"open letter to high school friend"

i saw the ninth grade you today at the dollar theatre

you were watching "agent cody banks with your mom

with your interested posture

half glazed eyes

i saw you blush when he kissed the girl at the end

has much changed in four years?

you now posess some dirty jokes

a few jaded ideals

three more inches and a nice goatee

it seems you have lost your innocence

i dont know if thats a bad thing

where we a service to you?

with our r-rated movies

ciggerettes and sarcasm

are you a better man now

outside of the parental blinders

you never knew you wore

you were a mirror to us

reflecting the sinful nature we denied

we repayed you with smudges

muddied fingers all over the glass

justifying ourselves

by proving that indeed

not one is rightous

nonetheless

the ninth grade you

and the graduate you

remain the same pure soul

just now, ones a little wiser than the other

i just dont know which one

"you went away"

i went to the store to buy you a going away card

but i couldnt find one that said

"i regret asking you out two months ago"

at least not one with a cute dog on front

"for christi"

"write a poem about me" she said

"about the three of us

how we always hang out"

so i wrote this

just to say that

i dont take requests

"jazz song"

the jazz man plays his song of praise

secret symphonies explode

from the belly of his guitar

the trumpet wails such sweet songs

such sad songs

make you weep and leap

cry and yell

find madness and clarity

all at once songs

drummer man beats the beats and rythms

of kings from long ago

bringing back the celebrations

and victories

and tragic stories yet untold

and i am moved

and i emplode

all of me creating a black hole in the middle of the room

i want to run wild and scream

"go cat go!"

"thats it, thats it, THATS IT!"

i join with the mobs of zen lunatics and jazz cats

the hipsters

the poets

who, untouched by anything else

go mad and loud

soaking in feverish sweat

at the first drop of the beat

JOHN COLTRANE IS IMPRISONED IN MY C.D. CASE!

my stereo is nothing more than a visiting room

permitting no more than distant view from a thin plastic shell

he needs to be free

live, ressurected

blowing in front of me

i want to smell his breath

and feel his sweat

and hear him the way he was meant to be heard

if heaven aint a jazz hall

i will be sadly dissapointed

"why i need prescription drugs"

i'm bi-polar

i swear it

its just that right now

i'm stuck in the middle

"i am writing this so i can go back to bed"

poems plague me

on saturday mornings

when no alarm is set

when sheets and blankets are pulled back

when i dont have to get up till four

on my day of rest that little poem pest

creeps to my eardrum

and whispers seductively

"write me, write me, write me, write me"

worse than alarm clock

drill seargent

nagging wife

or mother

poem leaves me no choice

wakes me up

then leaves me here

without good ending.