From their youngest and most unmarried son

But the wedding is Christian and quick and unwild

Nursing school can wait, she knows, he’s the one

And the night is unusually cool for the late July

When the windows are open and the outdoors are dry

July 25

Your Umbrellas

You can stand under my umbrella
Well actually it was your umbrella but I was the one holding it
The streets were flooding and the rain was going sideways so we got soaked anyway
But I kept holding your umbrella

I told you
“It’s a good song but the arrangement is wrong”

And a few days later I carried around the pink umbrella in case it rained
But it stayed hot and the sun was outside
Our hands had no trouble finding one another

July 24

That's The Stuff

Twisted but wistful stares

Under the co-admirers' pissed-off glares

Of them he is entirely unaware

But they really don’t matter.

He lists, stops, moans

Never wished that he could be less alone

Drags the crimson flesh to bone

When his thoughts don’t scatter.

There is something in his regards

He takes no fall too soft or hard

Memorized the names of the boys from Scotland Yard

But hasn’t met her.

He drinks in silence and then he lies

Spends cash on the last of the supplies

Expects nothing grander than his own demise

Or, at least, nothing better.

With friends like these

Who needs amenities

I got the feeling I could never please

Or say thank you enough

But grace, good God, that’s the stuff.

July 23