talkinginthedark

I'm Back

2011-10-25T21:27:00.000-04:00

Posting poems again. talkinginthedark.com

microscope / telescope

2009-04-21T11:10:00.001-04:00

I cannot see; I'm far
too close.

I let the danger fall by the waistside.
I let the answer fall by the waist.

No one will help us with our need.
But the body tells him it isn't so.
It says I am the one to blame
because the body is the one
who does the blaming.

I let the danger fault the answer
and the answer fault the rain.

You will never know how you hurt me.
I’m not that kind.

Read the original: April 21, 2005

Irony

2009-04-07T12:10:00.001-04:00

Love is real, but only for me.
Want nothing of it. There is too little.

This only
little line in the earth.

Me, I want money and a hard life.
I want the death of a lover and to outlive lust.

I want harmony still in it.
And drugs I won’t enjoy.

Mostly, I want everything you want
to come to me instead.

And for you to look down at me
from whatever post you'll receive in heaven,

wanting me to learn, hoping I will
learn to avenge you.

This only
little line made sand.

Read the original: April 7, 2005

After a Battle

2009-04-07T12:00:00.000-04:00

From the edge of the cliff I saw them, each asleep,
And wondered how our fathers could bear to lay so close.
First, the moon-glint of goodness on the heaps, then
Love made among them, running crooked from their mouths.

Closer, I could almost place from which wounds their souls escaped.
The mantis sent for a boy, younger than me,
And he dragged his pet goat up the slope, hungry for sacrifice.
But the blood ran black and wild around us.

We stripped the loose bronze from the stiff leather.
There, in the thrush, one last animal
Beckons buck and belt. I hold you here to watch among us
Hammer the plates of the dead flat, shape them the rough shapes

Of who we'll be when the goat gives calmly.

Read the original: April 6, 2005

Marriage 1

2009-04-05T14:32:00.003-04:00

Doors that hang on one hot hinge, and yet they keep from slamming.
Doors that open in more than two directions, and are made of you.
Men say what they say to their wives because they love them.
They say wait, but they're wrong, they mean now. They mean you've
       waited until now.
Compasses are big because they were made to be read.
I knew just east of you. I knew west of you too but didn't listen.
You were young once. You were open to watching the same movies
       over
and were the same when I opened my eyes.
Doors that are answers, doors set inside their own sliding.
But what is life if it isn't someone whose agreed to your shared
       escape.
We were young together once. We were given what we were worth
       finally
and won't let go.

Read the original: April 5, 2005

Apical Dominance

2009-04-04T21:25:00.002-04:00

This diagram, drawn from observations
Gathered over the course of one spring's circuit,
Describes the pattern born
To every cell that opens, and to each
Who forms a capsule or a bud,
And spells from her ovary code
The blueprint.

1
Present at each node, all knowing,
Is a force which feels the cold of long displacement.

2
Having waited for inflorescence to amend your partial death,
You will break from the gates of the system
And thank your trigger.

3
That which eludes the intrinsic circle
Provides, by will of exodus, our entrance—

4
This all will end. And in its shift is the arrangement:

5
It is freedom to commend, not speak,—
It is freedom to arrest the flux and breed,
The limbs of your bodies outheld.

6
And to need among the labors of life
Some of that which longs and holds.

7
Attach yourself to the spiral: that which continues and whirls,
That which outward asks
The whole of the soul's commitments.

8
The apex is a replica by design, though it seems original.

9
It extends from us to be seen;
It directs and reveals itself
So that we believe, individually. And only then
Will we recognize ourselves as fitting the surge
And fulfill the promise to that which we believe, unending.

10
It is the life itself that expands
Once you recognize yourself as one whose cause you've carried
All along. One for which entirety is available, probable,
Already turning toward the sun,
And the burning, and the flower.

Read the original: May 19, 2008

Calling Home After the News

2009-04-04T20:52:00.000-04:00

The way my brother put it,
the power went first, just before,
and the yard went blue, and the glow held on them.

The VCR stopped blinking 12
and the motors each slowed or stopped to listen.
And inside, what? He didn't say. But the trees, he heard them
snapping like vegetables.

Careful not to press your face to the glass.
You have a lot of small things you'll miss,
which aren't worth listing.
I hope I'm one of them.

Read the original: April 4, 2009

Love Poem

2009-04-03T11:38:00.000-04:00

Our loot scored itself.
But it's hard to have a handle on what keeps.
Is this rain, packed in snow? Is this seed?

Tanager, you are what you eat.
Take honey with your bread
and bread with your meat. And turn down

the switch. Locked ward. Door blown open
from the inside.

Read the original: April 3, 2005

Into the Wee Hours, They Laid

2009-04-02T19:32:00.005-04:00

(napowrimo extra credit)

Fragments

He laid down with the grace of the round-faced flower
who made peace with the seasons and slept and died




only to pace near the flaked shore and grasp and pray
for another thumb  another organ to waste 
                                                          nor sacrifice
oh liquor or love or the hate for his brother's wife. Or th




Collapse, said the sworn taker, I don't want to let you die
But the peace is made, and the bed. Morning is weak
Or wise
              Men say what they say to their wives because they love them.
              They say wait, but they're wrong, they mean now.
              But what is life if it isn't made to escape into each other
              Or to break bread at dawn and not notice your companion
              Coming back as the dead do to listen, or to remember faces.




while compasses are big because they were made to be read
and the courts make the most with their gods' great anger
except when they choose: trigger or anthem. I knew just east of you.
I knew west of you too but I didn't listen. you were young once. you were open
to watching the same movies and you were the same when I opened my eyes.
and we were treated fairly for once and it was worth every sacrifice written
or treasure found 
          ever
for       
  
    in




Collapse
said the 
sworn
ene
my
I
Don't know 
how to w
ant th
at
I
Have dreamt
as many t
imes a
s yo
u

Sexuality

2009-04-02T16:16:00.001-04:00

This isn't death, not even a little.
And yet
you let him call him up or let him

call your brother's house.
Did you
shake as you answered?

Did you ache with so much
anger
for how he loved your

not knowing how?
Belief
is a low moan, horribly

alone in its hope—
believe
me, they’ll bury you in it.

Read the original: April 2, 2005

Apical Dominance

2008-05-19T07:35:00.001-04:00

This diagram, drawn from observations
of a pruned and active force, describes the pattern
born to every cell that opens, and each
who is cause or casualty of empire, reckoning,
and each who is good before an unnamed god,
and who sleeps and wakes by a season--however brief,
as in our human day--each who forms
a capsule or a bud, and spells from her ovary essence
the blueprint, split in indecision, but peaks at the throat, by bract,
ceasing to fire and course through will of exile,
this pact, instilled. Is it peace? Will the silent sin be given
in death; that which eludes the intrinsic circle,
riding by way of exodus, its entrance--
This all will end. And in its shift is the arrangement,
present at each node which feels, with drought displaced,
having waited for inflorescence to amend the circuit
before breaking from the gates of the system,
the trigger: cease or completion of the terminal bud,
whether accidental or purer in intention, severance,
aborted or flowering.
Have I said too much?
The cause is writ. The lot is bought and tended.
And yet, the vegetable cycle is never secure,
depending, as we each depend, on comet combustion,
on the lunar sea of atomic traction, on these mystery momentums
graced upon us by a common source. . .
whose cause we invent and enact, as culture,
and bore eternal, as worth and trophy.
It is pleasant to have faith in intention,
to set as proof the awe and gratitude, entering in.
To attach yourself to the spiral, that which continues and whirls,
which outward, asks, throughout us. Pleading onward
with praise and action the soul's commitments.
It is freedom to commend, not speak,--
It is freedom to arrest the flux and breed,
the limbs of your bodies outheld,
and to need among the labors of life some of that which longs
and holds, which bores, which brings on meaning, first,
then language, to pass despite distortion, as utterance,
the developments of kindness. Concern yourself as children.
Purify by way of act and name, by spirit of example,
so that the boundary is created in unison and isn't owned.

The apex is a replica by design, but seems a reality.
It extends from us beyond the curtain and is seen.
It directs and reveals itself so that we believe in excellence. And only then,
and only after their star hours are gathered and spent
will we recognize ourselves as fitting the surge
and breathe our directions outward in reason
to fulfill our promise to that which we believe, unending.
And looking down, finally, at the height assumed,
will you recognize yourself as one whose cause you've carried
all along, whose entirety is available, probable,
turning to the sun, and the burning, and the flower.

Poem In Your Pocket Day

2008-04-17T11:30:00.002-04:00

Celebrate the first national Poem In Your Pocket Day today by carrying around your favorite poem and sharing it with family and friends. Don't know what poem you'd like to carry? Check out pocket poems on Poets.org.

Portrait of Ann Lauterbach by Charles Bernstein, 12-4-06

2008-04-10T00:18:00.000-04:00

Upcoming Events

2008-01-28T12:36:00.000-05:00

Readings and Workshops in New York City and Jacksonville, FL... for those in the area.

KGB Faculty Selects
With Michele Fialer and Matthew Main
85 East 4th Street, NYC
February 7, 2008
7 p.m. - 9 p.m.

Douglas Anderson Writers' Festival
With Billy Collins, William Trowbridge, Diane Glancy, and others
Jacksonville Main Library
303 North Laura Street
March 15, 2008
8:30 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.

Nick's Blog (Again)

2008-01-28T12:06:00.000-05:00

Avid readers of Interrobanger should note that you can now find the work of Nick Eliopulos at nickelio.com

QT: Queer Readings at Dixon Place

2007-07-23T11:38:00.000-04:00

Mark your Calendars! I will be reading with queer emerging fiction writer Justin Torres on October 23rd at Dixon Place.

You can find all the information about ours and other readings in the series at QT: Queer Readings at Dixon Place.

Vows

2007-07-04T16:52:00.001-04:00

A False Proposal

2007-07-04T16:37:00.001-04:00

Can you talk like your house is on fire?

2007-07-04T16:34:00.000-04:00

Why act so formal?

2007-06-13T08:24:00.000-04:00

THE LOVER:
I just don’t see the point of it. I mean,
why act so formal? Why hold back at all?

CONSEQUENCE:
(Whispering.) Say you’re not holding back.

THE POET
I don’t… I don’t expect you to understand.

CONSEQUENCE:
He crosses to THE LOVER; a spotlight follows.
They’re close enough to kiss. Somber, he swallows.

THE POET:
Why rhyme? Why verse?

THE LOVER:
Billy...

THE POET:
Why paint what isn't there?
Why bother learning steps—or anything?
Why give the horn its valves or string our hair
along the cello, asking it to sing? —
If people sculpted everywhere they went—
No— If we all danced our way to work each day,
of course it would seem pointless to be sent
to sit in the dark before some wrought ballet...
And yet we talk (A pause.) of how some poets speak
as if it's simply pretty, passion spent,
when really it's the making sound we seek,
not tradition only, some trick accomplishment.
My tribe... We are rememberers of music!
Glorifying language by using it.

The Straight Road to Kylie

2007-05-23T08:12:00.000-04:00

Thursday, May 24
Pop Rocks! at Bar 13
E. 13th St. at University Avenue, NYC
Doors at 10, 21 and up, no cover, $1 vodka drinks from 10-11
ALL-KYLIE DANCE FLOOR in the upstairs space from 10-12
Two levels of dancing, plus an awesome roof deck
Free books! (While supplies last)

Book review: This Is PUSH

2007-05-20T14:35:00.000-04:00

This Is PUSH: New Stories from the Edge
edited by David Levithan (2007, Push)

Ever since I read David Levithan's exceptional Boy Meets Boy (Knopf, 2003) a few months back, I have wanted to read more of this author's work, so when I found that he had edited this recently released anthology of stories by other authors of Push (an imprint of Scholastic Books aimed at teen readers), I snapped up a copy. Despite the excellence of Boy Meets Boy, I thought that the overall quality of this collection would be similar to most such collections: it would be the usual grab bag of some good, some bad, and most merely passable stories.

I am happy to report that I was wrong wrong wrong: every story in this anthology represents quality work. While this consistent quality of This is Push makes it difficult to distinguish any one story as "the best," Billy Merrell's "My Boyfriend Refuses to Speak in Iambic Pentameter" is, I believe, an instant classic and I would be surprised if it didn't show up on next year's Lambda Awards. This is an amazing little gem in the form of a play in blank verse that portrays the relationship between two teen boys and the struggle toward expressing emotion, which represent the teen struggle toward self-expression but also a defiance of social pressures for individuals to maintain a "don't tell" silent complicity in exchange for token acceptance. Iambic pentameter's classical roots in subversive speech have rarely, in modern poetry, been made so starkly apparent.

Blank quote start
You think I speak like this because I can? Because without the beat there is no heart?! My form is not my structure, it's my mode: it's how I handle love....I hope you sing — but not because you think I want you to. Because you can't hold back, so much unsaid, because you've looked so deeply in my eyes that you can't see much else. Because instead of wanting your life the same, you realize that maybe it can never be again. And that's okay.
Blank quote end

Other favorites are likely to be based, as mine are, upon personal preference, and there is a wide rang of storytelling modes to choose from. "Six Killers" by Markus Zusak is a story told from the perspective of a quirkily original goth teen who works as a gravedigger in a cemetary, while "People Watching" by Chris Wooding gives the classic first date story a fantasy spin.

The story I fell in love with, however, is Christopher Krovatin's "Ginger," in which a young girl has a crush on a red-headed punk boy who hangs out in her father's used record store. The characters are smart and believable and did I mention smart? (Up to now, I had not really thought about the idea of the "first date book," even though I have one of these stories myself.)

Having fallen in love with Christopher Krovatin's writing, I went looking for other works by him, and was pleased to find he wrote a book titled Heavy Metal and You (Push reprint edition, 2006), which features a protagonist who spends the story explaining why he loves heavy metal, a story idea I find particularly appealing after having read Joe Hill's _Heart-Shaped Box_, which got me thinking about the mythic and narrative possibilities of metal music. Krovatin also has a new book coming out titled _Venom_, but I have not been able to locate any information about it.

Whether you are a fan of YA fiction or not, This is Push is an outstanding collection of short stories, and I recommend it strongly to anyone who craves the experience of falling in love with some new writers.

- The Blind Bookworm Blog

Eight Sonnet Monologue

2007-05-17T08:15:00.000-04:00

THE POET:
I don’t even know what’s left for me to say.
And yet it doesn’t feel as if we’ve started.
This isn’t us. Not really. It’s a play!
And soon we’ll all forget it, having parted
after such a brief and useless pantomime.
If we could only meet again, with warning.
If we could only show you, take our time
revealing ourselves… One afternoon—one morning
across a table, across a cup of coffee…
But there are so many of you—so many of us
we haven’t had a chance to truly offer.
You understand, I’m sure. Ridiculous
for me to think that we could really share
not only us, but who we are together.

By definition what we are when alone
can’t be revealed at will, shown off, or known—
even by us. So it’s not you. It’s that
not even we know what we really have.
Or had. Sometimes I thought I did. Would write it.
And when we fought, I thought we did despite it.
Caring so much for us, we each felt right
until our righteousness outweighed the good.
I mean, if you want your money back, you should.
We don’t know much better about love
than you or anyone… Well, maybe some.

A pause.

THE POET:
No, maybe most. We do know love. It’s just
I hoped to share it, sing it. Not instruct.

But what’s the point of singing if it’s love
that keeps the words from ringing in the ear?
When it’s the word that frightens people from
the very thing I wanted you to hear?
I’m not the type to preach—ask anyone—
but I thought that maybe if you stayed a while
locked in the cage (a little friendly fun)…
And you can go on forever in denial
of if the cage is metal or your self.
I’ll save my grave polemics for one on one,
but why deny the kind of human love
that isn’t what you thought that it would… Love:—
But I always knew I hadn’t known it yet.
So once I did, it was my will which saw it

in such a life I wouldn’t have expected.
Then I spent—well, too long among my friends
waiting to hear if he would be rejected,
if what I felt was real or just… pretense.
I cared for him but wouldn’t race toward “we”,
protecting my self—my self—for all its worth.
And it took longer, but we’d both agree
it’s better for our patience…

A pause. A laugh.

THE POET:
Is this Earth?
Is this rant of mine the least bit relevant?
Maybe it’s not—but in case, I think I’ll finish:
I’ve spent too long uneasy with what it meant.
See, first there is the problem of being “in it.”
And that is something I can’t speak about
having loved once, and only one. But I don’t doubt

it’s possible to love as many times
as there are people—and that’s the part that gets me.
Of course not any two can be combined
peacefully with each other. But in theory…
For me, love is less some magic to be proud of
than the product of two living fully, deeply.
And that depth is something willed as much as found.
Patience and willingness to find in people
what you expect for them to see in you.
Of course it isn’t simple—but it’s easy.
If you’re open to your lover’s endless value.
And easier, too, if who you choose is pleasing.
To the eye, to the hand. To the silences you share.
To who you want to be and who they are.

Not to say it can’t be work. It can sometimes.
I’m saying it shouldn’t feel laborious.
To spend a life in forfeit and alive
with someone else who gives as much as takes.
I’m saying that choosing who is lonely work
but that the rest is worth the countless losses…
I’m doing it again. Right? Stop the clock!
I see it in your face when I say loss.
See, some of you who’ve loved in the same way
recognize me as one who’s shared that cost
while others pity what he takes away.
And friends will too that too, meaning their best.
They’ll try to talk you down from that sweet ledge
unless they too have loved… Let’s make a pledge:

I will not let somebody who isn’t me
Decide what kind of love I want or need.

Say it with me now.

Silence from the audience as he begins the pledge again.

THE POET:
The audience begins the pledge with him

CONSEQUENCE:
No they don’t.

THE POET begins the pledge again, more pleadingly. His voice fades into a long silence.

THE POET:
Well, I can’t make you. And I won’t even try.

A little laughter from the audience and then an awkward silence.

THE POET:
It’s not my place to turn you into sheep.
I’m sorry if I’ve offended you… But why
wouldn’t you want a love that values depth?

