30th Year Poetry

Do you come here all the time,
Or only when the world
Sends you free falling
From a fissure in time-space?

Plummeting through a gate
Lined with silvery sharp teeth;
Phasing through ephemeral clouds,
Tumbling towards Earth,
Nearly incinerating in the blaze of reentry.

Passed the world as they know it.
A world of novelties and cars,
Pretty shiny things and movie theaters.
Where hetero- and homogeneous
Mixtures hold hands as they walk
Along promenades of pillows,
Illuminated by rubies hanging overhead.

The world you land on is as
Adamant as rock, as cold as steel,
As hard as tree trunks,
As sharp as Trojan pikes,
And as deadly as love.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Life, itself, is a metaphor,
and death is an euphemism.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Poets are naturally observant—
And often get ridiculed for it.
In an era where
Friends’ faces are forgotten,
After endless moonlit hours,
A mellow man in a meadow
Is derided for memorizing
Every leafy fiber on the yellow flower
He had plucked, examined, and
Listlessly tossed over his shoulder
Thirteen weeks prior.

In a land where chimps
Clamor upon tree boughs,
All squawking for attention
And pelting the forest floor with feces,
It is uncommon for a frequent traveler
To notice one’s change in behavior,
Point at it, and say,
“Hey, you! You’ve stopped
Throwing your shit around. Good job.”
And then give the primate two
Shit-smeared thumbs up.

No, no, no. In a moment where
The living walk around with
Their faces stuck in mirrors,
Who are so self-absorbed
That they are in danger of imploding
And find it odd that others are not
As narcissistic as they are,
It is a declaration of war
To make a sarcastic remark
About a person’s change
In appearance or behavior.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen

Love is limitless.
It cannot be contained
And projected onto one person,
No more than the sun’s rays
Can be packaged and sold to one buyer.

We are all energy, vibrating in a mortal coil.
Love is an energy that courses through
Each being linked into a great chain
That wraps around infinity an infinite
Number of times, a chain that reaches
Beyond the veil and keeps us tethered
To this dimension of life and death.

Love cannot be controlled;
Let it spread wherever the surge
Of energy takes it. I’d rather grasp
At loose ends of its wake than
Firmly clutch a diluted version of love.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

The day is as it should be:
Mr. Troll is out mowing his front lawn,
The kobold kids are playing stickball
In the street, I can hear my vampire neighbor
Snoring in his casket next door,
And the Supreme Overload Cat is looking down
Upon us, with its multi-colored eyes,
From its giant, yellow seeing-sphere in the sky.
Yup, it’s just another summer day in an alternate universe.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

The heat from a welcoming sun
Saps your energy.
Its rays of illumination wrap
Around you in an embrace
That makes you exhausted.
The sun slows the day
By keeping you pressed
Against its chest, rocking
You back and forth as
Earth continues its orbit.
Your motivation evaporates
With your sweat; the day
Is spent escaping the heat
By finding shade and drinking fluids. 

This is different from the cold,
Which sucks out your soul
And de-evolves your mind
To primitive thoughts—
Focusing solely on the hunt
For warmth and food and sex.

We live these days searching
For comfort from the extreme.
We find it in each other. 

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

I spent this morning buffing
The calloused skin on my feet
With a purple pumice stone.
As the color of the stone turned
My toes purple, I pretended
I was performing some other task.

I was an ancient soldier sharpening
A spear tip with a whetstone;
A carpenter sanding a piece of plywood
That would be used to build an ocean-
Faring vessel; a servant polishing
The manor lord’s family silver—
Anything other than what I actually was:
A lonely bachelor scrubbing his feet
With volcanic rock before work.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Be love.
Make love.
Produce love.

Kisses make
the world
go round.

All tears
are meant
to fall.

Stumbling; tripping
on pebbles
dropped ahead.

Hacking through
your heart’s
overgrown jungle.

Touch me.
Absorb me.
Consume me.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen

Caliban plays drums in a rock band.
Towards the end of their performances,
He lights his sticks on fire, and finishes
The set with a drum solo that is
A fiery blur of movement and booms.

The rest of the band are:
Touchstone on the keys,
Falstaff on the tambourine,
Othello on base guitar,
With Romeo on lead guitar and vocals.

This band, named Full Circle,
Is managed by King Lear.
Hamlet is their equipment manager,
And Lady Macbeth is their publicist.

With such an ensemble of characters
With dominant personalities,
It is no small wonder that Full Circle
Was destined for tragic greatness.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen

I met a drunken philosopher
at a tavern atop a royal mount.
We were high up, but he was higher.
He babbled about “what is truth?”—
Pilate’s ancient inquiry—and that reality
is one “big fucking lie”—his words.

