family and friends (ending stories) (never ending stories)

Spinning inside

effectively, they say,

she went to sleep
a long time ago.

I don't know how long it was
after I stopped visiting regularly

(you know kids don't give a shit about old people).

-
I still see her brother from time to time
and he is a Man

so when asked, he gives her status
with a face as steeled as a furnace door

I am confused by a code holding that it is not okay
to cry for a woman whose eyes pass from brother,
to child, to grandchild, to purse, to table
with the same staleness

-
I see her now,
skin that can't connect
to where its lines come from

spheres with only broken air
spinning inside
turning

**********************************



kristina

the last time I would ever speak to her
I was so angry

she didn't understand
or I didn't understand
(one of us...)

I was leading ("leading")
a meeting
discussing freedom of speech.

How could Imus
be allowed to say such hurtful things
and escape unscathed?

She told me
that she didn't care:

people were going to say what they wanted
and she was going to do what she wanted
in parallel fashion

'you can't cave for one word
because there is always a sentence
dirtier and sharper than what preceded

and you'll inevitably, eventually wind up
crushed at the bottom of their deluge.'

The anger that I thought was righteous
looked so...it looked like whiny paper

when trying to push up against her face
serene, planted
-
The specifics of how she lived before, what she decided to do after...
I couldn't begin to wrap them.

but the definition of that moment
will always sit as my image of her,
and a lift in my mind

**********************************



turning

there is a forest sitting inside
he has been chasing himself
for so long

I've watched as leaves have fallen
off of his crown

exposing the bark,
colored dark and burning
like the bottom of a sea
sickened with history's refuse
boiling, crushing pressure
who could clean here?

the fungus sinking and filling
the lines in his face

I cannot help him.
I cannot be near him.

the things he says
under the influence of his garrote
have proven far too noxious
for me

his words
far too ragged of a saw
that spares no marrow

all I can do
is hope that these wounds do not become infected

I am sorry, brother.

*********************************



I know what you said after I sent you this poem, but I still think you should have a baby any way, just in case.

Dan, this poem isn't near finished:

we raced to Jesse's car
trying to get shotgun
and somewhere along the way you slipped
and ended up hurtling full speed
slamming against the back of the van
with your entire body
like someone had punted a football
point blank at the tail pipe

you got up laughing,
you Greek statue of a nymph
ayyyyy, it's okay

That is you

That is always you,
we think

which is maybe why
we end up laughing
after a real stain of worry
fades across
thinking about the marks on your jaw

can't help but think about 29
chicago public school students

poems about them
always seem to get outdated
so fast

dan
you move
so fucking fast

we're still kids
God has slashed
dents and pockmarks
into our hearts
already

but not enough to where
we are willing accept
that (S)he might actually
stop one of them

so hahahahahahahaha

anti-/"Do you wanna come out, and explain THESE NEW SHOES?"

ahhh, I keep changing shoes
to show my maturity
how responsible I have become

those ugly black ones
to the gaudy pink and blue Filas
(telltale signs of a baby boy trying to make himself
UNIQUE, etc.)
to the white and black Filas
to the gray Timbs
and up next: the sensible but stylish b/w supras

see, I have grown cooler! better!

but really, I keep changing the prints
while the whole time, the trail is still there, Emanuel! the trail!

just because you put those ugly shits in the closet
or threw them out the backyard
doesn't mean that what they crushed in your dance still
isn't lying there bleeding!

the pictures are there, and every pall
you try to cast over the exhibits
in the guise of time or midnight pledges
just fits to their form

an extra layer of proof

shaking its head
rattling
and scratching

an extra layer of proof:
yeah you fuck up, son.

I have these new Timbs though
and I step through dirt and mud and snow without a problem
coasting

With a Rusting, Dragging
tagged on a few footprints behind
(*hungry and gaining)

waiting for my smile to get so big
that it tangles in my stride.

and when it does...

well. karma collects interest.

oh, it will put it's hands over every fading little stain
and conjure them anew like atlantis of the flesh
mutated and nastier than ever, made of blades and mirrors

hooking because I know what I did I know what I did I know I know
I said I was sorry I just really don't know what else there is

because shit, what you said to me, I never would have said to you
but then, what I did to you, I never would wish on anyone

much less someone whom I "caaaaared" about. but I told you! I swear I told you, I was unfocused, unreliable, I told you this would happen!
I I

still tore you.

can't apologize a plague away
much less one lit by your own tongue

I swear. I will never let this happen again. Please let me go. Please.


________


*I wrote this poem before I heard the song "Porchlight" by Neko Case, but looking over both of them today I saw a lot of her lines speaking to the same thoughts included in here. So I consider them complimentary.

para ti