“My Worse Addiction”
 
Looking for one more line,
even one more word,
just to make another poem,
as if metaphor
was my worse addiction
instead of the empty bottles
that treated me better
than all my old friends
who I haven’t heard from
in years.

Ultraviolet


I got the white girl blues
again Momma;
standing here skinny
under fat blue lights
faces all around me
shining in the rain,
smiling through the mud
as though it was a face-pack
they gift for free

and here’s me, singing my blues
like I was recording
someone else’s suicide note
on a dictaphone,
going over and over the same old
tunes, stripping my skin
like I’m tearing used paper

but feeling nothing,
Momma. No smiles
for your little girl to smile,
she just wants to run and hide,
drown her head in a bucket
till she finds new air
to breathe, new songs to sing.

Momma, I hate my life
but I still want to live.
I’m tired of the saloons, the songs
and the blues: it’s time
to get the hell out of Dodge.

Late Autumn on Paper

 
Between hands, paper and brush, between soul and flying birds
lie shadows drifting in silent transition

White crags, white winds, and figures in the water
splash foam against the boat sides, keeping a sober distance
from the drinkers aboard

Heartbeats beneath the waves ring clear and plain
late autumn, mountains loom high, the moon dwindles faint

Beneath damp heavy curtains, sleepers lost to day and night
bend their knees slightly, bracing against the core of dreams

In woods bathed in crescent moonlight, wanderers returning from revelry
hasten home with hats pressed tight, clinging to lingering warmth

Lost travellers shout across the stream
echoes mimic one another, like a man and his own inner self

Thick mist drips down bamboo leaves
leaning a staff by the water’s edge
weeping eases the ache of the soul, yet silence stretches boundlessly vast

No one may cross its realm, nor add to nor take from its essence
from beneath the hat spill endless lingering doubts

Doves spread wings and fly away
while crows plunge headlong to the ground, upsetting water flasks and gauges

Still some will climb higher peaks through pouring rain
drink deep the darkness of a whole year, and meet pure solitude

When trains rumble past the valley, verses flow unbidden from their lips
heedless of unseen listeners
or swarms of stars swirling before their eyes
Where history lies laid flat
place lamps, letters, and a few worn old garments

Such days are few, the fragrance of roses still lingers amid dust
while heavy frost and shadows settle upon dark treetops

 

JUNGLE IN THE CITY

 
In the jungle,
if you’re not sweating,
then you’re not living.
Unless you’re a lounge lizard.
Their blood is much too cold
to be bothered by steamy heat.

It’s after dark and the denizens are out.
There are jaguars,
chrome‑plated felines with bulging chest hairs,
parked sideways outside the more popular
of the neon caves.
They’re hungry. They’re famished even.
But they do their best not to look it.

The prey shows up
and they are dressed to be eaten,
in slinky little numbers
that cost too much and cover too little.
They strut like they own the night.
Too bad that the night owns everybody.

Inside the club, it’s wall to wall wildlife:
spiders as big as tabletops,
piranhas swimming below,
while vultures lean against the bar.
Everything is meat to them,
in various stages of decay.

And there are snakes everywhere -
some with scales, some doused in cologne,
many a forked tongue making deals
while fangs await their moment.

Vines and other stranglers
wrap around whatever’s soft,
whatever’s slow, whatever’s foolish enough
to show their money.
Everything crawls and bites and hustles.
It’s Gaia’s grand plan,
or maybe just Saturday night
after the clubs heat up.
Drawn by the lights,
animals show themselves.

Chalcis

The Asli Elif sits across the road
Flying her Turkish flag
In this Greek port

Where the tides turn
Back and forth
Over the years

Swirling and curling
Under the old bridge

In Chalcis
Where the infantry trains

The July sun bakes the pavements
And cicadas scream

Butterflies refuse to lift

Heat—so much heat in this island town
The sun frying the dry hills

Like a short-order cook

Beating down
On the fortress
Built by the Ottoman Empire
Over three centuries ago

The Asli Elif
Still flying its flag

True Romance

He laid a line on me.
Says his new woman
Is just so fucking good.
Beautiful babe with
A plump rounded ass.
He just met her last
Night and they hit it off
Right away. No sex yet
But he’s really looking
Forward to it. Maybe
Tonight in the midnight
Hour. Woman’s just a
Sports digest. Knows all
About all the pro games.
Unusual for a woman
But he likes that. Shows
Me a picture taken last
Night with his phone.
Take off all the makeup,
Ignore the long hair and
I swear that that woman
Was on my football team
In high school.

August Arriving

I only have words
To play with.
Others have flowers
Or gold, or time
To do whatever
They want. 

My hedges need shaving,
And my beard can wait.
Tomorrow is a day,
Or simply another day.
But words cannot wait—
Outcome determines my thinking.

Wear The Mess That You Are


Wear the mess that you are.
Consider it, and you, a work of art.

Picasso, Kandinsky, Pollock, Rothko
would respect that which you are.

Be it. That terrible you.
As gorgeous and vile

as any queen or king
that chopped off a head

or burned down a city.

nowhere to go


... nowhere to go. And I’m a breath away
from total exhaustion. Dead lights
of another dead evening spread silence
through the ice-bound streets,
and something moves, muted by the snow,
moves toward me, carrying in its beastly arms
another catastrophe, another shadow
of my reluctant self,
reminding me that I have …

数星星的女孩
夜空又划过一颗星，
窗边的女孩，
在数星星，
有星星的夜晚总是美的，
星星像钻石，
像未来那个梦中情人对自己的誓言，
直到遇到他，
是100颗星星终于缀满了天河，
他是梦中的白马王子，
为她单膝下跪，
可那只是星星们对女孩的想象，
女孩的眼里只有那个在生活里的勇者，
那个喝酒喝得烂醉还有点脾气的男人。


The Girl Counting Stars

Another star streaks across the night sky.
By the window stands a girl,
counting the stars one by one.
Nights dotted with stars are always beautiful.
Stars shine like diamonds,
like vows spoken by a dream lover yet to come.
Then she meets him,
and a hundred stars drape fully across the Milky Way.
He is the white prince of her childhood fantasies,
kneeling on one knee just for her.
Yet all of this is merely the stars’ fancy for the girl.
All she sees is a brave soul living among the mundane world—
a man who gets dead drunk and carries a temper all the same.