Chapbook: Poetry Supernova 1976

My Beautiful, Weird Bent Revolution

I'm tired of things only meaning one or two things.
I'm in love with orthogonality: one becomes five becomes
Ten-thousand becomes purple, becomes God.
I have reenlisted in the Poet Core to serve on this, a
Top secret mission—which, as poetry, means I tell
Everyone who reads or hears this poem: the secret of the
Bent Christ Cross, the 24th letter of the English language—
Orthogonal T—Sacred, bent "t"—the letter X.

Love letter, Leadbelly; where were written your poems last night?
In the pines? In the palm trees? In Red-orange embers?
In pale-blue sky?

Somewhere ‘twixt the Holy Trinity, the letter "X" and Hiroshima—
Somewhere lost among shoreline palms and midnight psalms, whispered, Whispered and if you listen very hard the words will come to you at last:

This Declaration of my beautiful and Bent
Weird Revolution.

My Beautiful, Weird Bent Revolution

Split a block of wood,
—we are there.

Pluck or plant a flower
—we are there.

Read science fiction, or scripture, through a Summer rainstorm
—and we are there.

The swell of tides and a woman's womb, silent-now toys,
And night in a child's room: we are there.

God, the soul, died long ago, but still he conducts and connects
Word and thought, rag and bone between us ever still.

We are each and every new question today to yesterday's final answer.
We are the revelation and salvation for the unknown sins that dawn tomorrow.
We are each other, and each others’ savior.

We are the name, and the word, the groom and the all-father. We are
Brother night and mother morning—sister Buddhist and father time.

And, if we find joy, or sorrow, or luck, or tomorrow, we find it only
In the love in the spaces between the spaces between us.

Everything I Should Have Said To Him

"I love you"—of course I said that to him,
many times; we were married, after all. But
when he felt so trapped—in his mid-40s, in
his systems engineering job, in the mortgage,
and as the adopted son of an infertile
husband-and-wife pair of doctors—when he
felt so wounded-animal trapped that excising
his love of eighteen years somehow finally
seemed like how he could at least breathe
again, I forgot to remind him of how he fell in
love with how I'm both more cynical and
more sincere than him (and it isn't even a
contradiction for me). I should have told him
plain that I would always still be in love with
him, told him back then just before he made
me move out, should have made more clear
that however he had changed how he felt
about how he felt, I would be pained and in
love still, and ever since that first date we
had February, 2001—that Krispy Kreme
doughnut shop and trolley ride downtown
first date. I should have reminded him that
no matter what, I'd be in love with him my
whole life, regardless.


Me, on Street Ever Righteous
Moon, now Saint Erasure Rules
Mother, Stained End Run

My Southern Dog: Mon S. Terrier
‘Mo better blues: Endless Everywhere,
And now a car accident! OnStar, State
Your Emergency?

We, we all know we’re all monsters–
We be these humans, and dogs in the world
Know and forgive us; they know
How cruel, cruel we humans can be.

Maybe dogs figure–
Wolves do have it worse
Alone, there in packless expanses.

I hope
The dogs
Are right.

Battleship 1976

Everyone has bled, but only women and poets need to bleed.
Everyone fears and prepares, but only sailors and poets
Train to hold a knife-blade to civilizations' throat.
Everyone envisions the past, its future, but only presidents and poets
Preside over free souls as commander-in-chief.
I am Battleship 1976.

I am ultimate scion to the first Iron-clad warship; my engines
Run on terror and pride that drove Vikings to America.
See me in conflict and it's already too late—
An armada you yet cannot see is in range, and awaits only
My signal to fire on your position.
I am Battleship 1976.

In the age of intergalactic travel, my sister-ship is the NCC-1701 Enterprise.
God served as admiral upon a ship of my design when he
Won the war in Heaven against Lucifer.
Ancient poet Lao Tzu drowned in a drunken midnight swim,
Believing he could cross the Yang Tze river to board me.
I am Battleship 1976.

I am the vessel that every child with Lego bricks tries to build.
I am the ship that mothers pray their sons serve on,
Whenever their country has a draft for war.
Mine is the name on God's own lips, a name
God whispered before he first spoke his name.

I am Battleship 1976.

You, Whom I Saught

No matter where you are—
I still hear you when you—dream—
You sing out so very far
Your voice so bright—like a star—
All of our tomorrows rushing up—
Every tomorrow:
I spark, kindle, sparkle
BURN—I—spark myself up
Just for you.

I light my heart ablaze and
Through every torched moment
I pray to God that you see it,
That you feel me burning beneath
Your bed sintering under your feet.
Love—let my heartbeat form a
Marriage pyre for when you say
"I might" for when you might hope
To hear me say "Do, I—do, I—love you do—"
For while my every heartbeat
Bears God's name, he has them
On loan—from you—

Can God make a heart he cannot win?

I can never be certain—except I know
Already you—my Lord—hold the title
And the name and word.

Whatever contract or arrangement you and
God may found yourselves making
—beyond me—
God now would never dare
—I know! I dared him!—
To claim title to my soul or heart.

