Diseased Arts

Chopin was a pianist
who died of TB
Alexander Graham Bell
picked up the phone
and caught it
Mozart touched Chopin's
keys years earlier
and got it
Gauguin painted a yellow christ
and was struck too
Lord Byron wrote a poem
about a mistress
and that might be how
he got it
Chekov and Dostyevsky
were both Russian
and they caught it
Kafka changed, Keats
was friends with Shelley
They were infected---
not Shelley, just Kafka and Keats
All five Bronte sisters
but not their lesser known
brother Branwell,
he got opium
Emerson transended
and got it
Thoreau lived in a cabin
and got it
Poe cried over Annabell Lee
and got it
Chopin was a pianist
a virtuoso with hellish fingers
and he got it

Touching arms on the bus
is not like cricket talk
pay no mind
to fleeting glances
we're further away
than we believe
fuck-faces on laptops
looking over shoulders
whispering,
"Please, touch my arm,"
they are cricket talk
I rub my legs together
with them

Rosehips

Rosehips
wind along
a brown road
your eyes travel
slow and cautious
your hands follow
the same
We watch the curves
and smile at the
signs posted:
"Blushed skin!"
We talk of longevity
our strong blood
our hot skin
as my hips rose
beneath your touch,
we paused as a courtesy---
mind the speed
mind the lines

November 29th,2008

While sipping Yerbe,
I thought about snow
and harmonicas
and all things that get old,
except you.
Snow circled us
while it was black
you read to me
and I wanted to play
for you
something "soulful"
I had nothing
but the usual, but
that doesn't get old, does it?

History of You

for Noah


French fancy way of serving
with carafe of water
dark chocolate
cube of sugar
66 known species
Robusta
there are cherries
discovered by a goat herder
caused a ruckus
whole monastary wanted some
Treat the sick,
Sheik Gemaleddin of Aden
Travel with the muslims
to india on a donkey/camel caravan
ahh venice
P. Clem VIII said, "It's heaven"
mixes the espresso based beverages
it's for the smart ones.

I'm a New Dog

I’m going to write

something different

I was told that I

was too old

I’m going to write

something different

I’m too old to learn

new tricks

I’m a dog that’s going to write

something different

I was told that I

was too old

I’m going to learn

a new trick

I’m going to write

something different

I’m going to be

young again

I’m too old to be

young

I’m bound to be

something different

among the crickets and the sky fliers there are no stars to help guide me this evening and with the course of any evening particularly this evening I find that the air is full and breathing the chirps and caws of love but who knew this was possible or legitimate or given

4 am

I'm quiet in the bathroom
the door is shut
I'm thinking of the last poem
I wrote
and peeing