Jack's Advanced Poetry 2004 (etc)

could-have-beens don't buy you a beer

cigarette in my right hand, your
baseball cap backwards
in my left. I couldn’t taste
vodka on your breath or the cigarette
that dangled from your lips before
I shared it. and I am convinced
ninety percent rum kissed back,
the other ten percent this poem
that wishes I had kissed
you longer, knows I meant it
when I said I don’t smoke
when I’m sober.


Zen Sestina
   “Zen, in its essence, is the art of seeing with
    the nature of one’s own being and it points the 
    way from bondage to freedom” –D.T. Suzuki

Even in the dark night I close
my eyes to search for unity
of heart and mind. Purple
eyelid veins cloud what I cannot see:
Zen is.
To me, it is nothing but everything in a world

I cannot understand, a world
too large to clasp in a handful, too close
to ignore. This globe spins on its
tilted axis in union
with the sun whose light lets me see
only as far as the lavender

horizon. I want to be purpled
from the inside out, whirled
with winds of change, see
every secret I’ve kept locked in the closet
clearly, label each shoebox unit
so I know what my life is

made of.  I have seen
peace laugh in the faces
of death, his icy breath close
enough to skin me purple.
But I cannot make sense of this world’s
beginning and ending, of the unity

between mountains and trees, the unity
between this night sky and the deep blue sea
I might sail halfway around the world
and never know more than this:
each drop of purple confusion
brings me one step closer

to knowing what Zen is, to the unity
of peace close to my heart where I can see
this American world through violet Japanese eyes.


5:00pm, weeknight

I sit at the kitchen table, thirteen
years old and overwhelmed by pre-
algebra. I figure, in about three 

and a half minutes my mom will ask me to
boil the potatoes. I’ll watch the water, keep
the lid cracked, hum along to Greensleeves

playing in the living room, piano
student, fingernails on ivory, the click
of the metronome, mom’s pencil, soft

voice counting one-and-a-two-and-a. Soon,
dad’s briefcase will lead him in the door, I
will set the table, mom will butter

the rolls and dad will mash the potatoes,
no chunks, just the way I like them on
floral china, placemats, oak table, grace.


Beach Sestina

In the morning, light shines grey
through the window before
she can chase away the cold, feet
unwilling to touch the floor because out
of bed it’s time to face the world around
her: follow the right path, don’t get lost

along the way. But she’s distracted, lost
in dreams of blue sky beating gray
into summer’s endless nights, just around
the corner, dreams of living before
life drifts away on the lake outside
her bay kitchen window. Feet

cry out to the sand, step one foot
in front of the other losing
grip, letting go, sinking out
of her black and white simple life into gray
uncertainties of what lies before
her. All she knows is a backyard of beach. She rounds

up the price she’d pay to carve it out
and keep it in her pocket, always around
in case one rainy and gray
day she ends a hundred feet
from where she began, having lost
herself somewhere between forty

days and nights in the desert. She wasn’t forewarned
she will run out
of time to go back unless she learns to lose
this world in the rounded
corners of her mind, feet
first, then head, let blue-gray

eyes shine, look around before
the gray water washes sand out,
one lonely grain lost beneath her feet. 


The poet’s voice

Resonating off book binding 
and staining wood shelving, she
reads the seventy-sixth of her 
five hundred and forty-eight published
poems on Jesus (not including works
about corn harvesting, sex, or pieces written in European
languages) and silently I pray. Twenty-one
years old on my kindergarten carpet square 
I close my eyes, and instead of hers I hear 
my voice shaking the holiday display, 
no time for twenty minute naps between 
book signings and guest workshops, I 
pencil in engagements, shade 
boxes of my planner, take time to rearrange 
the shelving, clear a column 
just before “C”, rest, let the brown easy 
chair bear hug me with my sun and rain 
themed writing notebook—
“good days” on one side 
“not so good days” on the other
—place it puddle side down 
as I pause to admire the way my last 
name (Budris) looks between Angelou and Collins.


Not So

I want to tell you I do not
love you, cross the side-
walk and feel the grass 
wet-green beneath my flip flops, 
leave your hazel 
eyes in the yard. I’d like 
to say it does not matter if 
you miss me, does not matter 
if you watch me shut the door, 
turn off the light, close 
the window blinds 
because I do not watch 
your dust stained Nikes walk
away. I want you to think 
I do not remember you wore Lee 
brand jeans or that your neck 
smelled like espresso and 
sex when you stood behind 
me, brushed your wool coat gray 
against my skin, rough to match
the stubble on your chin. I hope 
you know I did not want to lean 
back and blanket your arms around 
me, lie lost all day in bed because 
your whisper in my ear sounds 
no better than your broken 
antenna radio fuzz. I want to tell you 
your coat is not warm 
when you goodnight hug me 
and I’d like you to believe all 
my lies when I say your favorite 
red Friday sweater does not look 
like love.


1027 dawes street

in my house, you must leave the door
unlocked
always keep the window
cracked, summer tiger lilies crawling
in the east bedroom, winter’s 
chill fingering west kitchen
sills. the blind slats must slide
up and hide behind the curtains 
the way mr-so-and-so slips his
hands into black leather
pockets on the way to work, 
cringing away from the cold, trying
to hold everything together in a 
fistful. in my house, you must take
time to sit at the oak table and sip
caramel-mocha from ceramic mugs—
no styrofoam allowed.
only ceramic and porcelain and
china, rinsed and reused but 
never rushed. and when all the cookies
are gone you must rest
your head in the north suite,
summer on one side, winter
the other, feather blankets and
pillows wrapped all around, and no
ceiling, letting the whole world in, dripping
down, stars and sunshine spread
out like honey sticking to the sky.


Third Date

The ceiling fan chain click clacks under 
drab yellowed light of room 215. She watches
wooden blades spin, splinter, wonders
how many other couples chose the same
cheap franchise—EconoLodge, 
$29.99 per night, two star 
outdoor hallway hotel, paisley peeling 
off wallpapered bathroom, no headboard, premium
channels only, no continental necessary when 
he doesn’t plan on getting out of bed—after
dinner they skipped dessert, popped three 
redwhite peppermints to mask 
fried onion horseradish breath. And even 
if the candy stripes fail them, she knows he won’t mind 
when his practiced hands are discovering her snow
white skin, shovel over her body for the first 
time. she takes inventory of the loose 
springs in the mattress, the slight tear 
in the pillowcase and the way his warm body rhythm
clashes with the whirring fan, breezes.


Appalachian trailer home

there are no placemats 
on the kitchen table. no 
colored cloth woven in patterns 
of plaid, yellow inside pink inside 
blue lined green with enviable 
rose petals embroidered on 
the corners with care. crumbs sink 
into the creases of oak branches 
cut and sanded almost flat, you
set your plastic sunflower cup uneven 
at the place, tips, falls over, rinses 
away bread bits, eroding 
splinters in a river of unfiltered 
well water, wishes it had more 
than three feet to fall off the edge 
onto dirt floors, wishes it was 
not a shower for rats but rather, 
absorbed by the sponge of plaid, the cushion 
for china, the décor of a full-sized 
dining room table surrounded by 
appliances, cabinets, open windows.


Morgen Waltz

I am grateful to be in this college apartment,
three-hour drive from family and ten minute 
walk from Lit class, relieved at 
the absence of a forty-five minute ride to 
school (Strassenbahn, Kaiser-Franz-Josef to Hietzing, 
UBahn, Hietzing to Karlsplatz) middle 
school field trips crowding seats, German chatter 
poking fun at America, asking me what the Statue of 
Liberty looks like. 

Even now I breathe pffeffermint
ice cream, and kaffee nacht takes me 
to the Kartner Strasse where 
over the din of this Michigan Wednesday 
I hear Mittvoch music from the street corners, I can 
predict the stones beneath the recorder man 
and spot his dreadlock dog 
from a crowded block away. Even now, 
Vienna sounds like violins and 
water rims. Between songs, people shift 
in their seats, coughing previously stifled by the power in 
Mozart’s thumb, Strauss’s pinky. 
Their waltz moves like a ballerina swan 
across the cobblestones where nostalgia hides 
between the cracks, captures
every footstep and binds it to the city. 

Yes, but I would rather 
walk in this snow, marshmallowed in purple 
puffy down with wool scarf, hat, gloves, silver 
boots blending into iced footprints, 
unplowed sidewalks. 

