God bless Shoreditch.

Affirmed.

I am in your apartment and it's a little past midnight.
You should know it's quiet, and you've long since gone to bed.

And I've just written and deleted, written and deleted, endlessly it seems, line after line. Started and stopped. Planned and replanned. Attempted and quit. Begun and ended. And, of course, gladly begun again. (Again. Again. Again.)

How darling it was
(yes, darling)
to be drunk this time last year
and driving
and calling you
who i didn't even know
very well
from the drive-through of a White Castle
filled with the idea
and wish
of what was to come

sorry i didn't thank you sooner
we all, after all, make our own mistakes
and you
i think
(i know)
were never mine

How long this summer has been. Lingering, in the beautiful way that beautiful things do. How different from last, when our governor went on TV before the nation to say that the fire was at the gate, to use his words, and that something must be done.

You know, I use to think that I had to invent a new language to describe how much I loved you. Long words with filled with Y's and Z's, underused and fustrated letters that knew of inarticulation. And then, when my dreamed up words weren't big enough, I turned to Cyrillic letters that looked liked your eyes -- imagined, elaborate Japanese characters for your gentle way.

I drew pictures, too. Pictures and pictures of vast Indian wars, of tempests, of Armadas, of besotted kings, and unseen conjurers. And, when even the hieroglyphic Indians and storms weren't enough, I scribbled. Pages upon pages of ecstatic, cathartic scribble.

Last night, on the eve of your birthday, I dreamt that you came to my apartment unannounced and uninvited, led by a dog that seemed to find the gumption you could not. You came to tell me the things I needed to hear, long sagas about Indians wars and magical storms at sea, but you couldn't find the words. You always had trouble finding the words, trouble conjuring up the Y's and Z's. You, who were born in the strangest of months, between summer's end and the beginning of the harvest. Stuck in the place where the trees know that those long, hot days are gone, but aren't yet willing to shed leaves and prepare for winter.

Has it really been a year?
A year since the fires and the smoke?
Another year?

Stoned Poetry Vol. I

as I stood in my shower
and wondered
how would it be if
I never saw you again
if suddenly
the denver walls of my batheroom
were all
as I stood in my shower
and wondered

"Suppose you get what you want."

"The blue ones are the most expensive, because the chemicals are so scarce," you said, as we watched the fireworks from my apartment window. And earlier, as we ate blueberries and talked of nothing in particular, you told me of the unique antioxidants found only in blue foods.

"Color commentary," I thought.

And, so now, I wait for purple pyrotechnics and stop to notice all the healing eggplants stacked upon one another in the grocery aisle before moving on. Isn't it amazing how the scarce can surround in abundance, be on a dinner plate and light the night sky?

And we sat on the couch, light flashing through the window, then waiting for the slow crash of sound that followed lazily behind -- I forgot about the awkward way fireworks can remind us of the dislocation between what is seen and what is heard, and reached, instead, for another blueberry.

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel

As we crossed that invisible line, and left behind, like magic, dreary clouds for a movie set sun, I could only think of all the luck that was to be had if you know where to look.

"Inversion layer," you said, talking of how the air can be heavy with weight -- trapping things below.

We marched on, floated higher, as battle hymns passed invisible lines too: from abolitionists and singing soldiers, from Mormons to Joan Baez, from FDR to IWW and its revolutionary bombs, and, of course, finally to us.

How charmingly stubborn the way a beautiful melody can hold on to itself despite the lyrics. How charmingly stubborn the way we think the melodies exist only for us.

Sometimes I feel like it's all one big, fucked-up, beautiful dream.

If you gots the poison, I gots the remedy


As I traced the scars that ran down the left side of your body, you told me calmly about how you were attacked by a tiger in Belize, and how you were kidnapped by your father to Idaho when you were 5, and the little girl who played the cello and taught you how to play chess and kiss.

And you went on and on, for hours while we layed in bed, telling me of all the things that can kill you in a rainforest. All the deadly things that were so oddly situated in such a beautiful landscape. Fire coral in the clear blue water. Trees with poisonous thorns that protected the antidote that grew on top of it. All, as my finger traced the tiger claw tracks that ran like a river across your ribs.

"while my fingers drew little o's on your shut eyes,
while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth,
while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer
and whispered, "Wake up!" and you mumbled in your sleep,
'Sh. We're driving to Cape Cod.
We're heading for the Bourne Bridge.
We're circling the Bourne Circle.' Bourne!"

I picked up an old book on evolution, and you fell from the page - a place holder for a different time. There you were, as beautiful I remember you, wearing my red shirt and smiling back at me with dimples and blue eyes. Do you remember that day? On a tourist boat in search of whales off the Cape? Do you remember how amazed we were when we actually found them, swimming right next to the boat and leaping out of the water? Alive!

"Big as whales," I said.

And how many pictures I took of you that day. Dozens. And how patient you were with me, to smile for each one.

Fast forward to a year ago today as you sat on your couch knowing something I didn't - your sickness clear to everyone but me. How strange you looked to me in that light, in the gap between your knowing and mine. How different from that day at sea, in search of whales we were sure we would never find.

