Seven Songs

Here are seven poems I discovered tonight in an old abandoned Word document called “Songs.”

The House

Pamela says that’s cheating

You can’t be closing your eyes

You’ve got to go inside with your eyes real wide

If you want to say you’ve been here

Richie says he’s sorry

For coming here with a camera

Some things are sacred when your soul is naked

This is no documentary

The house is old and sits behind

The Burger King on 409

It’s been for sale since ‘81

So you know that’s been a long time

Pamela says she hears them

Shuffling in the attic

Those can’t be bats and those can’t be rats

It’s the sound of retribution

Richie says let’s leave here

While we still can walk away

We’re much too young, let’s turn and run

Before it gets too late

I Feel Like Dancing

The cartilage has a history

The candied yam does too

The death of reason took too long

Now I feel like dancing

But oh the places I’ve seen

Days I wore nothing but green

Singing sea shanties with aliens and DJs

Those were the times, the rooftop days

The calendar skipped two nights

Tomorrow should be Monday

Negotiations feel like labor

Now I feel like dancing

But ooh the mornings I’ve slept

While women coughed and children wept

Mopping the floors of fleas and flowers

Those were the times, the rooftop hours

But it was only a minute

Or two or maybe ten

The man told a story of Steven Spielberg

And then we went downstairs

Hollywood in our hairs

The cookie jar is cracking

The chocolate chips have eyes

The bride wore blue with yellow shoes

Now I feel like dancing

But dang the songs I have ruined

With piano keys dead and untuned

Children screamed and plugged their ears

Those were the times, the rooftop years

I have nothing left

That’s the way I want it

Double Gold

There is a difference

It was explained to me

Between the gold

And the platinum

And the double platinum

There are numbers

Weights and measures

There is no double gold

I read every figure

I seek every refuge

As the car rolls out of Philadelphia

Into the chalky hills of the county

Where people grow art in backyard sheds

That smell like lime and pretzels

There is a difference

It was explained to me

Between the gold

And the platinum

And the double platinum

There are fives

Ones and zeroes

There is no double gold

The strobe is set to twinkle

The night is winding down

The children scream for Lionel Richie

“Still” and “Truly” and it’s time to go

I find my father’s Volvo

His first one, the red one, the best one

There is a difference

It was explained to me

Between the gold

And the platinum

And the double platinum

Domestic sales

And giant gorillas

There is no double gold

(There is no double gold

Not anymore, no double gold)

I read every page

I watch every program

As my sister turns brown in the August sun

And my mother makes fences with strings

And my father works in the steel building

Near the restaurant that’s also a train

There is a difference

It was explained to me

Between the gold

And the platinum

And the double platinum

Domestic songs

About giant gorillas

There is no double gold

Two Bracelets

Two bracelets

One more than one

You’d expect one

You’d believe one

But two bracelets

Is like three eyes

A big surprise

One pure titanium

One purer black

We grasp what’s alone

We follow it home

But two bracelets

We leave on the street

Beneath our broken feet

She threw herself a birthday party

And told us what to bring

Though she lost her job for loving

The party eased the sting

We brought her songs of trouble

Songs of rage, songs of joy

We brought her songs for sleeping

She slept until she couldn’t anymore

Two bracelets

On one hand

On the other, none

Skin and scars

Found impressions

See two bracelets

Believe nothing

But a big surprise

One from childhood

One from last year

She calls one beautiful

But not the other one

One can be beautiful

But two bracelets

We cover our eyes

And run for the light

In the Low Light

He asked that they leave the door

To his dressing room closed, locked

From the outside

He asked for a bucket of ice

And a bottle of wine no younger

Than 1979

The last year he was famous enough

To make such demands

In bigger towns than this one

He asked that they keep the lights low

These haven’t been his best days

Not even close

He asked for a tray of vegetables

And a working sink to rinse them

Just in case

His enemies poisoned him

The way he deserved

In better days than these

He remembered to thank the crowd

And the man from the radio station

And the girl who brought him dinner

But not his wife who left him

Or his manager in jail

Or his record label

If he had one, he didn’t have one

Then he played

Then he sang

About horses and winter and wives who’ve left him

In the low light

He asked that they let the fans in

After the show, with flowers and gifts

And phone numbers

Written on saved ticket stubs

From the last time he came

To this town

When he filled up the amphitheater

On a Tuesday night in the rain

He asked again to let the fans in

But the manager shrugged and the girl

Who brought him dinner

Said let’s see what I can do

She came back with a bottle of wine

1981

Last year was a bad year she said

But tomorrow’s another night

Canadia

We’ve come from Canadia

With shovels and diaries

With “no ma’am” and “yes please”

