if i did dream poems

if i did dream poems
i would tell you
about this one last night
where i was staying
at trump towers
and the donald had invited
himself into my apartment
(If that is what
they call them there) because
his tv was not working
and he needed to watch whichever
debate it was
that was running then and he settled down
into my favorite chair
smoking (i don't know if he smokes
but that was how it was) a pall
mall in a holder
and the ashes kept
building up
and falling on his wine-colored
smoking jacket and through
my great long windows
i could see the city glowing below
amid sinuous tracer bursts of traffic
and i tried to tell the donald
how wonderful it was
living there and how thrilled i was
to have him pay me a visit
even if the occasion was only a broken tv
but then some raw oysters i had eaten
earlier
made me kind of queasy
and i had to be excused to the bathroom
to throw up but then
when i got through the donald had just left
slamming the door behind him
and i thought oh no
i should have known my puking
would upset him and what
if he would cancel my lease and i had to
crawl back to carolina in
disgrace
so i went running down the corridor after him
and it was a pretty long hall
that corridor but there he was jogging
ahead of me in that loopy
kind of motion he has (like a young girl
it said in the new york post)
and i was much fleeter of foot and caught up
with him as he was just letting
himself into his trumptuous
digs which i only got just a glance of before
he managed to escape inside and he didn't
even have a doorbell the place was
so private and i had to pound on the cushioned
damn door like some stranger
only my fists sunk up in the padding
and he never even heard the knocking or my
frantic cries and i was all broke up
saying mr donald please please
it was all a terrible accident brought on
by some take-out from
a hole-in-the-wall joint that somebdy had highly
recommended and i would give anything
to right this dreadful faux pas
just say the word and i will do your bidding anything
anything at all but there was only
this terrible silence and i was just about to leave
when a note was slipped under the door
on official trump towers stationery and all it said
was would i go down to the newsstand
on the corner and get him a pack of pall malls
and he would pay me tomorrow when
the bank opened but i was
not about to fall for that one because
i had heard
from my neighbor that the donald was so rich
he had never learned how to write a check 
and i backed off then
knowing it was the end and i guess it was
but when i woke up i was still dreaming and got
in the car to go buy some
pall malls before i remembered this was tuesday
and i had to gather up the recycles
before the pickup truck arrived and if you
ever had a dream you didn't want
to end before you found out what was what you
will know what i mean
when i say mr. donald trump has to be the stingiest tightwad
i ever met but
all morning i've been thinking what
i should've said like
what my daddy would have said like
this was a free country
and he didn't have to be somebody's jitney
not even for donald trump but
the only times i ever
dreamed about daddy he wasn't talking
he didn't say anything at all
just like the recycle guy like if he gets mad at you he
will just bite his lip and turn your container over
on its side and just leave it there with all your stuff spilling
out in the street because he has already lost his pension
and his 401k and pawned his wedding ring
so what else have the fuckers  got left but do a donald
and fire him too

some days

some days
it's all i can say
oh god oh god oh god
meaning every
fucking thing that's going on around here
meaning nothing
i can even translate meaning
goddamit
i am yours god don't
pass me by

You Know More than We Think You Do

You know more than we think you do she says
as we get you from up on the shelf
and finally
unwrap the brown paper down
to the square white box inside and I lift
the lid checking for what god knows
and actually put my fingers down deep
inside you
and she says what does it feel like and I say go on
see for yourself but she shushes me
and leads the way
marching determinedly
out back
to where the creek used to run and we just do it quickly
without any words
because words are a foolish way of asking forgiveness
for these five years we've left you
up there stacked amid the empty shoe boxes
and children's playthings
and I swing you back
with both hands now like sand in a pail
and scatter you up
and around
in the rain and the wind
blowing
into the evergreen shadows
where little bits
of ash stick for a flickering gray moment
like early snow
tiny flakes fading away in the dusk
as you find your way home she says just like the whole
rest of your life
without anybody's arm to hold on to

it took me years to understand

it took me years to understand
that what i was really looking for
in porn
even as a teen
was not some exceptional
act or marathon of activity
but a couple
who appeared to be
actually in love
and what i was waiting for
no matter what else
they said or did was the most
intimate expression two
people can share
the open
unguarded moment when
they kissed

unspeakable

i had been reading
that book about jfk why he died
when the new preacher
paid a visit completely unannounced
and there was nothing
to do but let him in although
i do my best to keep
everybody away from here
a house which like
the title of the book is
unspeakable and
i stopped him at the kitchen
i mean i don't even
visit the living room myself
with its clawed-up furniture and powder-white
turds and the lingering
smell of cat piss and the preacher
an erudite man obviously
(what lutheran minister is not?)
asked me if i liked the book
and i said yes but like most of
the jfk efforts what else can
it reveal still it was far better
than that chris matthews
pastiche he calls a labor of love
and hawks at every opportunity
while unspeakable
has a distinct point of view
evolving from its title
i said which
is drawn from thomas merton's book
raids on the unspeakable
a concept he defines as a disorder of such
magnitude it can be broken open
only by a miracle
but when i mentioned merton's name the preacher
crossed his arms in front of him
and pursed his lips and brought forth
a reaction of almost unspeakable loathing merton he spat
that papist monk!

he's maybe even older than i

he's maybe even older than i
in dog years
but his health is
remarkably good
and he sleeps soundly at
night after sleeping
soundly all day
and he never complains
if my foot should graze him in the bed
except to give out a soft growl
of warning
so unlike the way it used to be
with us when
you would wake up screaming
bloody murder
if i tried to fuck you in my dreams

it's not that i hate you

it's not that i hate you
or love you
it's like everything else in this life
mostly, some
in-between thing or combination of the two
like this poem itself where
all the fractured elements i want to let out
are the very ones
it will seek to deny,
so that no matter how i try to nail the moment down
the reader is almost bound
to conjure up another life entirely
one that has almost nothing to do with either
me or you