I stopped his rant there asked
him to elaborate on that statement.
This is what he told me:

“Some say our experiences are real.
I call bullshit. Experiences are tainted
by our perceptions—our opinions—
of them. Example: you eat an apple.
That’s an experience. But no one
just eats a fucking apple.
We add our opinions to it:
was it sweet? sour? ripe? too ripe?
Was it good? Did it taste bad?
Shit like that. You following me?
I mean, what the hell is ‘sour’?
There is no universal sour quotient;
if there is, I haven’t heard of it.
Hell, is an apple even an apple?
My apple could be your goddamn orange.
You still with me, my man?
To sum it all up—everything
I just fucking said—is this:

“we are not the sums of our
experiences; we are the sums
of our perceptions of our experiences.”

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

The trembling ground performs
A strip tease for the sky.
Terra sheds trees like articles
Of clothing, eventually leaving
The mounds of her mountains bare,
Their nipple-like peaks rock hard.

The universe watches from afar,
Peeping through curtains of clouds.
He masturbates until climax—
Shooting a load of meteor-filled cum
Hurling towards terra’s unblemished face.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

I never know how
many books I own until
it is time to pack.

Remind me to buy an e-
reader before my next move.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

The barista at the local
coffee shop is a zombie.
I often find strands of her
molted hair in my latte.
She claims her boss
is a ninja; she’s afraid
her boss will sneak
up on her and garrote
her to death when she’s
slacking off. She peaks
behind her shoulder
as she makes my drink.
That’s how loose locks
of her colorless hair
end up in my lattes.
Next time I spy her
ninja boss, I’ll complain
about the hair in my lattes.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

When an atheist writes about god,
Somewhere—in some random point in
Time-space—an iron anvil gets a crack
Down its spine. Or is it the Liberty Bell?
Or isn’t that what happens to your
Mother’s back if you step on a
Sidewalk crack? I don’t recall.

I am the first man, formed from clay
(Most creation stories are on accord on this).
If the statement ”The first shall be last”
Is true, then I am also the last man.
I’m mixing my mythology here.

I was there when religion became myths,
And myths became classical studies.
I could never tell the difference between the three.
A god is a god is a god.
For some, one is never enough.
For me, one is too many. 

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

There is a massive cloud
Stretching from the Puget Sound
To the Chesapeake Bay.

The peak of Mount Rainer
Pierces it, and it bleeds acidic liquid—
Not quite water, yet not quite deadly.

Sugarloaf Mountain reaches for it,
But this cloud extends beyond
The mountain’s grasp. Ghosts
Of Confederate cavalrymen, cloaked
In bleached hoods, grab their Sharps
Rifles and fire upon the cloud.
They pelt it with bullets; the
Cloud pelts the surrounding
Countryside with snow.

Not in retaliation—the cloud
Is incapable of such a thing—
But because the bullets leave holes
In its ominous mass, and snowflakes
Flutter through them like ballerinas.

When this cloud reaches my home,
I spy it through my window.
I gaze at it for moments, trying
To gauge its intentions. Its secrets
Are kept locked behind an expressionless
Stare. Defeated, I retreat into the kitchen,
Fix another cup of hot chocolate,
And then retire to my bed for the day.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

i broke a glass chess
set—smashed it with a hammer
just because i could

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

The stars are just as beautiful
When viewed in outer space.
You’re wrapped in an invisible
Forcefield cocoon, swimming
In the zero-gravity vacuum.
The magnitude of the universe
Is the only pressure you feel.

Seeing stars in the distance,
You imagine them as tiny
Electrons clouding around the
Nucleus of god. Then you realize
These seemingly microscopic specks
Of glowing gasses are infinitely
Larger than your minuscule form.
You lay on your back, backstroke
Through the void towards your ship,
And ponder if your existence even
Matters compared to the majestic
Splendor of the beyond.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Hug a tree — although it is
three times your height,
three times your age,
and its bark is stronger
than your skin. Hug it
because it is there.

Hug a child — although
she or he, when upright,
barely reaches your knees;
still giggles at darting spirits,
and has cotton-soft skin.
Hug him or her just because.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Under a poisoned moon
I wait for you. Come hither
To the vortex of kisses
I send to you from long ago.

I forgot the warmth of
A handmade quilt during
A blizzard. A dog’s sloppy
Kiss has never intrigued
Me so much beforehand.

Nights like this I pray
Eternity doesn’t exist.
This moment cannot
Continue, it must end.
I’d rather have a memory
Than nothing at all.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

There is life without me.
But without me, I wouldn’t
know about that life.
It’s different from forgotten:
it’s never known.

Nay, it is worse than that.
This future is impossible
for me to know. I am
a tyrannosaurus rex
mourning never having
a clue about the possibility
of moonwalking with Captain Eo.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Forget me not, but not because
There is a burning itch in your chest,
Nor for the tightness in your throat.