A pause.

THE POET:
It’s not my job to sell you on my choices.
Just to illustrate—no. To shape them with our voices.

A pause.

THE POET:
And even that seems false now as I say it.
I never meant to put us on display.
So you can approve or be moved to not stay shut.
I simply wanted to fix our world some way—
Fix, like set: to music or in stone.
I hoped simply to sing it and be done.

And how I hoped the words would entertain
simply by being. As if there weren’t enough
already in your ear… If I could say
anything now to redeem myself, or our love…
But your hearts are gummed with sugar as it is.
Plus who wants to hear of the boy who won his wife?
A tragedy is sweeter on the lips:
better to step from grief back to your life
than witness such a fine and rare—or is it?
I go on as if I know what yours is like
when I’ve loved once and briefly, claiming it isn’t
work, isn’t hard. But what do I know? Love…?

THE POET breaks down into sobs.

THE POET:
(Through tears.) But what do I know? It doesn’t even rhyme.

He sniffles, collecting himself. A sigh.

THE POET:
I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time.

Notes, Notes

2007-05-02T00:26:00.000-04:00

(NOTE ON THE KISS: The tongue can taste itself,
can tell the time by where the tension’s stored:
at the roof, if not the gums, if not the floor—
if not the body that surrounds the mouth.
And the lover, if there is a lover, waits
at the door, always, for an answer: let him in.
Curious sight and grip and whisper—curious grin.
He wipes his face away, but leaves the taste.)

THE LOVER:
You haven’t kissed me like that in a while.

THE POET:
You haven’t let me.

Nick's Too Sexy for His Muppet

2007-04-02T08:32:00.000-04:00

Free Desserts & Poetry

2007-03-30T11:59:00.000-04:00

I'm reading at a book launch event. If you're in the New York area and have a sweet tooth, this will be the place to be April 9th—Penguin Classics has arranged for a decadent spread of catered desserts for the reception of this free reading. Check it out:

Honor Moore, Bob Holman, Maureen Howard, Dan Brady, Adam Kirsch, Lisa Rodensky, and Billy Merrell will read from the new anthology Decadent Poetry: From Wilde to Naidu, a definitive collection of poems that express the languid eroticism and aesthetic rebellion of the late Victorian age.

Reception and dessert spread to follow the reading. Indulge your sweet (and literary) tooth by joining Penguin Classics as it celebrates the launch of an exciting new collection of poems.

Oh Savannah.

2007-03-22T22:16:00.000-04:00

Marriage

2007-03-19T08:37:00.000-04:00

God of America, raise high your arches.
Let one be one, but let us also pair.
In you, we are divine, but also human.
We borrow from the world; we live comparing
one love against the next, again, until
we’ve made a nest by accident. A shelter
in you. Amiable slight, you are mine as well.
You live by our hearts as we do. For the cure
of aggression, of failing relevance, of shame—
for the cure is tolerance for how we act
when we’re truly living hardest in your name.
Let us praise you again and learn to bless you back
Let us sing, again, your anthems, and your song.
Americans, again (or once and for all).

Paisley Abuse

2007-03-19T08:36:00.000-04:00

Opening Into It

2007-03-19T08:30:00.000-04:00

From the first sounds it is clear we’re in the city. Cars grind quietly in the street; perhaps an airplane thunders overhead. And then we are behind glass, in an apartment. There are footsteps down a hall and lights turned out.
And then the sound of the first of the birds—preferably scarlet tanagers—flying about within the room’s closed acoustics. It sings a small song, then is joined by several others. The sound should be chaotic, but comforting. How they speak in movement and punctuate one another’s shifts with their own.

CONSEQUENCE:
(Laughing.) It’s birds! They have a way of getting in:
first one, then many; many, then a few.
They’ve come to see THE COUPLE act, pretend—
As any couple will, in time, by choosing
the slower, gentler kiss goodnight—not sex, not dreams,
but the Old World, with its film noir swallows
and its separate beds. Gates of some Eden’s Eve
shut for the night. While the man stays up and counts
between her breaths, watching her rising chest.
Licking the salt from his palm and the palm from his mouth…
He thinks she knows her choice, that she knows best
and how to cure their love if it’s gone cold.
Thing is, she’s sleeping as he rides toward the New World.

But the birds have seen it all. They’ve seen the end
and are rooting for THE COUPLE anyway—
have, ever since THE LOVER found in his friend
whatever one finds which makes him heel and stay.
And the year was easy, and the next one easier,
until they happened without much will or work.
And the birds looked on, unchanged by the changing scenes:
Florida ‘til fall semester, then New York,
where now THE COUPLE has settled down in bed,
and THE POET sighs, as he often does these days,
begging THE LOVER to ask, or turn his head,
which he doesn’t—just roll and shut—

THE LOVER:
It’s late.
You should try to sleep.

THE POET:
I’m trying. But Paisley’s sleeping on the sheet.

The sound of a wheezy dog lifting its jangling head.

THE LOVER:
Well push her off.

THE POET:
I tried, she just comes back. (To the dog.) Get off of me!

More jangling as the dog is moved and THE POET wrestles to get out of bed.

THE LOVER:
Where are you going?

THE POET:
I just can’t sleep. I think I’ll watch TV…

CONSEQUENCE:
But THE POET doesn’t. Instead, he gets some scotch
and sits in the dark for a minute, in his study,
watching the red eyes of 12:00 flash on the clock.
And then he moves for the light and grabs his journal,
uncaps his pen and turns to face the page.

There is the sound of ice in the glass and of smoke drawn slowly in.

THE POET:
THE LOVER shapes a heart from what will burn well
and sets it in THE POET’s empty cage.
Sing, he says, then lights it. Sing to me.

The sound of burning for several seconds.

THE POET:
(Still in the voice of THE LOVER.) If only I could sing, I would, you know.
And THE POET smiles.

The burning dies out.

THE POET:
I know you would. That’s sweet.

THE LOVER:
Keep singing!

THE POET:
I can’t…

THE LOVER:
Keep singing, baby.

THE POET:
No.

CONSEQUENCE:
THE POET shuts his journal and the door.
and crawls in bed and passes quickly out.
The dog moves back to where she was before
and no one notices. The birds, too, mounted
in roost about the room, breathe in the night
as if the dark were ether, a chamber gone quiet.

The dog jangles as the acoustics of the room shift and broaden to suggest a large theatre. People shuffle in, chatting as they find their seats. An orchestra tunes as the titles are read...

Poetry & Collaboration

2007-03-07T23:37:00.000-05:00

Oh Whatever: Me

2007-03-06T01:14:00.000-05:00

You are a
Social Liberal
(60% permissive)

and an...
Economic Liberal
(23% permissive)

You are best described as a:

Democrat

Link: The Politics Test on OkCupid Free Online Dating
Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Six Sonnet Monologue, Ongoing

2007-02-20T22:49:00.000-05:00

I thought I’d loved. See, once upon a time
my heart was mine. To blow, like glass is blown,
to fill with my own breath, it's fullness finer
and finer as the molten walls went round.
I knew there was a craft to it, a patience—
and danger too, back draft of its collapse—
but learned my turning slowly was salvation.
That danger, cooled, is nothing. Nothing lasts
for it's own sake. You can't just set it down—
not even for a second. That's the goal...
Of course it needs to be maintained: once blown,
a bulb has yet to manage to stay whole.
But that's not what I meant to say. No, listen.
There's more to it than craft, or luck, or kissing...

There's more than I have words to put to use,
more than us or them or all of it combined.
Once, I broke my heart—I broke it. Choose
love and you choose to risk yourself. That's fine.
In fact, I'd say it was the only way.
I tried to love and stay the same, but no.
You can't: I broke. And not to is the shame.
People don't always notice, but they know—
You know, don't you, when looking back, you're gone.
You can't remember who you were completely.
And I know that love is "not for everyone",
that having it is not the end—don't quote me—
but if it is, don't fool yourself. Don't choose
to spend your life alone, afraid to lose ~~yourself~~.

I haven't said a thing I meant to say.
I'm sorry. It's just, I mean it. Love and all...
I couldn't stand to lose you. Jealousy,
fits of insecurity—the small
of your back as you lay shirtless on the bed.
I can barely brave the thought of coming home
to my own messes only. True, I'm afraid
to be alone. So maybe I'm more prone
to take a shift for someone, to admit...
There was a time I thought that I was wise.
I loved my broken heart, was proud of it,
and played the prophet, dolling out advice:
how love is not an answer, but a calling.
And how to answer it requires falling—

But I was wrong. Not that it is an answer,
but that to love means more than one thing only:
it's in the practice: filling, taking chances.
It's not a room in which you're never lonely;
Instead, it is a longing to be lost
in consequences not our own, or mine,
a sacrifice, which comes without a cost,
that sense of self impossible to find
without a heart for wandering toward loss,
for leveling the fields so we can stand,
equally mine and yours. That choice is the source,
replenishing, unfair. No god, no man
has ever known this much—and yet it's there
in—count them—all these homes. For every square

mile in the world, some creature's lying down
beside its other. And if they aren't a human,
maybe it's easier. No money around,
not ego to inflict, no path illumined
by faith or lost through lust, just shared survival.
And it's the one who claims to stand alone,
who doesn't need a mate or meet a rival,
who plunders happily on without a son
or daughter, and is happy... making friends
who'll somewhat share his life, but not really.
I simply fear it's easier pretending
all company's the same, save all that feeling.
It isn't sex I mean. It isn't that.
It's who contains you most, yet gives you back.