"I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come."


Last night, while I waited for you, I sat and read through your book of words everybody should know. Close to careen and far from Louisiana, I found your circumlocution.

It reminded me of my own.

I thought this morning, too, of old first dates and how I saw nothing but good omens in the effortless decisions that lead Mike and I across state lines, late at night, down snowy Pennsylvania country roads. And I thought some more, of all the effortless decisions to come, leading me here, so far from home.

I'm sick from effortless decisions.

How perfect you seemed to me with reed in glass, promise of growth, and grace. How flawed I feel, headache and dry skin, sitting in a library trying to convince you of the worth of my effort.

"They'll see us waving from such great heights. 'Come down now,' they'll say. But everything looks perfect from far away."

Just before time ran out, you said to me, "Let's go and see the fireworks." And we took our gin neatly in open containers and climbed into the car and drove across town. And we went, snuck really, past the indifference of the security guard all the way to the top of the tallest building in town.

"Designed by I.M Pei," I said.

And we watched the bombs bursting below from way above. And I said that the world makes sense from here. My scattered thread of yarn woven meticulously into grids of streets. Everything visible, everything clear.

"I dreamed I called you on the telephone
to say: Be kinder to yourself
but you were sick and would not answer

The waste of my love goes on this way
trying to save you from yourself

I have always wondered about the left-over
energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill
long after the rains have stopped

or the fire you want to go to bed from
but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down
the red coals more extreme, more curious
in their flashing and dying
than you wish they were
sitting long after midnight"

- A. Rich

"Everything I say, falls away...."

We never did make it to Santa Fe, did we?  Instead, we settled for getting drunk at La Rumba, where you whispered to me a cross-eyed "I love you."   Alcoholics are so dramatic.  And usually liars too.

Sometime last week I dreamt that I was elected mayor of Denver. "Apples In Stereo" played at my inauguration (its all about the local when you're mayor.) Except, of course, when the local becomes national -- Newsweek had me on the cover looking over my shoulder with the cityscape as a backdrop with the question, "Coolest Mayor in America?" And I gave the interview at Adega, eating veal cheek and speaking on solving the homeless problem downtown. Afterwards, we went for drinks at Flow.

In metafolics yesturday, as I sat with foil in my hair, I read an article in Esquire by Rudy Gulliani. In it he commented on how it was a mistake to think parts or your life end, that everything should be viewed in context with continuity. Along those lines, I suppose its a mistake to expect something more from the weekend then I do during the week -- to view it as something different. Still, I try though. I fill it with all sorts of things, but it hangs suspended both unsatiated and unremarkable.

I drove to Boulder last night with vague hints of plans that never came to fruition. What grew in its place was strange fruit. I did see someone for the first time who I use to adore, only to find out I still adore him. Maybe more then I knew at the time. Its odd how someone can simultaneously seem completely present and very far away. As if they're there, but just not for you. The grace of connection can be fickle. It's like in Six Feet Under, when Brenda talking about life turns to Nate and say, "You know what I think it's all about? It's all about timing ."

It's difficult when you sense that the moment is no longer eminent, isn't becoming -- but, instead, has been missed.

Until the designated light
Repudiate the Forge--

The good people out number the bad people.
Or so I'm finding out....

And to the boy that sent me the Emily Dickinson, I adore you for it.

red wine is fast / at the lip of your glass/ saying "im gonna ruin everything"

I once read somewhere Neko Case describing a dream where she had a threesome with Steve Earle and Madonna after a show in Vancouver. In the dream Madonna leans over and says to Neko, "Your hair looks like a wig." Freakydreams.com had this analysis:

"Attraction and Sensuality. If you dream of hair means (sic) that you are careless in your personal affairs and will lose advancement by neglecting mental application."

Funny how hair is associated with vanity like nothing else. We cut, we grow, we dye, we comb, we pluck, we shave, we gel, we spray, and we weave. With the promise of attracting others, hair tricks us into attracting ourselves. Vanity. And with that slick whisper of a lie, our hair gets taken care of.

Until, of course, it falls out.

"Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings and fly away."

Crisis can sometimes come quietly, with a crawl. Few things I am sure of, but of this, I'm positive.

In the K-mart as we walked downthe aisle with all the clocks, I asked you why they were all set to ten after ten.
The answer is so we think they're smiling.

The glass has been falling all the afternoon,
And knowing better than the insturment
What winds are walking overhead, what zone
Of gray unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window, watching
Boughs strain against the sky.

And think again, as often when the air
Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting,
How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm. Weather abroad
And weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction.

Between forseeing and averting change
Lies all the mastery of elements
Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter.
Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument
A proof against the wind, the wind wil rise,
We can only close the shutters.

I draw the curtains as the sky goes black
And set a match to candles sheathed in glass
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine
Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season;
These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions.

"The coming of day promises a change; it is only when the day has fully arrived that the watcher suspects it is the same day returned once again -- the same day he has been living for a long time, over and over, still blindingly bright and untarnished by time."