My Father Speaks of Ginsberg in Boston 1969

I secretly recorded my father telling me about when he and my mother saw Allen Ginsberg do a poetry reading and lead an impromptu meditation in Cambridge in 1969.
I wanted to share his words so I put it to the song"Curves of Air" by Fourcolor. Enjoy!

No one uses clotheslines anymore.

We force our fabrics into dark

holes, instead of letting them

sprawl in the wind and the sun.

Maria in the summer

floats above the pond,

shimmering legs of a Gerridae,

porcelain toenails cracked.

My mirror shaves its beard.

Small hairs fall like feathers,

resting on the porcelain sink.

The shoulders of an angel.

Before Evaporation

Puddles are the way

raindrops reconnect,

holding their bent hands in sidewalk pools.

They brood with the lost

fury of their descent,

mourning the days of heaven condensed.

Perhaps puddles signify

oceanic attempts to colonize dry land,

or bring the lakes back home

Pedestrian boots

march through divided ranks of rivers,

splash apart wet hearts.

Once separated

drops of rain will rise

as the sun burns their tears.

I Was Wrong When I Said Elevators Were Large Intestines

I was wrong and I apologize.

Elevators are temporary group coffins.

We are not living as we mumble to others

or think to ourselves,

dangling between the floors

that hold our callings.

So don't ask me of the afterlife.

Death is standing silent in a small

steel box, watching for the next

red number.

The Resting Machine

When I walk through the hedges

of the library, it is difficult to keep

my mind from turning

each instance into verse.

The colors and titles stream past

my face like a rainbow obituary

as the window at the end of the hall

reflects the ceiling light into a crucifix.

I realize, once outside, that I was so busy

pontificating that I missed the moment

of my surroundings. We cannot constantly

metaphor the world, at times we must

be a resting machine, whose function

is to observe and feel without a means

of processing any of symbols in our coffee.

Later, at night, by the fire or in the quiet

bathroom waterfall, we can remember

the silent elevator ride and how the closing

doors were lips of a beast that swiftly digests us,

dumping strangers into the bowels of this building.

Leaving the library, I wave back to a greeting

meant for the person behind me,

but a smile is a smile and perhaps

I simply needed to move my arm.

I had to write a pantoum for class. It was hard. Here goes nothing...

Inheritance

If we had listened to our fathers

perhaps there would be no need

for all our midnight wandering

along the walls of desperation.

Perhaps there would be no need

to sit with pen in hand and carve,

along the walls of desperation,

lines of furtive love forgotten.

To sit with pen in hand and carve

cursive genealogies connecting

lines of furtive love forgotten.

Fathers would rather have us sever

cursive genealogies connecting

son after son with a cursed surname.

Fathers would rather have us sever

dreams of hopeless truth in spring.

Son after son, with a cursed surname,

ignore paternal threats of failure for

dreams of hopeless truth in spring.

Lead us back to the same path we’d travel.

Ignore paternal threats of failure

for all our midnight wandering

leads us back to the same path we’d travel

if we had listened to our fathers.

The Coolest Conversation Ever

And I was all,

"You better not be thinking what I'm thinking!"

And she was like,

"PANCAKES WITH CHOCOLATE SYRUP ON TOP!!!"

Bird's Eye View

Here's a new playlist for traveling. For my wonderful friend Jaclyn.

Ps. There is a file in the folder of all the artists and song names. Still trying to figure out the best way to share playlists so feedback is welcome!

Thirteen Attempts at Starting a Poem, Which Will Never Be Finished

I.

When we were young
our limbs reached up towards heaven
and came back empty-handed,
but wet with rain.

II.
Children stand around
in my backyard,
pointing at my stained-glass window
as the sun streams on their freckled faces.

III.
I was working on a tree fort
in my backyard, with a hammer
in one hand and the other empty.
Jennifer came out to say we lost the baby.

IV.
The man at the hardware store,
who helped me find the plywood
and long nails, asked what they were for.
“I want to build him a home closer to heaven”.

V.
I worried, as I climbed the ladder,
that this would be too high for him
even with sturdy walls and a railing.
My son will not tremble at his height.

VI.
Her face, as she spoke up to me
through the leaves, trembled
with unwilling certainty.
I was waking up again.

VII.
Black coffee in the dark kitchen
makes the morning focus.
Birdsong fights the radio
for ownership of background noise.

VIII.
Before getting out of bed this morning
I curled up beside Jennifer. Inhaling
her dark hair, I traced the shape
of her full belly with my empty hand.

IX.
When we were young
we built people out of clay
and named our cloth toys,
who were only alive as long as we held them.

X.
The dirt in the backyard was soft
beneath the blade of the shovel.
Digging away at the world was revenge
for having nothing to bury.

XI.
From home to my office,
the highway was empty
the sun was born silent
the sun was born still

XII.
We are gathered here today
to remember our anticipation,
keeping him alive in our blessed
willingness.

XIII.
When we were young
we asked where babies
come from, and your answer
made it sound so simple.

It's Fine, China

Drop that cup,

let it break.

Don't clean up,

it's okay.

More Joy

The other tourists,

staying in the lodge with the giant

copper bear in the lobby

and bison heads in the dining hall,

may have taken my absolute wonder

for somber-osity.

Let me clarify this for you,

woman in the purple fur coat,

if I were any happier I very well might explode

or least burst out in tears.

It's simply hard to take in all of this at once.

Flying down a mountain coating in frozen oceans,

with two fence posts on my feet.

Submerging myself up to my nose in the bathwater

swimming pool, as vapor rises

like mist over a graveyard,

creating optical illusions as the light

streams in between fence posts,

and listening underwater to the foreign wait staff laugh

in the hot tub.

Drinking beer as dark and heavy as liquid steak

with my father and brother,

for the first time.

Flying thirty-thousand feet over mountains

which some one thought appropriate to name "The Rockies".

We live in a world where a tremendous, breathtaking mountain range is called "The Rockies"

(because mountains are made out of rocks) and nobody thinks that's

the most absurd thing since turning wild animals into pets.

So I apologize if I seemed distant while staring into the fire place at two in the morning.

This cowboy country has got me spinning in delight.

Public Mastication

Can we just take a second to acknowledge

that humans, all life forms in fact,

run very smoothly unless we forget

to chew up plants and animals

at least once a day?

DAS CRAZY