We’ve come to work the land

Build the homes and plant the trees

Write our little histories

We’ve come with grand ideas

I imagine over there

A room of red, bright and spare

We’ve come to help you live

Silver platter carts on wheels

Fancy meats in fleshy sleeves

Don’t send us back to Canadia

We won’t go back to Canadia

We promise we’ll be good to you

We have English names, just like you

And some of us have killed, like you

Don’t send us back to Canadia

We won’t go back to Canadia

We’ve come from Canadia

With children and white horses

With men in hats and armed forces

We’ve come to settle here

We’ll build big houses on hills

Bilingual utility bills

We’ve come with grand ideas

I imagine there will be

A festive feast of soil and sea

We’ve come to save your soul

Mounds of dough with sugared beans

Jellyfish and seaweed green

Don’t send us back to Canadia

We won’t go back to Canadia

We promise we’ll be good to you

We’ve left the French ones, just like you

And some of us have killed, like you

Don’t send us back to Canadia

We won’t go back to Canadia

Limbs

If arms were merely limbs

We wouldn’t love with them

But we do and where were you

When half the world was half awake?

Sleeping, with your left arm holding your right

If skin were merely skin

We wouldn’t feel a thing

But we do and how can you

Pretend it doesn’t hurt when it does?

As we drive by the house at the top of the hill

With its scales and its warts and its sevens and its twos

With its overgrown grass and its elevator shoes

The Santa Ana Winds are high, it’ll be a scream

You’ve got some matches and I’ve got gasoline

But wait

I’ll slow down

I think the thing to do

Is take a breath or two

And drive by the house at the top of the hill

If we don’t look back it’s invisible

If we look ahead it’s dead

But ifs are ten cents for ten

And we gave all our change to the fountain at the mall

So let’s turn this car around and go in for the kill

Let’s drive to the house at the top of the hill

With its pus and its blood and its sixes and its nines

With its dead orange lilies and its trailer park vines

The neighborhood’s deserted and we’ve got the time

Let’s not kill for his sins. Let’s kill for his crime

If arms were merely limbs

We wouldn’t love with them

But we do and where were you

When half the world was half awake?

Sleeping, with your left arm holding your right

(all poems written around the turn of the century - 1999-2001 in Minneapolis, MN)

Honor in a Misnomer

Like stars in September
And airports in October
She's halfway there and then she remembers
There is honor in a misnomer said well
And she chose the wrong words
She chose the wrong names

The night before, they held hands
Made no demands, made plans, took stands
Then they sat down curbside, knees at neck level
He said he cared; she said she always did
As if a distinction were necessary
The clouds were extraordinary
But they never looked up, all wrapped up in it as they were

She had no urge
To cross April into May again
With him in debt to dictionary writers
And baseball insiders, radar guns set on men's hearts racing
When she entered a room
Or exited a party in ruins
With hair a mess of spirits
Each hand full of flower stems from God knows where

He had no regrets
About the big ideas or the green T-shirts
Or the full disclosure that love love hurts
Or the time he disappeared for a day and a half
And explained it in a blog paragraph
Seen only by some HTML, a server, and a museum curator in Cambridge, Massachusetts

So there is an impasse; it's the next day
The sun is unseen and the quiet is bigger than her big brother
Who loomed loud and large until he died
And in death he became the mountains beyond the eastern city limits
She couldn't look at the mountains beyond the eastern city limits
Not yet, not ever, not yet

They entered the house together
He held her arm in his hand
She held a book about love love hurts
Upon entering, he lifted a curtain to make sure a window was closed
She pulled him toward the love seat
The cats jumped off and they got on

September 19, 2009

Couldn't Call It Unexpected #6

The biggest decisions are the easiest ones
Feel love in the middle stages of sleep
Shun sleep in the later stages of grief
Would I run
Far from the crowds of kids and their painted-on eyelids?
Sure I would run, who wouldn't? Who couldn't
Believe in something bigger than the tiny steps taken?

In the aisles of the big rooms on Bellflower Boulevard
He checked the texts from the sexy something sweet
He turned the corners carefully
Shunning the endcaps like cadavers
Don't want to deal with the badgers
No need for injuries with so little time to wait

In the spring of nineteen-ninety-zero
A tap on the shoulder leads to a loaded question
She keeps him guessing
For the rest of the semester
And Orange County skies look like blue-black bibles of bled-dry thought bubbles

The man in glasses - the little brother - wrote a history
With place names and fake names
Choruses and crushed corduroy
Faded labels in the neon commercial light
She might not have been part of this particular story
But her man without glasses read all these books
He liked the lines with lots of punctuation
Semi-colons unexpectedly launching exclamations
Now he's ready for his next big move
His last big move though there may be little ones left

He wishes he could have gone into her bedroom
The one in the old house but he made sure she made it in okay
While she made sure he had the right directions to the freeway
Still, he went the wrong way
Then they talked about the birthday

It's nice nice
The look in her living eyes
He was so tired that first night
But he got through it by narrating
The best tales, the ones he wrote himself
As he wrote himself into corners of laboratories
And she smiled like electricity itself

The easiest decisions are the biggest ones
Like yes he'll go to his third favorite city
With you you you

It was the summer she came back and he knew it
It was the summer she put the pieces together
It was the summer he discovered gummy bears
Softer than the hard soft rock swimming in his earbuds
But not as soft as Sunday night kisses on a subdivision street