It's whose own sorrow can eclipse your own,
whose race you run, whose charms outlast their wishes—
whose pleading seems for pleading's sake—the one
who runs ahead, but waits to watch your finish.
It's who is least compelled to keep you his,
but for whom you would comfortably become
a farther star, set trembling at a distance.
A smaller spool, a briefer line. Less fun.
It's who can make you question and amend,
whose fullness fills you also, time and again,
who's more than just another thoughtful friend
but an accomplice, mastermind, and then
the very thing you need for him to be—
Surprise, your savior, partner, company.

Poetfan Contest Video for Work

2007-02-14T09:11:00.000-05:00

Check out the contest being launched by the Academy of American Poets and create your own multimedia submission. Sky's the limit. Online at: www.poets.org/poetfan

Les Dieux Qui Rient: A Tragedy

2007-02-02T10:10:00.000-05:00

Nick Eliopulos

Celebrate Oscar® Season with Poetry!

2007-01-30T16:19:00.000-05:00

Interrobanger!

2007-01-22T12:02:00.000-05:00

Nick's at it again! Finally.

Poems for Every Occasion

2006-12-28T17:03:00.000-05:00

Post this resource on your blog or website. A great place to find poems for a specific reason or for no reason at all...

Poems for Chanukah

2006-12-13T13:39:00.000-05:00

Queer Foundation to Offer Three $1,000 College Scholarships

2006-12-09T14:55:00.000-05:00

To the winners of the 2007 high school English essay contest, $1,000 scholarships are available for studies in queer theory or a related field at the U.S. college or university of their choice in 2007–08.

Recipients will be known as Queer Scholars. Their presence on campus will have a positive effect on the conditions of their fellow lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender students and other queer youth.

Application deadline: March 31

Click Here for more information.

Poems for Thanksgiving

2006-11-20T16:46:00.000-05:00

An essay I wrote for work about Thanksgiving & Poetry. Check it out. And if you have suggestions for others, let me know.

Illest Wall I've Ever Seen*

2006-11-19T12:55:00.000-05:00

*MÖTUG TRIBUTE TO “NYC'S OLD SCHOOL" SLIDESHOW

Looks

2006-11-15T14:01:00.000-05:00

Quick
and then twice
and then nothing at all.
And if the girl passes and it's my eyes,
I'm locked like a monument at its base.

Each time I see, by accident,
some wild man's want, his huntress mind
barreling, so the cold fire reels,
I turn away.

And if he seems a straight man,
and if his lust snares on me somehow,
I first don't look, then turn to see—and if he's steady
and not afraid, I am the one to flee.

Why? When I'm the one who's free?
When I have shaken from dirt to stand in the city?
Perhaps I fear I've mined for it—
Who've never cruised or cared to

but in sleep. The animal in him
smells mine, knows it. And the fault—No,
none of that. The huntress kills as we do.
And the body is not one to blame.

The Boyfriend Who Wrote a Book

2006-11-14T18:31:00.000-05:00

The Straight Road to Kylie will be in stores this spring. It's about an out and proud gay high school senior who, after helping a friend out by taking her virginity, is believed to be straight.

I won't ruin the fun by telling you too much more... but I will say that hilarity ensues, that the "Kylie" in the title is Aussie Pop Diva Kylie Minogue, and that it's only queer YA book I've read that pulls off being so much fun without having a drop of gay angst. Finally!

I would certainly recommend it even if it wasn't by my 4-year boyfriend, Nico Medina. He has no clue I'm posting this or anything.

Pre-order a copy today! It would make him (and me) exceedingly happy.

Oh, and this is him. Isn't he cute? Bleah.

What Cool Packaging. I want.

2006-11-13T00:53:00.000-05:00

Divorce

2006-11-12T18:13:00.000-05:00

to the tune of "After All" by Dar Williams

Come inside. Fall asleep,
beside the photo of a family.
Once upon a time they both knew me,
and knew it was me they were for.

All that first life,
I was stunned at how the feelings fit.
All the windows lit with brightened bits
turning on through the blue,
with sky in my room.
And it seemed like
the curtains had changed but it was really me.
I had ideas of what love would be,
watching as he kissed her.

Then when they broke, that was it:
the wishing well had a hole in it.
And the neighbors fished for regrets and shit.
So we learned to lock doors.

When the king came
home to admit he had lost the game,
and the kingdom of our given name,
my brother held the camera.

As we curled in our nests,
comforters piled upon our little chests
carpet shag an adequate mattress,
we tried all night just to sleep,
kerosene at our feet—
And the screen flared,
the VCR having ate the tape,
the glare of static until we blinked awake,
the lantern cool beside us.

When my father spoke,
he smiled at how my brother tackled me.
Our mother said she loved us equally.
I’d listen while I helped her.

Come inside. Fall asleep,
beside the fortress of a memory.
Once upon a time they’d fight for me,
but there’s no one to blame
when there’s no game to play—
And it’s too long
of a story to explain it all.
I’m no longer who you thought you called.
I’m just the jerk who answered.

Harry Potter wants to become a Poet

2006-11-09T12:38:00.000-05:00

"The Harry Potter movies may be the only films in which fans may get to see actor Daniel Radcliffe on the big screen, for he may just ditch his acting career to become a poet."

William Logan on Publishing Poetry

2006-11-06T23:15:00.000-05:00

"My theory about publishing poetry is so depressing, I’d rather not put it on the page. Here goes. Take the trade and university presses, and the better independents. The first year, I suspect most poetry books sell between 500 and 1000 copies. Let’s say 750. Perhaps 250 of these go to libraries, where ten get taken out and read. (By this I mean read cover to cover. Otherwise it’s not reading; it’s browsing.) Two hundred are bought at readings or by fond friends and ignorant relatives. Of these copies, 20 might be read (if we’re talking about my relatives, the figure is lower). The remaining 300 copies are bought by the few people in the country who read poetry, and of these fifty copies might be read. By my count, the book gets fewer than 100 readers the first year. Perhaps the book receives one or two reviews (an editor told me that half the books he publishes—this is a New York publisher—get no reviews at all.)

The second year is worse. Now the book sells 30 copies, of which perhaps five are read. The books in the libraries gather another 10 or 20 readers. The third year the book sells 15 copies, or is remaindered. After six or seven years, the public library copies get sent to the Friends of the Library sale. The university library copies gather dust. My advice is, if you want to write poetry, learn to love silence.

Say, then, that in three years, in a country of 300,000,000, a book of poetry sells 800 copies. You could search through five football stadiums, each seating 75,000, before you could find one buyer. If I’m correct that only about 100 of those buyers finish a book of poetry, you’d have to search through 40 stadiums to find even one person who had read the book. We live in a minor art. That doesn’t mean we love it the less, or hate it the less.

There are exceptions; but—let’s be honest—few poets selling ten or twenty thousand copies will be of any interest 50 years later. There were dozens of poets who sold much better than the young Eliot or Pound. Stevens’s Harmonium sold so poorly it was remaindered for 50 cents a copy. If you sell a lot of books and want a lasting reputation, hope that you’re Robert Frost."

A Husband's Soliloquy

2006-10-30T14:15:00.000-05:00

So what if the world is a fixed sphere,
if the paced space tilts onward
and we know nothing but what the light catches,
now in from elsewhere? I have lived a little
and learned too little—this road
then that traversed over and over,
and what I see glittering along the way
rivers in the tall pines and down
into the man-made dirt, holding out.
The brides are all in uniform, and the girls
don't mind—why should they? But the boys...
We've known as long as our mothers
that when the world shakes or is knocked free
it will be the men who will be asked
to right our wrongs. And the women,
God bless you, you'll forgive us.

Sleeping in lots, tearing loose from our beds,
walking drunkenly home from church,
bawling and bawling as the traffic bawls past.
We've seen what the dead do with history
and can only hope that when we are dead
things will finally be different. Still,
the canvas dries more slowly than the sad street;
the figures in the windows are as lonely.
So what if the world is only what we make of it?
There's no time for answers now that we've won
and gone tame through our neighbors' yards
hoping to steal our balls back. Girls,
you astonish me daily. Women, you devour me whole
in a way that makes me happy to have loved you.
My wife knows more than me in many ways:
she kisses in a way that tells me not to worry.

Oh, how the living heart lends some luster
to the boy awake who's counting backwards.
His body's heavy from being kissed and left.
Not from the dark shape of the room after,
but the kiss and the pinned breast
and the singing heat of a fever between sheets.
The lance is so long it pierces whatever it sees,
so he falls off his horse as quickly as he begins
whichever work is taken seriously today.
My, how we forget that the reasons, too, change,
that the mined lust has its own gravity to speak with.
Brides and horrific nights alone, tedious callings
for or from your own wont vocabularies... Shade me
from the vulgar disciplines we live by.
I want to be folded and yours forever, despite myself;
I want to be trampled alive with need each time I'm left.

