SHAKESPEARE ON MARS

To be the first to play a Martian Hamlet,
To blow red dust off Yorick’s ancient skull,
Exclaim to steadfast Opportunity, 
Over Ophelia drowned in Lowell’s canal—

I dreamed this future vividly enough
It’s a memory. It will not come to pass. 
I am a booster stage, a corner crier
Beckoning groundlings to the Marscrete O.

As I hand you the playbill, look into my eyes
And there will be an ocean uncrossed and a life
Raft empty except its unused flare gun.

Inside this helmet of my skull, I hear rain, 
Though nothing’s fallen for months. It’s only
Dry earth and imaginary tragedies.

The Amon Liner Poetry Prize Poem WE ARE ALL STARVED FOR TOUCH

On West Richardson Street, 
kids threw rocks at the pavement
until they chipped, then threw the shards
at each other. Their momma called
them in for dinner, named the dish
after a bold story, named it “How you think
you got here?” The purple and yellow
of their father’s bandana
swayed above the sweat
on her brow that night. Little dust
tornadoes followed the kids home;
small things always fake importance 
here. But if you walk through the baby 
twisters, your eyes are the only parts 
of your body that feel the dirt. 
One of the kids told a story at dinner: 
a man walked through a car wash
and let the hundreds of fluffy fingers
slap his body again and again.

GROWING OLD IN THE SOUTH

It’s true, you get so dumb and bald
that young folks try disowning you
(and soon the old folks also keep away),
so violently ornery that news has no effect,
inoculated as you are to fact
by narrative that’s more compelling than the truth:
you move to Florida. You vote against school funding.
The nights before you go to church,
you set your best clothes out,
you fix the hairs on your toupee with hairspray.
It’s not that you can’t see the jowls,
how gravity has loosened them 
into an unremitting grimace—but—
it’s hard to clock the aging day by day.
You carry in your head a florid image
of muscled youth, the time you played
guitar for swooning girls out on the pier,
but passers-by remark upon your gray,
the hairs inside your ears, the coming stench
of surrender, which perfumes you, smells 
like apples too long in a grove, like sandalwood 
but sour, the same smell as money 
when it changes hands too many times, 
the bills worn out, the coin impossibly tarnished.

The Robert Watson Literary Prize Poem PIG THERAPIST

I find myself with a wide prospect of Iowa.
Everything here is easy
to say, difficult to imagine. A horizon
of corn that tastes like yellow
wallpaper, and such are the reeds
around lakes of excrement. I’m crying
at the beauty, the fertile smells, the fields
of dreams. Below, there is a pilgrimage
of pigs, from their galaxy of mud
to the consigning hug of thick metal
bars and the veiled entrance
of whatever may come. My beautiful view
is shaded by pig tears, sobs shaking
my green expanse, so I come down
to the march, take my place in their pens,
by their sides, and begin to console,
offer a sermon for their unchosen end.
Touch each crusted hoof.
We cannot blame others for their
wants, their needs. Nuzzle each
wet snout. We can find meaning in
purpose. Run fingers through
hairs on each chin. All we get to
choose is how we respond. I find
I am pretty good at preparing pigs
for death, and they are quiet while
plodding toward their short futures.
I never return to my life. This job smells
too sweet. Listen: all grunting stops,
there is only the sizzle of sun on
pink backs.

THRESHOLD DAYS

Eight hundred years before I tried to kill myself, Galileo studies
    stars—a near-invisible rendezvous.
No telescope in his hand, a chin lifted to the sky and two planets
    traveling together. I can’t be sure if it’s time
that slows down or my attention. Either way, I never refuse an
    invitation from my deepest dark. In my telling,
Galileo writes double-bright down in his notebook, forgets the
    word phenomenon. Here, I recite my inertia—
my lonely invention caught between pilot light and carpet.
    Jupiter and Saturn—a mismatch,
a gaseous incongruity. But in their tracing of the sun, a map to
    keep eyes open. Galileo writes coded letters,
cursive attempts at being noticed and misunderstood.
    And when I discovered how luxurious
my suffering could feel, I understood why we hold revelations
    between our palms—
so we can better keep it for ourselves. Isn’t every word
    written an attempt to outlive ourselves,
to pull closer distant objects? The sky’s dreamblue—
    craters and spirals
and the secrets we place at the center of refusal. Never once
    does Galileo take for granted
the imperfect dancing of satellites. His only instructions—
    how to survive looking backward.

The Amon Liner Poetry Award PILE OF MAGGOTS

It’s a game the newsboys play: a wrestling match
accordioned up to black sky. A smokestack of boys,
one making a ladder of the others. They’re scrappy
& stalagmited, some small as newsprint, smelling of sweat.
A Jenga tower of bravado & Bowery accents. One boy’s
head emerging between another’s knee-pit; one boy
under the rubble with his arms stretched like a searchlight;
one boy at the top until his competitors, like the meat
surrounding a peachpit, bury him. The game ends
when the youngest calls out, Fellas! Please! & they
flatten themselves boy-shaped again—giggling into each other.
I daydream myself fourteen, with a flat cap, ready to tether
my new fists to the nearest mirrored body. A boy abomination
emerging from other boys like limbs of a good, clumsy angel.

IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN

for Bernice J. Murphy & Aunt Aggie Jones

in my Grandmother’s garden there grew an unusual fruit
of reinforced calcium that hardened white

over a sweet spongy red and yellow meat
She would pull from underneath the fur and feathers

of frolicking creatures who loved the flavor of Her
eggplants and orange blossoms Her garden looked

like the inside of a gator’s mouth rows and rows of white
protruding outward to enter was to be eaten

consumed by a world She had constructed for Herself away
from words that humbled like mama home & husband

here She ruled between those hours when the moon has
just pulled its starry black blanket over its head to sleep

to block out the sun but the eyes of the world below
have still yet to open though mine did once when i was a boy

who liked to fall asleep in his Grandma’s bed between Her
elbow and rib cage the absent sound of the drum below

Her chest woke me from some long forgotten dimension
and led me out of the house behind the shed and down

the trail of bones where i found Her filling a basket with dark
purple humming a gospel not yet written still being made

bounced back and forth from heart to tongue from tongue to teeth
the lips tight pressed still not ready for whole words to escape

and She never stopped when She saw me just smiled and kept
fondling every purple torso gently squeezing and kneading

at each part of the skin before deciding to pluck or walk away
i had so many questions but this was a place w/out words

w/out wonder w/out a need to be defined or explained or in awe
a place w/out the need to know where and an appreciation

for things that just were where the sound of a single syllable
might break the barrier between existing and living

the same barrier found between plant and people for here
She was satisfied content with whatever was given and also not

but never once did i join Her in the minutes spent in the attendance
taking of fellow fruit just patiently waited until the basket was full

in my Grandmother’s garden it felt like She wasn’t my Grandmother
that we weren’t related. here            Shewas something more honored

The Greensboro Review Literary Award Poem HAVE YOU BEEN TO THE PALISADES

To the spot where the log burns blue?
From the side of your mouth, the word heartwood falls out

and inside of that, a Tupperware containing fog.
It’s mixed pickles—everyone loving the deli guy

but no one remembering his name.
I feel like I am him. I fall down like a fountain,

scrape both knees. I learn photosynthesis
is when your arms go around me.

In those days, we called it Julia Mountain
because Julia loved the mountain

and the mountain loved her too.
Then she moved to Kalamazoo.

Once, I was a child and once I was a bug.
Once, you spilled gallons of milk by virtue of spilling

just a little milk each day. I was the whole Pulaski Skyway,
crossing and uncrossing my legs.

It came to me eventually, his name was Jeff,
and like Jeff, I’ve been forgotten

in the fold of a stranger’s wallet.
The tarp flaps its dream at us and for a second,

I’m in the canopy during gym class—
you count to five, and we all run in.

The wind ruffles our pockets and we lift up our eyes.
Pulling your head through the sweater hole,

you stretch out the morning’s light.
The day goes rising, wiggles its ears.

I WISH I HAD A HEAD FOR NUMBERS

no I don’t
I’ve seen what those heads look like
the special instruments required to clean them
how hard it is to keep flowers alive in them
how little effect Debussy has
I wish I didn’t even have a head
so much as a floating pyramid
with an inner incandescent furnace
where tiny robotic scarabs tend
the cocoons of wonderous future concepts
here drink this you’ll glow
this spray can make anything invisible
free money comes in balloons
the various agatizing processes
providing myriad translucence
to what’s usually crushed
but actually it’s my heart that needs help
it don’t cry right
punch me in the gut I feel it in my ear
none of it adds up
not the machete and the mouse
not how everything’s made of broken glass

VOICEOVER

When I tell you I don’t sleep
I hope you’ll take me seriously.
I really am a walking shroud
most days. The undead in me
is the life of me, but not
for the life of me, however hard
I may try to make myself depend on it.
My clothes are mud and grass and mud,
or no, they’re really not. But you aren’t here
to see, and I wish you were, like I wish
a lot of things, including for more wishes.
So the genie inside me is a tracksuit,
red or blue with white stripes.
You get to decide what it means
when the philosophers say things
like “either Beauty is a real property
of things in the world or when we speak of it
we gibber.” The problem is nobody speaks
about Beauty anymore, and even if they did
I’d be staring into a mosh pit with my nose
bleeding all over the floor and trying
to find my way back into the Tsunami.
As far as I can see, neither the sky
nor any ocean has definiteness, order,
and symmetry, so Aristotle was wrong
about a good many things. Just so.
It was a different time and a different place.
Context does matter. And I should explain
the Aristotle reference, but I don’t feel like it.
I am wrong, too, about almost everything,
even in this context. Have you seen the Shasta daisies?
They aren’t Shasta daisies. They’re daubs
of white paint that any addict might snort.
O monotony! O too tired blinking outer space stars!
My addictions are too numerous to list,
but they’re always coming out of my fingers
and mouth, my nostrils and ear holes
and assholes and dick holes. You don’t need
to be embarrassed, the shroud shrouds all.
And the fact that I remember my mother
in the snow probably isn’t germane
to any of this or beer soap or succulents
or a skin bag full of hooks. Sometimes
my gill slits don’t work like they’re supposed to.
And when I hear my own voice, it reminds me
just how stupid I really sound and am, but
maybe everybody feels a little off
in the devices of their own associations.
I feel like running water where the running
never ends. That really is a pipe dream.
No pun intended.