the body electric/a tribute to walt whitman.

i sing the stars, the body electric.
i sing the supernovae that created my bones, my mind, my misunderstanding.
i sing walt whitman, i sing thoreau, walden pond,

americana, leaves in the fall
[leaves in the grass],
the long white beard of poetry.

i sing the song of the heavens, words, a thousand images.
i sing the summer, the winter, the autumn, the spring,
birth and death and thousands of souls rushing to entropy all at once.

i sing the long white corridors of hospitals
and the blood-dark passages of birth,
the first aching breath and the last words you’ll ever say.

i sing the pain of love, the longing
and the way the ones we love
are always the farthest away from us.

i sing the lightness of air,
the blue morning sky in California,
the way we can always travel west

[go west, young man, go west], our destiny,
and the long wide cold ocean.
i sing the far green country, a silver veil rolled back,

i sing the war songs of every country,
the death rattles of every last person,
the words of gods handed down to us and lost.

i sing the redemption and the day of judgment,
i sing oblivion and darkness and emptiness.
i sing victory and anger and revenge,

i sing humility and hunger and salvation.
i sing the morning and the evening and
the long warm gardenia night filled with murmurs.

summer.

lying on the floor listening to music
reminds me of being seven
(tom petty the pretenders i found a picture of youuuu)
i'm ready to be a child again
love, warmth, cigarettes inside
turning the ceiling yellow and brown
i want distraction destruction
caliFORnia
CALIFORNIA!

midwinter haiku.

snow on the trees
makes me feel like a child.
our white still bodies.

the ceaseless why (this much i know is true).

being.
this much i know is true,
the crumblings, the bit-ends of life,
the frothings in the sink.
the lather at the end of the day,
between the sheets.
i am consumed with these, infected.
dirt on the doorways.

love.
this much i know is true:
a dark love.
the tension in our bodies, your memory.
you imagine
(did i keep you in a cage, hold you in my palm?)
the sea waking you, unlike i ever could,
whispering sonnets in your ears, i never did.
i plucked your eyelashes and kept them,
blowing them away one by one, something to lose of you,
everyday.

pain.
this much i know is true
when time wraps me,
another skin flayed slowly,
another blanket on a stifling, gardenia-laden night.
searching for the horizon, time.
how i desire dark mornings and obedience.
the agony of free will.

apocalypse.
this much i know is true.
a red sun, a dark sky, an orange moon;
who told me this was the first day of the end of the world?
i tried to name all the everythings,
all the words i held softly, carefully.
did i protect them from fire,
these crumblings, from the harsh light of catastrophe?

pdx, 11/11/08, 7:24 pm.

i sleep in a t-shirt and no underwear,
rainwater tea, hardcore dreams.

green hair, the internet, chapped lips, cat hair on my sweater.

the still-you scent of my room in the mornings,
till i open the window and grow goosebumps on my legs.

puddles and wet slip-on leaves,
cars that make that whirr sound as they slide on raindrops,
late buses and getting the wind in my face.

not enough pillows;
when i sleep i can never find the right way
and one cheek gets red from lying on it,
and sometimes i don’t know how to not scream when i wake up.

stretched-out bras and falling apart shoes –
i pick at the holes in my jeans but line my books up carefully,
like so many soldiers in a row, formation in the morning.

things get dusty here,
with inlaid fingerprints
and notes from my piano that linger in the air,
sheet music, books that are too old to be overdue.

white and bare,
though i try my best to cover them with
photographs and words i paste up on the walls,
to watch over me during the night.

faces, horses, green words,
the eyes of my cat reflecting carlights from the windowsill.

drawers that are full of things i’ve never seen before,
and my roommate’s image, passing, in a mirror.

hair clips, bobby pins, dimes, bottle caps,
mugs of coffee and the dregs of spilled wine found behind the couch,
and dust balls and cat toys.

plugs, posters, and curtain-ties.

venetian blinds along which i like to run my fingers,
leaving them clean and gleaming to rattle by the open door when i’m asleep.