The Dolphin

2006-10-29T13:56:00.000-05:00

Red sand breaks in bricks that make the hand
solid against their loosening. A crack, then clumps,
then the giant unmakes the cliff, at once in his grip.

The skull was dark; the crown caked with shadow.
And the giant told the others Let’s dig here, just to see…
until we held her together, the soft shapes opening.

A boy, I saw her like no one could, and missed her.
The body browsed for meat, her spine intact—
and the girders. How the city now looks over her

as I pass a small death, a child lonely on a curb,
smashing the insects just to break the line.
Forget the snake that curled out toward us;

forget that the skin will fall away finally.
The bones show their dark selves eventually.
Let light or fog or canvas break. We have so much

left to uncover. Lean down through dust
to save yourself. But dig, brother, if nothing else.
Until each of us can see the final forms.

Poets in the Graveyard

2006-10-27T07:51:00.000-04:00

Check out this article I compiled for work. And just in time for Halloween. I've found as many American poets' graves as we could and put them up in hopes that people will search for gravesites near them. Check it out >

Paisley with Uncle Ed

2006-10-24T01:13:00.000-04:00

Reckoning with Hart Crane

2006-10-23T10:41:00.000-04:00

Today: Monday, October 23, 6:30 p.m.

Contemporary poets and critics discuss the life and work of the poet Hart Crane upon the publication of The Library of America's Hart Crane: Complete Poems & Selected Letters. With Langdon Hammer, editor of the new volume, Herbert Leibowitz, Wayne Koestenbaum, Brian Reed, and David Yezzi. Moderated by Rachel Cohen.

Admission is free.

Co-presented with The Center for the Humanities, CUNY.

The Graduate Center, CUNY
365 Fifth Avenue at 34th Street (Skylight Room)
New York, NY

You Read My Mind

2006-10-22T14:41:00.000-04:00

Ed Parades Sadly

2006-10-22T14:12:00.000-04:00

Broadway & Houston

2006-10-20T10:03:00.000-04:00

Early yet.
The perfect morning & the perfect day.
The fog dawn spent & the wrapped buildings rising
in and out of their own steadying bliss.
What now

now that the bliss is theirs,
now that the elevator door has closed
and I, too, am gone,
rising off the wet, perfect street? What
now that the dream has pulled back its sheath
and let me in from the morning chill
to where I see no one?

Notes from Work

2006-10-20T10:01:00.000-04:00

"Poetry is the renewal of words forever and ever," Frost wrote in a letter to a friend March 6, 1938. "Poetry is that by which we live forever and ever unjaded. Poetry is that by which the world is never old. Even the poetry of trade names gives lie to the unoriginal who would drag us down in their own powerlessness to originate. Heavy they are but not so heavy that we can't rise under them and throw them off."

Low Tee by Philip Heckman

2006-09-24T22:34:00.001-04:00

Perhaps this is obvious. Or simply untrue.

2006-09-19T11:05:00.000-04:00

I find it easier and easier to believe that the problem with the poetry scene is that it's populated by such an incongruous array of intelligences. Poets and critics need to accept the fact that in such a varied field there's room for both masters and dunces—for both scholars that strive to understand through masterful control and passionate artists that long to record their intensity without the cypher of scholarship. Neither extreme wants to admit that it would be a less rewarding artform without the other, and I suspect that younger poets would be more willing to accept this and thus gather a more united front for poetry... except that we'd then be asked to choose which type of poet we are. When of course we strive to be both.

Love Song

2006-09-19T10:19:00.000-04:00

Mourn with me the sorrowed lot,
the borrowed hand, the brow-bent heart,
those tennants that outlive the lease
of who they've got to praise or please.

Ship with me the ruined home,
the house that's made of sand, of stone,
of coral drowned or kernels dried...
The moment comes; you eat the seed.

Say what, say how; say when and why.
The lonely take us under—I,
who've built a home of solid gold,
would cast, from us, these bricks of love.

We Are Not the Animals

2006-09-18T23:05:00.000-04:00

Look at how we cut the garden back,
how I stack the still-full boxes by the door.
Clear the bed; fill the aisle.
The bags are never full enough.
What’s more, the bridegroom gives a damn:
sleep in g in the corridor with me,
an autumn in his lap already.

We don’t sit in rows,
don’t wake aligned. We are water,
we are flesh—but we aren’t wheat,
can’t sit; we eat still standing
what we can of life. No hunger necessary
until the moment. He waits exactly,
conduit raised like a limb.

We do not trample us. We disengage:
falter only after marriage. Laughter made
of me. Laughter only. The party
in the kitchen has been running. We don’t
seize the afterlife with afterparties,
guns ablaze—in our homemade
rooms, in our homemade houses—days.

And this is how we tell: and this
is how we change: and this is how
the one of use is made
to love us holier. Animals break
their bodies for lust. Animals
turn their insect bodies away
and pack the dirt in columns, everywhere.

We stack the luggage by the bed
and empty, day by day, until it’s done.
We put away the dishes and the lust
compacts itself. The means fit neatly
where they should—while the tremendous air,
banking like the need for sleep,
groans in the garden wall, waking the neighbors.

We follow the star; we bury our dead;
we put our enemies in the pit until
they’re forgiven. Just drink and time,
drink and drink. The colander gives
and the noodles go everywhere
and it seems again the righteous have won.
Perhaps this time they have.

Wide Awake Today

2006-09-12T08:48:00.000-04:00

David Levithan's latest (and in some ways most ambitious) novel is out in stores TODAY. Pick it up. Pick seven up. It inspires.

I'm not finished yet, but there will surely be a "review" (biased as it may be) when I do.

Nick & Norah Comic

2006-09-10T16:35:00.000-04:00

Hilariously fun plug for my friends'—Rachel Cohn and David Levithan—collaborative novel for young readers. Check it out. As well as David's new book, Wide Awake, which will be in stores Tuesday, September 12th.

Quotes

2006-08-21T09:55:00.000-04:00

There is a world which poets cannot seem to enter. It is the world everybody else lives in. And the only thing poets seem to have in common is their yearning to enter this world.

-Mary Ruefle

The visual arts cannot make scripture—they only falsify it. God's promise was that God's Face would never be shown; who can copy what isn't revealed?

-Cynthia Ozick

Dismounting, Hour and Spear

2006-08-21T09:54:00.000-04:00

Forgiveness, like a quick stake, onward.
It has only one eye, one small point
to make. It hovers like a red diamond.
There is no one above it to hear you.

And the land is as open as the sea.
And imagine the pilgrims and their first
looking over their coasts, as you would
looking up over the your waves, out.

It looked like freedom, but was it?
I long for the field of view, of you
and me alone with a line of earth
and a sheet of sky. And under us,

only what's made to live up from the earth.
And the land is as open as the sea,
and the glaciers crack unto us. They know
we have not forgiven, nor been asked to.

Now It's Overhead - Dark Light Daybreak

2006-08-19T11:01:00.000-04:00

Pre-order Now It's Overhead's new album from Saddle Creek Records... now. And then add them at Myspace.

The band has two previous albums, both amazing in different ways. I'm particularly partial to their first, self-titled, release. In my opinion, the writing is better in the first, and the sound is maybe more carefully arranged in the second. Though a sampling of the new songs shows a return to a more immediate sound, which I am thankful for.

I saw them back in Gainesville, FL the year the first album was released and was immediately peddling their tracks to everyone who would listen. Frontman Andy LeMaster is amazing (and in more ways than one -- he's also a talented painter). One of Bright Eyes's producers, he's remixed REM and been involved in a number of other fascinating collaborations. And with Azure Ray's stellar vocalists involved, the result is a crooning, emotional, and ecclectic sound rich with harmony but innovative with melody and electronic elements. At least, that's how I've felt about the past discs. Having seen them a number of times since, I've missed the effect of Maria Taylor and Orenda Fink joining live, but what can you do. I'm sure they have their reasons. They're a busy group of talented kids.

THE POINT: Now It's Overhead is yet another reason to love the Saddle Creek label for their incestuous sense of experimentation.

Here are two tracks from the forthcoming record, due out September 12.

Let Up
Walls

Stephen Tobolowsky's Birthday Party!

2006-08-12T11:38:00.000-04:00

A Mantra

2006-08-08T07:49:00.000-04:00

"The work of a young writer . . . is sometimes a therapeutic act. He finds himself obsessed by certain ways of feeling and thinking of which his instinct tells him he must be rid before he can discover his authentic interests and sympathies..."

W. H. Auden

Several New Sonnets

2006-08-06T21:04:00.000-04:00

(SCENE: THE COUPLE are in the bathroom,
off stage. The audience can’t see them, but
THE POET is cutting THE LOVER’s hair.
Perhaps the sound of scissors or their occasional talk,
echoing in the tiled room, carries and is audible
to the first few rows. But the stage is lit and the birds
are building nests, coming in and out of open windows,
bringing material in from the street: the usual twigs,
but also plastic straws, frayed ribbon, a bit of bent wire.
The construction is complex and watching them
shape the gathered stuff is enough to watch.)