August 22, 2009

Almost Summer

Almost summer in the almost city and the air is almost still
The green-eyed red-socked black-penned genius is thinking about the kill
His hair is cropped and brutal
His skin is soft and cold
He misses what he misses
He's in on the joke, out with the old

By the time I get to June
And its spare parts and spent hearts
I hope to be rid of
The broken pearls, the spy glass
I hope to be free of
The all-night curses, the never nurses
And their almighty grins
As I cleanse away their sins
And give mine another shine
For the first time

Now my task is
To clean my head, put on my tie
To learn if my fate is a good one
Or neutral, in need of a dislodging
Almost summer in the almost city and the air is almost still
There's a moment before that moment when he free-kills his free will

May 4, 2009

Unincorporated East Los Angeles #2

In each of the heart shaped boxes

Lives a night and a week and a month

They turned into each other, no sister no brother

It comes out in corners, under doors, through mid-air

A life for the dying, a death and then there's a struggle

He turns away or he doesn't

She gives her hand and he takes it or he doesn't

He's sleepy but soon he will wake

He's taken all he can take

He starts giving back, paying back

Tomorrow and love is the figment

Of imaginations crushed and coiled

Her hand is offered to a man in the misty south of her city

It's a pity he's nowhere around

It's tragic he's got nothing but his hand and his laptop and his bag

He stands up to leave but she's coming back

Again, he's not going anywhere

In love they have nothing but the loss of love

It hurts but he's here for the sweet duration

Which is likely 10 hours and maybe 2 more

And a month after that and a couple of weeks

Then his car, held together with black duct tape

Will make its way midwest

And he'll curse the summer he saw the sun rise through an uncovered crack of a papered-up window

written August 9, 2009

Unincorporated East Los Angeles #1

It's where they put all the cemeteries
At the turn of the 20th century
But they didn't wait long enough
For the rush of dead bodies
At the turn of the 21st
Not because of any war
Just critical mass and a city in flames
Every 24 years or so

Atlantic winds its way around the 710
And you have no idea why
They named the street after the ocean
On the other side of the country
Not the one you could almost see from there
If the buildings were a bit higher
And the skies a lot clearer

There are stairs and old rooms, never to be entered
There are plates and plastic spoons, for all the convenience
There is time and she nods her head at the sun coming up
The radio station pours in from the west side
Music defies the sun
Just as it defers the dark
To another sphere of up and down
To the border at the very next town
All six of them, wherever you happen to be

She called it the informal economy
But it looks like every other place
A few more 99 cent stores, a few more 98 cent stores
One more 97 cent store. not a single Starbucks or Trader Joe's
But there's a grid
There are gas stations with clean islands
There's a smog check guy
And just like the one in Santa Monica, he's not above being bribed
(A twenty plus the forty is all it takes)

He died in that one old room
She almost joined him until she shut it down
She moved across the hall
Except there is no hall, just stairs
And she needs to pin it all down some day
The reason she throws nothing away
She needs to pin it all down some day
The day they give her the back yard
She won't mess that one up, she tells me

Each day I drive away
Toward the freeway up there or the one to the right
I think not another day, never another night
I'm not going back, there's safety in not coming back
But it's not up to me, is it?
I hear the dead silence
As I inch my way onto the 710 south
There are corpses and gravestones beyond that wall
They're not coming back
And it looks like I'm clear to Long Beach once again

August 4, 2009

Three From 10 Years Ago

After Las Vegas

comfortable here, at ease somehow
far away from those who won’t
hear what I have to believe
speak what I need to believe
comfortable here, easy to slink in and out of places
unseen, unheard, disavowed
burn the fields that hold the trees
and keep it there, keep it bled and broken down
blues for the holy kid
and flowers torn in pieces in your hair

February 9, 1999


She Hears Their Stories

spread out like crowd noise
they call her to the quiet red room
and on splayed-out couches
she hears their stories
she notes their theories
she listens, nods, and writes it all down
for her own book of mercy
her own company of thieves
for her own cool divinity
her own taste in fallen trees
it’s a good pure way to be

curled up in cottons
they call her in her kitchen floor dreams
and with gifts for the children
she hears their stories
she notes their theories
she shivers, shakes, it’s January now
in her own winter city
her own town of counted sheep
in her own cool vicinity
of rested toes and rousted wolves
it’s a good cold place to be

February 9, 1999


The Gold Theme #2

Jesus doesn’t care about your hairstyle
Jesus moved to Brooklyn in 1997
Jesus doesn’t care about your golden birthday
Jesus is a monkey and he’s going to heaven
you lost your keys...so what?
it rained a little...it rains a lot

Jesus doesn’t care if you’re not hungry
Jesus likes his Thai food mild and weak
Jesus doesn’t care about your picture frames
Jesus is a martyr and he’s saving the meek
your roses wilted...so what?
it’ll rain tomorrow...it’ll rain a lot

February 17, 1999