I was afraid to have half a purpose

I was afraid to have half a purpose
     like the bedsheets of a priest
but you just asked if I'd be back
     by dinnertime at least.

I said I'm sorry I lost my way
     and that my voice is going hoarse
but you gave me a smile
     and pointed me back north.

I said I can drive you out of town
     and bake your favorite bread
you laughed and said you didn't care
     as long as we got fed.

I was quiet Monday morning
     while I learned about myself,
but without plan you took my hand
     and put the book back on the shelf.

It's easier to return

It's easier to return. Going away
   I count the telephone poles and dirt turnoffs,
      to find a resting place.
Away, in the cold air and iron chair
   a lion-faith smoker keeps his mouth open
      and his paper hot.
Further, an empty shed, red water,
   and my yellow headlights sign to me
      the night's come.
Further still, an opening between silver maples
   holds our dim voices and the vocals
      of the city.
Again beyond, new forms and a doorman,
   rich for the rest of his shift
      and hopeful yet.
But home has fishing rod arms
   that stretch taut, hook me sharp
      and spin me in.
Since I left, you dressed our house
   in mourning clothes as if it
      had given me up.

Hey old body

Hey old body, here's your chance
to run downhill, headlong with a girl
and feel your knees buckle in.

The past five hours

These past five hours, I dug a dry well
deep into the black loam.  I knew an author
couldn't leave their protagonist so far in the soil.

I heard a vice president tell twenty-seven
weary new captains the half-congratulations of
"I know you didn't mean your career to go this way."

I heard fifty thousand say "I don't mind the pay cuts,
and the days of commuting, but no one's on our side."
So I'll claim you as characters in this story, I'll save you.

Wake up, this is your first act!
Where is your desperation
when you are known?

Before I cashed this morning's check,
my nose bled.  I saw my warm life course away,
and everything was first-person.

It took two hands on my shoulders to turn me back.
It took twenty-one years before I said,
"here is freedom—I dispossess myself."

Have a little soul

Have a little soul,
'cos this morning I'm going dancing.
Have some fun
and let yourself get thrown around
in the storm.
I never tried to make here safer
but if you're cold,
I'm doing something wrong.

You're a street-walking saint
made of plaster
primer and paint, and I'll follow
blindly at best.

I've never been pushed off the street,
or been invited into a country,
I've never asked for more
than I could carry with me.

But I dashed for the subway,
I snoozed on the ferry, and
I shook along with the bus.
I spent my savings playing roulette
with public transit, where I lost
everything but the frenzy. 

When I scraped past the casino,
I remembered "In the long run,
you lose as much as you win.
Andrew, you're better off at home
reading a book." 

So I ran on with my
four and a half dollars,
still trying to make myself full.

These months I'm going down a new hill
in a red and black coaster
made of heavy wood.
My Dad built it for my sister and brother
but it's my turn
and I'm not sure if I know how
to use the brakes.

Bad television

All the accidental accolades
from teenage degenerates
mean you're placed
in hot-faced disgrace
for the town to take a taste
and try to waste
what you made chaste,
but even 'copy/paste'
can surpass the past,
and unmask your caste
of casks and flasks,
of caskets and flashes,
of cash and fast crashes,
so relax! But not so fast
you relapse, pay your tax.
Keep your laughs,
mad gaffes and carafes
off our backs and our banks
though we owe many thanks
to your cranky pranks, fakes,
and mistakes for making us vain,
insane for your fame,
as we aim our name
for the same acclaim.
Although you came to refine your art
and find your start in a starring part,
about a starry-eyed heart
(who's funny and smart),
your jaded faith fades and
all the accidental accolades...

Los Angeles, CA

first, god and the soil
play Go with circle farms
on a board of New Mexico.

west, the hills
turn from chalk to pencil lines
all drowning in peach and gray-pink.

from thirty-two thousand feet
we follow the sun to Los Angeles.
but the haze disappears and the day ends.

evening hits like a dark marriage
of halogen and mercury vapor,
full of non-repeating beauty and quiet light.

second, my sister finds me in Burbank,
gives me water, and takes me home.
to be a foreigner and to be found!

our Orange Line city bus offers me
a five-dollar haven of rattled peace and pulls
the weary through palms and pawnbrokers.

family of the summer with
new life coming in September,
I had forgotten we stretched this far.

A haiku for yesterday

The park, the lake, and
the air hot with you nearby.
I can't read a page.

A haiku for travel

I hadn't ever
kissed a boarding pass until
I flew home stand-by.

A haiku for exercise

My treacherous lungs
wheeze, stab at me like Brutus!
Caesar, at least, died.

Dallas, TX

Here, I saw a jump-cut ballet of green skyscraper
dance across a Cadillac, scatter into a haze
and escape through a false night sky.

So I gave up faith in Orion's Belt, kissed Ursa Major
goodnight for summer, and found my home on Loop 12.
Moving tore me open, but now the architecture heals.

On the museum lawn, jazz wrapped the red, sprawling
sculpture and brought 75 to their feet to slide across the bricks.
Then, a black woman smacked my hip and said, "Smile, boy!"

So I smiled at the horse race in its colors of royalty
and beasts of speed.  I smiled at my place of rest,
my home for the Summer.

New York, NY

Here I pushed through the dirty thicket of all Manhattan
in breathless insomnia, a Van Gogh of lost lucidity
with the colors of madness, and the half-genius of delirium.

But in sewer's steam, in the humidity of industry, Williamsburg
brought me rest and distance. I stepped on soft grass
and sat near the water.

The Navy in white cotton rode for Staten Island,
and spent the ferry searching for company.
The air was cold mist and the city swelled into our wake.

Above Central Park, I heard the chords of a dense, hidden hymn
emanate from the MET, matching history with chaos,
where a green quilt is the lifeblood of this neighborhood. 

On each block, I found the constant chemical reaction
of hot life.  In each park, I found the holiness of empty space.
And in the street, I found a home.