Can you believe I ever fought the swell,
that there was once no room beyond the gate
and I would kneel to listen for the knell,
pouring within it, dropping with its weight?—
As if the heart, afraid of loss, could know
which risk is worth the pain, or what remorse
does to the mind, unloved… Carrion crow,
black vulture that you are, or were, of course
the meat is sweeter when alive, the center
of the wrought world goes dead, useless unused.
Don’t keep the secret. Don’t deny it—Enter
what you thought was closed. To you. Become amused
by the sorry soldiers who mistook your land
for theirs. And planted ~~towns~~, changed your plans.
towers

(There is a flash of light and the birds flee
from their work. The front door of the apartment
unlocks and THE COUPLE enters. THE LOVER’s
hair is dry.)

-----------------

(All around them the birds start settling down:
first one, then another landing at their feet,
setting a minor weight upon the ground,
as if the cure for chaos were release…
The tentative grace of any smaller thing,
in greater numbers, calm among so much,
causes the heft to lessen: one can bring
some mountain down with the rain; that tiny touch
surrounds the body, stirred by the loss of self,
and the sea deepens elsewhere. The birds adore
their wandering down, the cloud releasing itself
again. THE COUPLE tighten at the core,
amazed to witness what they can’t remember
blazing with them, locked within their chamber.)

THE POET:
That’s it! The birds! They’ll stand for what we want;
they’re always dipping in and out of sight.
They’ll speak for us—if willing—when we can’t
speak honestly, the strangers looking on.
So only we will know when something’s wrong.

THE LOVER:
Sounds good to me.

(THE POET goes to kiss him, but refrains,
decides to illustrate their newfound code
by grasping wildly until his clutch contains
a small red wonder, adequate, it boldly
beating its wings. THE POET calms it down
by whispering the reason for its capture,
touching it quite gently on the crown.
THE POET smiles. THE LOVER too—but after
a second’s laughter, both recoil, their scene
disturbed. The curtain having parted, the birds
take flight: they scatter outward, up—fourteen
or so, their panic seeming posed, absurd.
THE POET, startled also, drops his hands,
but the bird, released, won’t leave. Instead, it lands.)

-----------------------

(SCENE: When the lights rise, THE COUPLE’s lips have met.
They sit in a dim space beyond the scrim, some music playing.)

What good is love if revealing it is boring,
so that the tongue doesn’t know the taste of one,
or the friend grows afraid of the ~~meaning—adoring~~

(Their lips part and there is a cloud of smoke.)

                                       if        men are warring?

(THE COUPLE bickers.)

What good is the life once all the living’s done
and the fields are felled and the king’s asleep alone?
The courage it took to conquer has all but vanished
now that his queen has left him and her throne
is dry. Why all the dead in the field, the banished
men at the gate? What will he do with it?

(THE POET frowns, but takes a drag, then leans
to offer THE LOVER a shotgun.)

What good is love if mapping it is boring?
I’d rather train the troops and bless the ships
than sleep without a flag to raise, not caring.

(Their lips part and there is another cloud of smoke.
THE COUPLE coughs.)

The fight is not a cure; the war’s a pity.
But to battle is ~~to live~~
       the                 ~~alive~~
                               a love, the mapping of a city.

(THE COUPLE become lost in smoke.)

-----------------------

(Around them: curtains, clothes: the cloth arranged
in rows—its ordered spectrum incomplete—
on racks of texture, fixtures now estranged
from use, hang there above the two, so neat
and orderly they now appear mere props
among the objects set in place. The shades
burn out, distorted in the light, a shock
of cotton flaring overhead. They fade:
the longer one sits looking up at them,
the more the eye goes numb to radiance.
And there THE COUPLE sits, their skin more tame
than the blazing room, content to take their chances—
or maybe they’re not ready yet to grant
what consequence holds steadily at hand.)

The Act Ends

2006-07-29T17:04:00.000-04:00

THE POET:
If you hate what I do so much then why are we here?
You think ~~it’s~~ boring?
                 I’m            You think it’s all so funny?
Well that’s just great. Hooray for commandeered
expression, for
                        After all, you paid good money,
you should get what you want: and we know it isn’t art.
You want to laugh, to cry, to fake a feeling—
never to think, never to know your part
in it. Or else when you leave, you won’t be leaving.
~~I get it.~~
So it’s us who should be locked in our own love,
not you. You want to turn back into bodies, broken
hearts, spoiled by our story. When it’s time to leave—
~~as if it’s ever the right time~~
and let’s hope it’s soon—you’ll take the little tokens
of our losses, you’ll carry them around
~~pretending~~ ~~you’ve lived~~
                  ~~to witness is to see~~
~~believing you have~~                               ,
forgetting it was us who ended—your clowns.

Love & Consequence: Process

2006-07-20T22:38:00.000-04:00

NOTE ON CONSEQUENCE:

2006-07-20T19:23:00.000-04:00

(THE POET gestures to the audience;
THE LOVER returns—both hasten consequence:

one by forgetting to honor Them, the other
by climbing into bed as if to eat—
though THE LOVER isn’t really hungry either.)

THE LOVER:
So—um—what now? Did you do a scene without me?

THE POET:
You didn’t hear a word of that—did you?

(Already, there’s the promise of an end:
THE COUPLE does. / THE COUPLE doesn’t do.
—though already there’s there a scene with them in bed.)

(NOTE ON CONSEQUENCE: Thy fruit is red;
thy swifting heart is blessed—or blessing still.
Chamber of languor and myth-making, mend
thy milk seasoning it with water—fill me.
Without your touch the sequence cannot move
to bound into the territory of Love.)

NOTE ON THE BIRDS:

2006-07-20T19:21:00.000-04:00

...

(NOTE ON THE BIRDS: How rough and worn the weight
of flight—the soul, when gathered, forms its own:
twinned claw and wing, each severed arc, each nape—
all grown inside the body, dropped. Alone
with death, life rises: emblazoned air, trembling
star of hot earth. The fall that forms in the gut
blooms in the arms before the mind, remembering
how dangerous and hard the world is when shut,
opens its doors so air can cool what light
arrives. The chest unhinges, strong from panic,
and the glacier that is the heart begins to fit.
The wind grows sturdier, its skin gigantic.
The sky that was the source becomes the field,
opening, and the ground a hoard revealed.)

OkCupid... 58%? Really?

2006-07-17T22:23:00.000-04:00

58% pure!

The 100 Point Sexual Purity Test. Tell them Billy sent you.

Veronica

2006-07-16T20:50:00.000-04:00

Sonnets following a kiss

2006-07-06T17:16:00.000-04:00

(THE COUPLE kisses, taking their sweet time,
while in the audience some light applause
erupts then fades as thunder might—no rhyme
or reason, just some faithful few—because
rejoicing seemed the thing to do—but no:
they heard among their many some disgust
and longed to silence it, or at least elbow
those standing back into their seats…Don’t trust
the man offended by your love. He’s mad
that his is not the only way: he bargains
with his lover for a kiss; he wants it bad—
so bad he’d force her face into the margins…
Regardless, there they go, their souls on fire.
THE POET tries to count them, but grows tired.)

THE POET:
I guess the love-that-conquers-all’s a dream.

THE LOVER:
No. That’s as close to forfeit as I’ve ever seen!

(The crowd that hears him answers with proud cheers.
Those leaving take their leave with stiffened smiles,
and the rest clap, their gaze intent—some sneer
at those ascending up the angled aisles,
but most sit graciously in waiting, paused
as if for a kiss. THE COUPLE looks on, bored.
But then, through darkness and its ebbed applause,
some men and women enter from the doors
to the lobby and claim the empty seats.
They quietly look up onto the stage
as if arriving late, each breach discreet,
their hearts already eager to engage.
THE POET, baffled, squints and shades his eyes;
The bright lights make him tear. It’s no surprise

that he climbs down into the darkness, off the set.)

THE POET:
What is this place? Who are you, with your calm
and your programs? I don’t believe we’ve met—
and yet you thunder like a loyal storm
beyond the lights, existing separately
so we can’t see and thank you. Houselights? Please?!

(THE POET calls into the ether, eyes
adjusting to the dark, pulse slowing down.
And then, responding to his desperate cry,
The houselights rise. Nobody makes a sound.
Some in the audience seem quite amused,
but others shift uncomfortably, not used
to being seen, arms tight against their chests.)

THE POET:
Well thank you, strangers; I wish you all the best.

(And from the gesture, THE POET flees again,
this time into the lobby, to the street.
THE LOVER panics too: alone, he bends
to climb down from the stage. The birds repeat
their glorious song; they call for him to wait
with a red rush, pleading from high in the air.
THE POET bursts back in, his stance sedate.
No longer out of breath, he gently goes to him.)

THE POET:
You’ll never guess. The line’s around the block.
They’re begging for these guys to let them in.
I said the house was full, but they won’t stop.
I said I’d ask. They said it’s worth a shot.

(THE LOVER, baffled, looks past him and nods.