If I were in Vienna, I’d walk underground 
tunnels past postcard stands and pay phones, try 
not to smile at the familiarity of the man on his 
knees, hands cupped for change. I’d spend 
mine on chocolate Anker breakfast croissant, ride up 
the escalator and watch the Staatsoper grow 
out of the ground, illumined by summer 
sun and decorated with Mozart men enticing 
me to wait in line for standing-room-only symphony tickets. 

Here, my stereo plays Swan Lake for free as I sip 
Hope College brewed espresso from my metal 
mug, no need for Austrian ambiance of live 
piano, ceramic cups on metal trays with tea
spoons and sugar cubes.


i measure fridaysaturday in liquor

bottles: silverparrotbayrazzskyymalibu,
as I glue my weekend to a table (bottle 
caps bluegreenred) you inquire. i leave out 
details, tell you six pack but not two liter, 
tell you time spent with friends but not phone 
call to ex… i wanted to call you instead, drink 
you like shots, toss my head and take you 
down, but you don’t play hearts 
with vodka. you hide behind the bar, behind 
cracked wine red goblets that never 
tasted city streets of Venice, London, 
Paris. we never stood in the cobblestone
crosswalks holdinghands (or otherwise) 
and i know you
will never kiss me like that: 
Le Baiser de l’hotel de ville, framed 
on the wall, never real, not now, not 
saturday night after nine cocktails, so i leave
out the details just as you
leave out me.


Anticipating Ever After (January – April 2004)
          found poem: Jack’s 455 poetry

you left me to wait 
for wednesday, 
cross my arms, flirt
defiantly between foam and ocean
floor where the sand is nothing less 
than the ink that drips 
from my lips, through 
my fingers and onto this page.

I want to write out loud.
pray left-handed because my
right hand holds scars between 
the fold of hope’s angora warmth. at night,
the light of my candle, stars, and sunshine spread
out like honey sticking to the sky.

I make a wish, wonder if you’ll remember 
my name, know I’m afraid 
of squirrels, and that I like classical music. 

then we saw the break:
men and women watched the rain 
dissolve the child-sized mud-craters, we
took our shoes off and walked barefoot 
through shades of autumn where
I love you gets lost 
in the neighbor’s backyard, 

from waking, I breathe, 
finger my lips. we think 
we will be starving artists, feasting off 
praise and empty pockets.


Moving Out

Tomorrow, I’ll take the train
three hours to the city, stop
on the corner of State and Congress for
a Dr Pepper, Chicago Tribune, Orbit gum.
I’ll scan the front
page, mail you the comics,
winning bottle cap, keep
the gum in case you
have the weekend off and
would like some.


on the ledge

we stand on the rail 
of these train tracks, afraid 
to look down, afraid of the space
between railroad ties and teardrop
stones where our toes might
get caught on a boxcar,
chugged away carrying 
coal and horses to the west 
coast. we’d ride like cowboys
across the valley and follow
highway one, San
Francisco to L.A., salt-wind
in our hair, wailing in our ears,
asking us why we were ever
so afraid of freedom.


ex

by the glow of late night tv I slide
my legs under down blankets, watch
you change your clothes. we chat
about Conan O’Brian, celebrity hook ups,
the static on my 1987 antenna 
tv and four a.m. alarm settings
as if we share the same last name. we
laugh at the voices of my neighbors
through paper thin apartment walls and you 
shake the bedposts, reverberate
make-shift sex, I pretend to be offended, we
pretend this is love.

we say goodnight to talk show hosts, argue
over who should turn off the tv, who is on
whose side of my bed. you make your arm
my pillow, I let you stay, can’t pretend
I have let you go, imagine this
is how it will be when someday I wear 
a ring, won’t come from you.


Success is not measured in Benjamin Franklins
   “We do not read and write poetry because 
   it is cute. We read and write poetry 
   because we are members of the human race, 
   and the human race is filled with passion.” 
   –Dead Poets Society

You set my sights on safety, Chicago skyscraper
offices that fund education degrees, PhD in
practicality. You always want the best
for me, but can’t see that I 
set my sights above stacks of bills 
hidden in safes owned by Bill Gates, Donald
Trump, and lay my success
out on the table: piles of college
ruled paper inked with Perpetua font,
signed in my full name, topped off with
binders, sketched-in-notebooks. I measure
my life by days spent in workshops, hours
of conversation over latte froth, minutes writing
in Stadtpark, Old Town Square, San Marco 
piazza, the Pine Grove… I do not strive for a goal
three years will reach (ivy league university
framed over a mahogany desk, Lemon
Fresh Pledged) but for the clutter of family
photos, quotes scribbled on post-its, bookshelves
of poetry. I strive for the years 
themselves, the time I will shrink wrap, label
priceless (you label wasted). But maybe you 
will understand when the world stops 
counting the number of presidents in your
wallet and starts printing our money in rainbow
patterns with poets in the center.


