under stand

i wasn't really there.
uh, well..
i wasn't really there.
when you say it
it sounds so different
than when i say it.
i wasn't really there.
i was always moving away.
i was always moving upwards,
moving outwards.
i was on skates.
i was riding a bike.
i was on an escalator.
always in the process
of leaving.
were never really
ready to leave.


i am brushing
my teeth then
climbing a tree then
making a list then
flying away-
wait, so,
i hate flying
because, well 
falling and flailing
that is to say
i keep reaching
into near distances
to lift a curtain
behind which
i find instances
of myself
looking back at me
holding the same 
diaphanous fabric
beholding the same
stage and audience
its more than 
that keeps me
pulling at threads
of reality.
its always the 
last time,
near the last line,
where i accept,
‘okay fine’
that all i am
sits here in this room
dreaming wandering
avoiding the
gloom and 
escaping tasks
that are  
launching me,
out of me
just to see
if i should be
doing anything
other than 
brushing my 


writing poetry is like craving coffee. one bad cup, one bad line and the day is ruined. and i hate knowing that in order to love that first sip i gotta drink like 15 cups to find it. and the problem in processing caffeine is that everything starts happening at the speed of sound. shit gets missed. light becomes leaden. time blinks in and out while my senses try and make sense. noticing focuses then snaps like an oversharpened pencil. yet i keep writing with that hobbled tool making word shapes and letter sounds and sentence pictures. i once cut the line of a funeral procession because of over caffeination. i felt so bad that i wrote a poem about it. but i never apologized to the family in the lead car.  i keep looking for the line that was waiting in line. scanning for a raised hand at the back of the stanza. for the voice simmering just under the noise and the scribbles. coffee in coffee shops is easy, asking someone else to grind it out and brew it means that you are in their hands for the gift of the sip. hell you can even hand it back and ask them to make it again. and again. yet when these ridiculous dancing ideas meet dark roast and accepting paper, i light up. and if it rhymes easily, everything stops. and i stop. my heart stops. my coffee cools and i wonder if i should rewrite the whole piece around it.