The floodgates open; people fill the aisles,
fitting where they can. And quietly.
Looking out over the sea of smiles,
THE LOVER laughs, unsure how proud to be.)

THE LOVER:
They’re here for us? They want to see the show?

THE POET:
Well not for us—it could be anyone:
the hunger drives us each to learn, then know
what love is like (when it is love)—and none
deny it, though they may not be as free
to witness it, or free to share it here—
or to know even how to share it. We
are gifted in our love, yes—but we’re queer
in that we’re welcomed into lovely view.
And with its blessing, loved—as I love you.

THE LOVER:
I didn’t catch a word of that. But thanks.

THE POET:
I’m just saying. They’re here but not for us.
We each arrive for any chance at love,
even someone else’s. It’s enough.

The Full Spectrum Reviewed in The Huntsville Times

2006-06-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

The Huntsville Times:
"I picked up the book only to pass along to a friend who's interested in these issues. I was not going to read it. I thought I had nothing more to learn on the subject. I was wrong..."

"... it is not a book about sex, but about defining yourself in a hostile world."

Come To You: Another Carina Round Track

2006-06-22T15:14:00.000-04:00

Another killer track. "Come To You" is allegedly the first single from her new album SLOW MOTION ADDICT, to be released next week! Visit her myspace for more info and samples.

Provincetown*

2006-06-21T12:06:00.000-04:00

At four months, we walked an hour through March
Across the jetty as the wind drew across us.
Each stone unlike the next, each step shorter
Or longer—so that the walk seemed like a journey,
Though the point of our futures was fixed.

Looking down between the rocks, we had to stop
Looking ahead, saw the calm spaces hidden there
Where the birds would reach for fish and crabs
Before leaving their shells to dry in the light
On the next rough, uneven surface. Jetty of death,
The reaper says, setting his case to air in the sun.

But there was none: life was brimming and wet,
And the wind filled my eyes with water
As I looked sweetly back to see where you were,
How far or near your careful steps had carried you.

We didn’t hurry to get there. Each day was easy
Under our feet; each step more and more sure
Until four years had passed beneath our feet
And there we stood on solid ground again
More than a little shaken from all that care.

The land opened and I felt free, our bodies able
To step side by side after so much walking
Through which only one of us could follow.
And the light was good and the wind had thinned
As we climbed the first dune, looking down.

This is the long road down into winter, this
The gleaming spring already behind you. We sat
And heard the water all around us and talked there
For a moment as the gulls came to learn our game.
On a beach, alone, nobody for miles,
We sat and talked and perhaps looked lonely

To a bird high up in the air, having passed us by.
We knew what it was for, this moment,
Saw the condoms swollen in the sand, the plastic debris
Fading and brittle in the wind and winter sun.

But the light was good and the wind had burned us
And whatever rituals we were meant to arrive through
Seemed foreign and sad and hardly ours. We are not
The men you want us to be. We like our peace
But savor it differently. We arrive and sit and talk a while.
And loved our lovely bodies, distinctly, before crossing back.

*Written as a dare to rewrite the event of the previous poem more accessibly.

Places Series: Provincetown

2006-06-16T20:53:00.000-04:00

Island beyond the jetty—have we sand,
have we the courage to make love on top of sand,
have we August—no. Have we man to man
in heat? ~~I’m~~
              Nothing. Not even fire—we understand
that our bodies age, that we age with them and die
with them. Our bodies. We age and die—and the funeral
aches. Bodies ache unto it. ~~Shard for shard~~
~~of sand blown against us.~~       By and by,
how it aches—that curtain, how—How’s that tune go?
Under the boardwalk. Boardwalk—out of the sun?
No, it’s March, Love. Hour of
                                         to dodge the cold.
Has love outlasted ~~our~~ it? Has time begun
again? Not yet. Let the fever burn—behold
the garlic sweetened in the ground, condom
and horn—have we sand? Have we the means to stop them?

2006-06-15T17:03:00.000-04:00

Easier, yes, to live for only love,
to write of it, responding to its myths—
as someone would, a myth himself (the trouble
of the psalmist charming Saul, or Orpheus
content to string a lyric line for this)—
but what of how it fails us when we fail
to last as long as love? We have no Christ
to wait for, no remorse to fill the sails
of daily life. Just trust—and so the sea
around us churns, concerned we’ll drown: what now?
What, now that art must steer us, will it be?
And such a flimsy thing to steer—the prow
much heavier than sheer amazement is—
and lessened by true intentions, mild at rest.

A Staged Awakening

2006-06-15T16:39:00.000-04:00

Which mystery in sleep cannot compete
with heaven? Tableaux of ornaments and ice—

       (No wonder why the poem begins
       with a dream, when so many dreams
       speak to us in waking: remember
       that paradise is this and only.
       Cobblestones wet with sun at the sides.
       Fields uncut, an emptied street.
       There is no pleasure as ripe as one
       warm hand against the fur—still living.)

And the long road down into winter:
and those bastions, wrens. The wood lice.
And the multitudes pressed into shale.
And the amber dawn to redress the scape,
the firmament drowned far down the cape—
and how, knowing the answers in each of us,
they will look up toward spring, our bodies
high up, smiling from the top of the hill.

Luciferous Logolepsy

2006-06-15T15:18:00.000-04:00

It is a collection of over 9,000 words in English that are archaic, evocative, and are an experience to invite onto the tongue.

cynosure
n. - guiding star; object of common interest. cynosural, adj.

faveolate
adj. - honey-combed. faviform, adj. honeycomb-like.

keddah
n. - elephant trap.

nullibist
n. - person denying soul's existence in space.

rinderpest
n. - cattle plague.

ruderal
adj. - Botany, growing in refuse or waste ground.

uxorious
n. - submissive to one's wife

zeugma
n. - literary device of using a word to modify two other words with only one of which it is correctly used. zeugmatic, adj.

Luciferous Logolepsy: Dragging obscure words into the light of day.

Nico Painting (Acrylic)*

2006-06-11T15:45:00.000-04:00

*My first Nico Painting (Sans Photoshop)

2006-06-11T13:58:00.000-04:00

(THE POET wakes to sounds of gathering rain
and turns in bed to touch THE LOVER’s arm.
The dog wakes, on the floor. She acts the same
as always—maybe calmer. Not alarmed.
THE POET lays awake for several beats
before he turns to take THE LOVER’s hand.
THE LOVER wakes and asks what’s wrong. The sheets
are up around them, an oscillating fan
masking the noise outside. THE POET answers,
and kisses THE LOVER softly by the ear.
THE COUPLE turn and groan, and, practiced dancers,
begin their work of moving as a pair:
THE POET moves his hang along THE LOVER,
who smiles a sleepy smile. The two men hover

between the bed and the ceiling, losing clothes
with gentle motions, not like men awake.
THE LOVER moves more lucidly: he blows
some hair from his forehead, starts to laugh. If they break
from character, it’s only for effect—
the way that people change, their bodies bent
for lust, the mask of love irrelevant, reflected
only in open eyes. Emotions are spent
on aftermath’s strange bliss—not now, not here.
This part of them is theirs, not tamed by life
or any of its sister tenants: fear
of falling, fear of failing, fear of flight.
Of sudden endings: THE POET wakes again,
this time he knows the noise—it isn’t rain.)

Tin Man

2006-06-08T00:08:00.000-04:00

Or, as Nico says, Billy as Stewie Griffin as the Tin Man:

Places Series 1: Florida

2006-06-07T21:31:00.000-04:00

THE LOVER: It isn't working...
THE POET: Well close your eyes; your eyes aren't even closed.

Imagine green: the shape of several hands
raised to the moon—electric, yet reposed.
Imagine soil, its clumping blacks and bands
of coppered loam. Moth-wet moss and marsh-
animal heft—its breath upon you still.
Imagine dawn gone yellow in the wash.
Cactus grass, fire ants, humid windowsills.
Those phantom centipedes with polished sheaths
shifting through rooms of fallen burgundy,
their armor dampened by battle—or was it me
who breathed so lightly at your back? To see
the hairs go limp, to see the weight of it
beading like air on glass, on wood, on paint.

12 Angry Men

2006-06-05T19:12:00.000-04:00

from My Boyfriend Refuses to Speak in Iambic Pentameter

2006-06-03T13:14:00.000-04:00

I want the gesture—cometary ~~hand~~
                                             stroke
~~of hand in mine~~—
I want to see the pulleys and the cords,
that lavishly wild machine of love, bespoke,
~~mined~~
made mine by longing. And you: severely bored.
How can you say you love me—do you really?—
when you can’t ~~shoulder~~
                        show her, wholly, who I am?
Unbridled scope or scale, ~~unbroken trellis~~
                                       the kind of feeling
you can’t just ~~say~~
                     write without disturbing the calm
~~of a blank page~~
~~of sense~~.
You think I speak like this because I can?!
~~Because without the beat there is no heart?~~
My form is not my structure, it’s my mode:
it’s how I handle ~~love~~
                          truth; it’s how I ~~find it~~
                                                     land
squarely inside ~~the~~ self,
                        my         honestly ~~wrote~~
                                                       ~~wrought~~
                                                        ~~written~~
                                                         found!
It isn’t that I long for you to sing,
it’s that I long for care in everything.