Forget me not, but not because
There is a lamp in your eyes
That turns on whenever I’m around.

Forget me not because,
When you sleep, my translucent
Form pulls the blanket up to
Your chin, and my lips kiss you
On your forehead. Goodbye.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Save me from the blast
of high powered tornado winds.
There’s a storm a-coming.
Board up the house windows,
then get far away from them.
You’ll have to guess,
from listening to the welter of noises,
what is going on out there.
Is it just a hurricane?
Perhaps the end of the world?
Or is it the zombie apocalypse?

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

The wild thing has left
to go where the others are—
where winter’s bears sleep.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Over here, the people
are the color of clay.
Over there, they are
the color of steel.

We have hair of wool
and tongues of cotton.
Their hair is leathery,
their tongues are saffron.

Why does this matter?
We don’t know.
Who really cares?
They do.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen

Entangled: she forgot how.
Strangled: he forgot why.
Asphyxiated: umbilical cord
Wrapped around unborn
Child’s neck. Choking.

As mommy sometimes
Did to daddy. Or as
Daddy did to mommy—
But only during bedtime romps.

She was more prone
To act upon her anger.
Both masked violence
As love. He was the daddy,
No doubt, of both of them.
He should have been more
Careful with them both.
Worn a condom before,
And not even had touched this one.

There was nothing he could
Do about the past. Besides,
He had more pressing matters
At hand; namely his daughter’s
Hands pressing hard against
His neck, cutting off his air.

As his vision darkened,
He remembered why she
Was killing him. His daughter
Choked him because he
Had forced a son inside her.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

The people who eat darkness
Are the real cannibals.
They come to the beautiful
Land of humanity’s origins
With poisoned prejudice,
Then leave with human cargo
And gold, diamonds and rare
Animals, cobalt and artifacts.

The people who eat blackness
Are the real cannibals.
They attempt to erase
Millennia of black history,
Just as the Roman Senate
Destroyed records and statues
Of Commodus after the emperor’s
Assassination. The might of
Blackness cannot be removed
From the annals of the earth,
No matter how much bleaching
And whitewashing the cannibals do.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

I imagine it as it must had been
In her younger days: a vibrant
Decoration upon smooth, honey-brown skin.
Violets—outlined in black with petals,
Shaded in the color of their namesake—
Sprout forth from the small of her back,
Stretch out and spread their flowing 
Petals across her shoulder blades. 

I’ve seen photos of her in her 20s
Alternate on her slideshow picture frame.
She was a beauty. Her five children
Are evidence that someone had
Also found her attractive in her youth.

But whenever I strip her down—
Either for her daily bath or when
She has soiled her garments—I
Stare at the sagging skin on her
Back, at her wrinkly and drooping
Violets (that are no longer violet).
The flowers look wilted. They appear
Tossed upon her skin as if vanguard
For the flowers that will one day
Be thrown upon her casket.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Forget everything you thought you knew
about me. Don’t even think about the fire
blazing in your palms. I can’t be held.
I’m not safe. I’m not a tree soaking in
April’s fluid rays. I am not a fawn rustling
forest grass. I am nothing so beautiful
and gentle. I am the dervish that lives
inside a hurricane, the jinn within the
tornado. I am a thousand other things.
I sit at the divine banquet table, and
feast with the eight immortals.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

Move into the shadows.
The stars are rippling by.
We either meet or
We collide in the ether.
Troublesome, this thing called fate.

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

The Sun is angry
Wrapped in a cloak of clouds, she
Turns her back to spring

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen 

It isn’t that I dislike winter.
I don’t mind the cold,
The air is easier to breathe,
And the pewter colored sky is calming.

Winter was the last time
Her and I had a serious talk,
Though it wasn’t a long conversation.
In fact, she only said two words.

“It’s over.”

Just like that, winter was over.
No more nights sharing hot chocolate
Underneath the quilt her grandmother had stitched.
No more dinners of salmon and red wine
By the fireplace. No more feeling the warmth
Of her hands through her gloves as we
Window shop downtown at the Inner Harbor.

Then came spring. She called yesterday
“Just to check up” on me. “I’m fine.”
I wish that lie had disintegrated into
Puffs of gray smoke once it hit the sunlight.
“That’s good. I was worried about you;
That you didn’t take our breaking up well.”
That could be true, but, “Really, I’m fine.”

It is cold again today. Winter’s last hurrah.
I’m not upset; more annoyed that I have to
Dig through my clothes to find a sweater.
Funny, the first one I find is the one she
Gave to me last Christmas.

I don the cream colored pullover,
Then inspect my appearance in
The mirror. I say to my reflection,
“At least it was spring yesterday.
There’s always yesterday.”

Copyright 2012
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen