MSU Loses Tonight

Stoli keeps me from thinking
No meaning if you write fast enough
Glasses because contacts hurt
Willingly push past the lame
Options you leave me without you
And without me for that matter

Sculpt a dream of life
Live a sculpture of dreams

Play a song that touches punks
And maddens lesser
I need a microphone to live my life

Find a true existence and ask
For more fashions
Ask for fortune and ambiance
You won’t find it because
We all tried too hard

Back off – drum away
Your sorrows – lift your
Arms and twist your fingers
I can see them in my hair and
Throughout my clothing
You stop, breathe and wish
For excellence. I wish
For more than mundane passion

This page is like a haiku
Hotel paper
It’s actually amazing that
No one else complains about
My ugly cuticles, or your
Ugly heart. We all wear
Black socks and attempt to ignore
Brittany Spears – unfortunately
We all live in the real world

The Detroit Routine

I view the broken concrete
And caked salt of Michigan winter
The grey grass peeking
Through mounds of brown
That were briefly white,
Pure as the intentions of
The boy at the bus stop
Waiting for SMART to
Dump him off amidst piston rings,
Air filters, asbestos

I see the man who sits
Everyday at Tim Horton’s with a
Pen, calculator, coffee
Scribbling, scribbling thoughts,
Or figures or brilliant
Discoveries regarding each
American-made car that
Flies by the plate-glass
Or the strays that dare cars
Near the roadway

I notice the garbage trucks
And long, low motels that
Surround my commute,
Cops who fester just beyond
The next viaduct and the
Occasional gas station with
Full service

I mourn the many hubcaps
Along I-96 and scoff at the
Perpetual orange barrels
Guarding piles of steaming
Onyx asphalt that
Grind beneath my Pontiac.
Feb. 19, 2004

Return to Winter

I wake to reactionary sun
Bleeding through the small pane
On which I rest jetlagged skull
He rubs the knuckle of my
Index finger with a rough thumb,
I shift my head to his shoulder
Where he exhales a reminiscent, weary sigh
In my ear
Real life drones on below like
The jet engine that propels us home
After 13 hour days, he sponges up
My broken, scattered words of frustration
Just like my tears after blizzard,
Delayed flight, cancelled connection,
Lost luggage, concrete floor, screaming baby
He masterminds my sanity at times
I rub my eyes,
Slits open enough to watch his own
Search the pages of Harry Potter.
And finally, thank god, his lips on my temple
And his thumb in my palm
Jan. 20, 2004

The Perfect Girl

She throws herself
On the bed
Like a fish on a line.
If he could see her with
No mascara,
He too would share
A perspective of
Banal reality.
Primrose path of “alas”
Defunct “woe is me”
And often little
Optimism without denial.
How long her stories become
When alcohol induced.
She babbles like an infant
Below a bright mobile,
Ignores the eye roll and sigh,
Picks the popcorn husks
From her molars
With an acrylic fingernail.
He never sees her this way –
She chooses not to show him.
Jan. 8, 2004

La-Bella

Middle Eastern words on the wall
Before men who do not recognize deep exhaustion
Gloved hands and purple lips seem small
In this room full of pizza utterly lacking perfection
My insomniac wants sleep
Like shoes needs a sole – like they need a soul
Like their eyes all search and into my veins seep
Missing cars, stolen keys
My car outside on the street w flowers from “mom and dad” on the seat
Ten minutes of perfection comes with ease
Jan. 6, 2004

Motivation

She removes her polyester suit and
Drops it crumpled onto
Her bedroom carpet each night
Lying awake beneath gritty
Sheets she always plans to
Wash tomorrow

Regretting the disorder and ruin that
Close in on her troubled 3 am mind
Someday she will not have to choose
Which bills to pay each month
Spend more money on vodka than food
Allow valiant aspirations to waste away
Like an anorexic teenager

Once she danced on shining stages nationwide
She hung her shirts neatly on cedar hangers
Once she wrote poetry and cleared her
Weary mind
She thought it could always be so.
Jan. 4, 2004

Fix It

Wordless and spotless we scrub
At each other’s wounds as if
Friction will heal them
The cynical sisters weave
Bandages and cover blemishes
No one sees

I now suffer from a miscarriage
Of the brain
I hemorrhage brilliance
Wonder where your influence
Lost itself
Nov. 13, 2003