Because without the beat, there is no heart.
And sentiments seem strung along on lines
of half-felt courtesies—when what I want
is romance strung upon a blooming vine—
not for the flowers, but for their opening.
In love, any truth is kind because it’s ~~true~~
real.
And any lie is worse ~~because it’s not~~.
I do hope you sing—
but not because you think I want you to.
Because you can’t hold back, so much unsaid,
because you’ve looked so deeply in my eyes
that you can’t see much else. Because instead
of wanting your life the same, ~~always,~~ you realize
(answer unlikely, answer made to bend)
that maybe it can never be again—
~~And that’s okay.~~

Two Starred Reviews for The Full Spectrum!

2006-05-26T13:41:00.000-04:00

I haven't been sharing all of the good news concerning The Full Spectrum, an anthology I co-edited with David Levithan, mostly because I've been posting everything at the book's site, Queerthology.com--but in case you haven't been keeping up with it (and why would you?), I just wanted to share that the anthology has received two starred reviews, one from Kirkus and the other from Booklist. Here are some quotes from each.

"This emotionally spicy collection will inspire identification, compassion and hope in readers queer or not." - Kirkus

"Insightful, extraordinarily well written, and emotionally mature, the selections offer compelling, dramatic evidence that what is important is not what we are but who we are." - Michael Cart for Booklist

Also, I should let you know that there will be a launch event for the book in New York this coming Tuesday. It is of course FREE and open to the public. If you are in the New York City area, it would be wonderful if you could show your support:

Tuesday, May 30, 2006
The Full Spectrum Launch Event with GLSEN
LGBT Community Center
NYC
6-8 PM

For a list of our other events, check out the Queerthology site.

New Music: Carina Round

2006-05-25T13:54:00.000-04:00

Carina Round, who despite a lack of presence in the American scene is one of my favorite musicians, has a new album allegedly coming out May 30th. Scratch that. June 27th: Slow Motion Addict. She's a bluesy rock goddess in line with Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, but with a more crooning balance of sound. But when she rocks, she does. And hard.

Her earlier album The Disconnection was my favorite album the year it came out. And now I've stumbled on two new tracks open for free download:

If How Many Times & Ready to Confess are an accurate sample of what's to come, I'm going to be a happy boy come June. The later, "Ready to Confess" is reminiscent of early Garbage, which should make Nico happy.

And just in time for his birthday. Here's the cover (I'm into it):

from "Entering to Win: On Poetry Contests" by Robert Casper

2006-05-24T12:08:00.000-04:00

"The truth is many literary publishers make more money from contest fees than they do from sales of contest-winning publications. In fact, literary publishers often rely on contest fees to survive, and become almost addicted to the yearly influx of cash."

To read the essay in its entirity, click here.

Robert Casper is the publisher of jubilat and the co-editor of jubilat press. He currently lives in Brooklyn with his wife, the poet Matthea Harvey.

A Timely Knowledge

2006-05-24T11:01:00.000-04:00

Apocalypse was not what it was promised to be:
The fires burnt out; the ice melted—so what was left
Was a great stillness no language could reach,

Nothing to distill it, which was the most still
Of all the things. No matter. There was none.
There was no matter, none. There was none

No matter what. No matter which or how we spoke it.
No matter how we spoke of things. They were still
Not ending. Only the record was, of them, despite us.

And so we paced there, after. And so after
We paced there, and having paced so, after,
We stopped our speaking and the end came naturally.

Faces

2006-05-23T09:34:00.000-04:00

My Boyfriend Refuses to Speak Iambic Pentameter, Act 1*

2006-05-23T00:20:00.000-04:00

Due to some particularities of formatting, this piece cannot be displayed here. To read the sonnets, you must CLICK HERE.

*an experiment/exercise.

Fear of the Other: An Opening Screen

2006-05-15T23:27:00.000-04:00

~

I am afraid because the powers that be are insistent, though not that we know it. Because even the poets are lost in our anaphora—Whitman’s body laid out for the taking—of need. Is it that we are safe and should fear less? Is it that we don’t need our language to say it? Yet information has found it’s freedom, is almost entirely free, and who is to blame. I have found my thou and know myself—what now? What poem? What will happen when democracy is realized and one hand clutches the truth while everything else runs full throttle. I am anything but alone, and yet it speaks within me. What I’m saying is already said, everywhere. Belief is endless. But it should still be uttered, still find its way from the closed mouth. Like a patient and lovely word fashioned from sorrow.
What I mean is only that information is free and welcome, yet it makes no money. We are lost of it, and sorry often. But it makes no money and so it’s entertainment’s gain. It draws us. Which is not to say we are all drawn. We pace beside it, no one afraid to say what it is. Some afraid not to. Yet it draws us and costs everything. Friends that let friends and all that. Companies stacked on top of one another. Oh God. But the vision is of children who speak of objects by proper names and sleep alone, contented in their futures. If I stop, now, the massacre. If I never write another and die content. If there is nothing in a life of passionate wandering. If I have fooled myself or been fooled. And loneliness is no captain.
And fawned for lusts know nothing of their basics. I am happy not to know. To be entertained by information. Oh, I was born of women and yet know none. And yet was fond of them, yet nothing. Yet I was found there outside of that peace and brought here. Into the not-city. Into the place of keeping from where we fear and loathe us. The last place we’d visit or pay to. The shame of being from someplace unnecessary. The fear of long lots and the simple trade of money for passions. Forgive me, Lord. There was no gate and I did what I had to do. The great and mighty was gracious and it said why and how so that I could follow. My name was in the book and I believed him. Now what? No word, no nothing. I came back to it and have only now seen.

Italian Sonnet

2006-05-11T10:18:00.000-04:00

Terza Rima

2006-05-11T10:01:00.000-04:00

Follow me until romance makes you weaker.
I will leave you there, wounds like blooming patience—
even marks on your hands will seem much meaker

once your pathos bleeds through its adolescence.
Stains you said would fade won’t, in fact they’ll brighten.
Time will cause your unnecessary conscience

pain in forms that seem fair; the sky will lighten:
marigolds in the fields you thought you burned may
simply look you up, call you. Don’t be frightened.

No one wants your inheritance. Your false prayer.
Say you finally choose the right one. They’ll laugh…
Lonely honeydew, lonely practical pear.

Sad to watch as you traipse the lawn for milk baths.
Sad to see how you fold your arms of milkweed.
You are loyalty muted, kind sans serif

need. I’d pull you from fear, but fear is your seed.
Make me stop it before I can’t. You have to
give me reasons to fight the flowers, Pansy.

I am not enough fuel to burn their roots. You
Are. If only you knew. We left you speaker…
Deaf to that underwhelming follow through.

April - Phone Photos

2006-05-04T00:48:00.000-04:00

talkinginthedark

I'm Back

microscope / telescope

Irony

After a Battle

Marriage 1

Apical Dominance

Calling Home After the News

Love Poem

Into the Wee Hours, They Laid

Sexuality

Apical Dominance

Poem In Your Pocket Day

Portrait of Ann Lauterbach by Charles Bernstein, 12-4-06

Upcoming Events

Nick's Blog (Again)

QT: Queer Readings at Dixon Place

Vows

A False Proposal

Can you talk like your house is on fire?

Why act so formal?

The Straight Road to Kylie

Book review: This Is PUSH

Eight Sonnet Monologue

Notes, Notes

Nick's Too Sexy for His Muppet

Free Desserts & Poetry

Oh Savannah.

Marriage

Paisley Abuse

Opening Into It

Poetry & Collaboration

Oh Whatever: Me

Six Sonnet Monologue, Ongoing

Poetfan Contest Video for Work

Les Dieux Qui Rient: A Tragedy

Celebrate Oscar® Season with Poetry!

Interrobanger!

Poems for Every Occasion

Poems for Chanukah

Queer Foundation to Offer Three $1,000 College Scholarships

Poems for Thanksgiving

Illest Wall I've Ever Seen*

Looks

The Boyfriend Who Wrote a Book

What Cool Packaging. I want.

Divorce

Harry Potter wants to become a Poet

William Logan on Publishing Poetry

A Husband's Soliloquy

The Dolphin

Poets in the Graveyard

Paisley with Uncle Ed

Reckoning with Hart Crane

You Read My Mind

Ed Parades Sadly

Broadway & Houston

Notes from Work

Recommended Reading

Low Tee by Philip Heckman

Perhaps this is obvious. Or simply untrue.

Love Song

We Are Not the Animals

Wide Awake Today

Nick & Norah Comic

Quotes

Dismounting, Hour and Spear

Now It's Overhead - Dark Light Daybreak

Stephen Tobolowsky's Birthday Party!

A Mantra

Several New Sonnets

The Act Ends

Love & Consequence: Process

NOTE ON CONSEQUENCE:

NOTE ON THE BIRDS:

OkCupid... 58%? Really?

Veronica

Sonnets following a kiss

The Full Spectrum Reviewed in The Huntsville Times

Come To You: Another Carina Round Track