Kick Drum

i reach for the kick drum
that gave me life
as it hammers the sound
of a transvestite
in high heels
crusing the magazine rack
believing that
there will be meaning
in her fall from grace

in the same way i see a trash can
right next to a spaniard
reading Harpers
with an almost infuriating
command of attention
i hope the story is good

then i reach again
for the kick drum
calling me back
to hot summer afternoons
playing bad religion covers
in my best friends bedroom
as i made vow after vow
to get the fuck out
i kept every last one

but the dichotomy
still rests
in my endless movements
from state to state
sleeping the greyhound bus
to San Francisco
and then LA
and then back to Eureka

and then on through Colorado
through Salt Lake City
with poignant breaks

in the dirty south
and in Kentucky
and then Nashville
then to Virginia
where we got married

now we both reach for the kick drum
waiting patiently for the stillness
that is a residence
with space to act like humans
sealed until it all ends
in a gasping breath
oh how i wish
my dear Lord
would have let me
suffer all of this
alone
with a kick drum

Prayer of Faith

sweating like
flesh does in the sun
as the clock ticks
and the hour hand
does its selfish dance
and at least a few million
revolutions

and as the bank account empties
and she cries on my bed
somehow I'm supposed to believe
that my ungrateful heart
caused all of this

well how about
you go fuck yourself instead?

New York

out on a limb
for the first time
in a while
peering out my
larger than life window
into the garden
that is lined with
cemented regret

and the old prose
that keeps letting itself go
begging for a world war
wondering if the sun
shining through
has the power to lift
this broken heart

but i wade through it anyway
i list the reasons
why we mustn't waste our
time and how
the clock is ferociously
ticking our lives
into dust

and that one fine day
we will wake up in
our old creaky beds
with our backs broken
from the weight that we've carried
and the desires we suppressed
and we'll say:

"we should have moved to new york--
we should have fucked like animals--
we should have committed more time--
drinking ourselves into oblivion--
and creating, goddamn it, Zeke...

forever creating and recreating
all of this fucking solace
through the demonstrative waste
laid down on canvas, tape & film.
oh how we could have loved so much
more, in new york."