the way things should be
		for my coffee crew: k, dm, aj

all day I read about nationalism,
socialism, communism, about containing
my day in spreadsheets and calendar
blocks (learn more, live less) and more
or less of me sinks into our corner
booth, a cubicle outlined with coffee
beans. Wednesday knows 
what it looks like to slow 
down, close the calendar and live
in the middle of every week. I
wait my turn, dream of lattes run
over mug’s edge, flooding table, booth,
racing away with textbooks and laptops,
leaving only this: 
		if I lie down or sit up it’s all 
the same. these days, the water I 
displace, these nights, the hollow quicksand and 
seaweed I sink one foot pulled in 
fifty directions and wonder how to let 
go when all I need is to sink 
into you three, 
the honest glow of lamplight frames
each smile (crooked or otherwise) and the nearly 
dry land we rest on (a clam shell fit 
for four) when I offer to leave behind 
my metal pail, shovel, follow 
the lifelines of each palm (to palm
to palm to palm) always 
leading to this place where sand pushes 
shoreline to horizon and starlight 
reflects off crystal grains all day 
long.


Leaving Home

I.  She thinks 
if she takes her shoes 
off at the door, the green
beach grass world will stay 
outside and she can live
in black and white.

II.  Shag carpet tickles
her ankles, invites her to lay
down with a pillow and rainbow 
knit afghan, but she never could
sleep to silence.

III.  In the morning, she
wonders why the window
was left crack open, snowy 
March leaking in, dripping
between the peel of wallpaper,
and freezing.  Somehow,
through the frost, it looks
warmer on the outside.

IV.  Crossing lines built
by frozen breakfast food and
oak kitchen tables, she leaves
her leftovers behind. Forgets dishes
undone, door open, lawn not
mowed, growing into
the sand. She knows
if she builds her sand castles
high enough they’ll never wash
away with the spoons.


The Cracks

if I were drunk
I could tell you what
it looks like to live slowly.

watch the lazy days drip
by one minute at a time,
let them ooze over

the taupe tile floors and slip
between the cracks
where I've hidden all

thoughts of yesterday, fears 
of tomorrow through 
squinted eyes I'd see

you in rum colored light.
six drinks later I could tell
you the truth, take your

hand, sink into your arms
where I feel I fit. and if you
were drunk, maybe you'd keep

me there, catch my eye, calm my
fear and help me hide
them in the floor tiles


Hush

but the buzz of the radiator
heats my knees as they
bend to where the floor
meets a silent wish to sink
through the shag and find
that place I pray to phase
back to, the living room
covered in striped khaki wall
paper and wooden mantles,
home to family frames and fireplaces.

I wish I could open the sliding
glass door, since nailed shut, and hear
red-winged blackbirds at the feeders, chase
them down and climb
the crabapple tree to hear the angels
singing on my rooftop, lie on gray
shingles and learn to smoke, drown in
the scent and leap from the edge,
learn to fly by the rhythms of my heart
beat and crash into a window
without a suncatcher, find myself
less shattered somehow from the trip
back in time than I am right
now, torn between the endless 
spires of St. Stephan's Cathedral
and the glow of this underground
room, looking out through arched 
windows to a world 
I can't quite reach.


Temple Once Tall

out tonight
dark curls sweep
clean the shirt I
saved for someone
worth the wearing

the floor wears
it well when his
my shoulders meet
between carpet and
ceiling tiles I push
away and let myself
lie beneath him

beneath myself he 
leaves me to wake
on foreign floors I
face the shiver of white
sheets shaken from the bed

after shocks shaking
my world not worth the while 
false respect falls down
temple once tall to top of the sky 
reaching higher 
falling lower 

lying prostrate on the floor 
feeling humble and humbly 
bowing to the King
 
looking upward trapped 
chained tied down fill up 
my cup overflow wine 
purple staining all I am 
and want to be 
better than this 
or that 
or the other thing