Nobody Reads Poetry Anymore

Nobody reads-
Nobody reads poetry anymore.

You
can't even find good ol' Carl Sandburg
in Bookshop Santa Cruz anymore.

You
can't name anything Ginsberg wrote before the
Howl, or even after anymore.

You
can't get invited to dinner parities
quoting T.S Elliot anymore.

You
can't seduce a beautiful girl
reciting Neruda anymore.

And
Shell Silverstine is the last thing you
remember being interesting.

And
everyone was running around
claiming to have read Rumi, hasn't.

And
Gwedlyn Brooks is loved for that one
poem, in part because it is alive,
but mostly because its short.

And
the kids go to hear poetry
slams,
and
the poetry slammer yell the words out
because it means more if you just
say it louder.

While
the schools make the kids write
Haiku without love.

While
rappers try to find words that rhyme
with feminism and capitalism.

While
Paradise remains lost to Milton and to
you.

While
the poetry books sit on the bargain shelves of
book stores.
Untouched Unopened
Cold and alone,
like forgotten lovers
taking up space till the book store closes
its doors,
for good.

Still,
somewhere out there, everyday, everywhere
there is  a boy
falling in love for the first
time with the most beautiful girl he has ever seen.

And the words he chooses next will change everything.




13'

The Lady Bugs

With the Spring came the insects.

My students have been
gathering the Lady Bugs
with their hands
and
putting them inside empty water bottles
filled with
grass-
punching
air holes into the lids.

They covet these
insects.

They fight over them.
They fight to posses them.

There are those
who will pull the wings off
off the lady bugs.

Believing it's the only way 

To keep them from running

Away.

Some just like to

Pick things apart. 

Small hands
wielding the

great power to:

Crush

Smash
Destroy

For some this is the closest they
have ever come to nature-
for
others this is closest they will
ever come to being
God.



13'

Grant Lee Buffalo

"We water like a dead bouquet, 
Does no good, does it dear?"- GLB



Grant Lee Buffalo are
back together,
and I don't know anyone else
who would care,
except you.

They were your band,
not our band.

You didn't give them to me,
I stole them from you.
 
Songs crafted
like the wings of birds,
and a voice
stolen from the whispers of lovers in the dark-

They were your band-
Then.

When I think of you now,
you were cooler
than I ever gave you credit for.

You knew your music.

I wasn't as cool as you-
but you loved me anyways.

Yet-
There is no need to worry,
when I hear their songs
I don't think of you.
(Well not that often,
but how I wish I did.)

It was a shame
that band broke up.

It is a terrible shame when good things
break.

Somethings should last for forever.
We were never one of those things.

I would have stayed forever.
I was loyal that way.

I would have married you.

After a couple pregnancy scares,
you have to consider it as something
more than
words shared by lovers in the dark.

Somethings are meant to break,
I just never expected to break so much.

Grant Lee Buffalo back together,
and I wanted to tell you.

I wanted to tell somebody.




'13

Standing Green and Proud

(B side)

I.
A Christmas tree
is like a classy lady.

The ornaments must
Bling
Sing
and have that Swing,
as they hang from her limbs,
because a lady doesn't
wear the
cheap stuff.

II.
A Christmas tree
is like the Statue of Liberty.

Standing
green and proud-
with light shining bright
and
a star on top of her head
like a crown.

The Christmas tree is like
 the Statue of Liberty,
 the classiest lady there is.

The Pitch

I can laugh about it now.

The need to be
brighter,
better,
and
burn more beautifully than the rest,
can be a terrible burden.

What is worse is when we
want someone to worship our every word.

But this time
they will stand there-
bored,
ready for the next pitch,
and this will hurt.

Like sticks
like stones
your bones will
break 
without words.

A brush off
worse than any woman could inflict.

It will hurt
not to be
the brightest,
the best,
or
to not burn at all.

For a moment
I allow myself to feel broken.

Then with a deep breath, I remember the Budha's
hand in
Abhaya Mudra.

Do not fear, it is not real. 

Exhale and
Remember it is all just a game-
some played
with sticks, bats, crutches
some requiring stones, marbles, balls.

There will be more pitches.

I can laugh about it now,
too bad it only hurts when
I laugh.

another one of my dreams

I was graduating from Berkeley again in an
empty
auditorium,
I was on guard duty as well.

I was graduating with
the black students
and had
a mini dvd player turned on.

I couldn't find the
off button,
when
The Dean or someone else very important-
came in,
the DVD player made a loud noise.

He tried to confiscate it.
and I refused,
I was too attached.

He burst into anger and
tripped and fell off stage.

I knew I would never graduate.

I went to the cafeteria and it was
no longer free to eat there,
But
a girl behind the glass wall said they
were hiring.

(I felt the weight of the world lifted)

Later,
while driving
my older sister
had stolen my kite and was flying
it out the window
as a stranger drove.

The car swerved as the kite
pulled in one direction.

She let the kite go,
and we were free.


12'

The Queue

There is no line
to success-

There is no order
in which it is your turn
to succeed ahead of
another.

There is no need
to wait in
a long line
that does not lead anywhere.

What is yours will always
be yours
and what you're worth
is what you think you are
worth.

(You are God, Do no harm)

But, yes there
will always be the cutters,
the cheaters,
and
the takers.

They will try
to convince you there
is a line,
that their success
insures your success.

They will kill
every last tree,
poison every last river.
They will sell you the
bullets
and
the bandages.
They will tell you their greed is holy.

They will tell you
it will be your turn
next
to kill the trees
to poison the rivers
to sell bullets and bandages
and
it will be holy.

But they can not keep
cutting,
cheating
or
taking forever.

Eventually,
they will be put in a line,
blindfolded
against a wall,
waiting,
waiting,
waiting,
 for the
oppressed and cheated
to yell
Fire!

12'

Why Keep Failing?

Some men spend

their entire lives perfecting

Writing,

Sex,

Money Scams,

Medical Cures,

War-

(or other ways

of killing other men.)

Each mastering

their craft.

Masters of Art

Masters of Money

Masters of Life

Masters of Death

I ponder my own existence.

What was i perfecting?

What am i master of?

What do i have to show

for all these years?

I have nothing.

Nothing but myself to show for.

I am an imperfect being, constantly trying

to perfect itself.

But everyday i wake up and try.

And some will scoff,
or shake their heads.

Perfection is only for

a Jesus

a Buddha

or someone holy.

And they will say

how dare you?!

How dare you try.

How dare you suggest…  

Not understanding-

Failing to understand

that was the whole point of their existence-

Of our existence.

So I
continue to fail

continue to try

continue to perfect.

I  will be master of myself, one day.

What else is there to do?

Death will come either way,

I assure you,  someone out there

is working on it.

12'