You, Iron Lord of my Soul—
You, Governor of my Heart and
Priest of my tomorrows.
I, your Poet—
Me, a Priest of Nothing—
Beg you—
And I wait still—
For you, My Lord—
To finally begin—
To make us—
To make me your—


Let Me Hold You, Now

All the Pink Floyd pigs on the wing fled long ago
—with their Les Paul angles—
And God was long dead by the time
Jesus molested Nietzsche And Freud—
What Prophet Muhammad really said
About love and men was lost
Eons ago in an Alexandria library fire—
But Daniel, let me hold you now.

It will be 100 years until manned spaceships
Travel Voyager-like, past our solar system;
In 200 years Salt Lake City finally sends a probe to
Now-barren Kolob—God’s home planet;
At least 5000 years must pass before we find
We beat Vulcans to the first warp drive;
But Daniel, let me hold you now.

You fit perfect when I hold my right arm out to hold you to me,
And I’d march across all of Mission Valley once again
To share a bedroom with you one more night.
I miss teasing you by calling you “my lord”; I miss how you
Disappeared only to show two hours later
With a college boy whose dick you made me suck.
You walked to pick up our pizza dinner I paid for;
You never stole my drugs, money, or cellphone.

But Janis Joplin and I know about men like you, Daniel:

I never actually gave you that
Little piece of my heart
That you have still.


A lone feather in the wind
Like the last condor in a sky;
It becomes the soft flutter
And cry and echo
Of the shadow sky empire
Of condors now past—
The skies were once so full
Of distant majesty, of promise
But promise now somehow
As though God himself gave up and
Took all his condors back;
Went home.

This was supposed to be
My elegy for you.
This was supposed to be
About you, and us.
The future was supposed to be
About you, and an elegy for me
Written by your son.
The future was supposed
To mourn the forgetting of me.
This is supposed to be an elegy about me,
Written by your son, ten or twenty
Years from now.

This was supposed to be the poem
I would never write,
Lord, I am not worthy—
Poems like feathers
Collected from the beach sands

(and if you didn’t stitch the feathers
And left your son only wax, then
—I am sorry—
—I am sorry—
—I am—)

This wasn’t supposed to have to be
My elegy for you.

Tachyon Violet

(for Daniel)

The thing about a poem, it
Travels forward backward—
The deeper you press in,
The more sense that first
Read a little while back—
Becomes defined to you—
Like a highway sign in reverse.

A poem purifies colors into bright specter;
The mind-soul of sunlight,
Hidden, awash in white-light, becomes that
Which is always already within:
Violet violet blue;
It makes all my details, body—
Makes me real—
This tachyon definition from you
As my mind sees more detail
The more it takes in at the future’s
Soak-in point
—to right now.

And there you are.

Somehow, you can flip-forward
and beauty
and me
As I walk with you—
You, with the fear of a Local God
—quiet and intense at the prospect
Of being given name.

And with you I suddenly I realized how
I've always been right
—my whole life—
—about THIS:

Sometime ago God
From one being into
countless within formless;

Then, God, speaking his own name
in his own dead tongue
began a prayer to himself,
a prayer that before it ends,
calls on YOU.

Everything began as distant bang! and too
In billions of years all of it eventually
shall fling too far apart
to see one galaxy from the next;
But, Daniel, love—
how are YOU today?

A Prayer For My Son

Since Harry Potter isn't the only young man who might need
The help of a Patronis, and since I'd never abandon you—my son—
To cast alone a spell I too can cast, I now write this poem as a prayer for you:

May your shoulder always be perfect to cry, laugh, or sigh upon;
May light across your eyes bewitch any eyes you desire to light with desire.
May your lovers find that missing you stings far harder than forgiving you:
Remember their jealousy is just the sincerest sign of having fallen so true
In love with you.

Never notice with alarm, my son, those too timid
To admit their fascination for you;
Never rue those friends who lace or chase
Utter admiration with some harmless spite.
May you never doubt those who still trust you
More than you doubt yourself, somehow;
And let those who broke your heart worst
Their chance to try to mend it.

Please realize—as my son—lovers cradled in your bed could never
Hope for safer, more certain sensuality; know how lovers you fear were
Lost to time are lovers worst heartbroken: they left for they know that
They have lost your heart.

Understand all sons and daughters shall always listen to you closer
Than lovers; they'll know with time each purpose behind
All of your lies. Only have them with civilizations' true Mad Royalty
—such royalty raises empires for men like us.

And finally, may the depth of your forgiveness run
As deep as your arrows of indignation fly far; may you
Always find a poem to comfort a wayward son you
Find you've found, somehow, while traveling
Through time.


A New Prayer For My Son

That we
Should know
A Time
Where By
Knew his
Not as
But only
As a
One Mad
In love
With Time
And world.


The Magnificent Praetorian Word Wonder

Phantom Phantasm and
Phantom within phantom,
Wonder wander word wand wild world,
As barren Swedish snow remains desert,
Sure as any in Asia or Africa.
(I work better under high contrast.)

Window sill and liquor still and be-still
My betraying heartbeat—I swear! I remain
Indifferent to my expanding fascination.
Still I go on to go on
...and on and on and on…

Let me follow you—riding—into your
Black Cherry Forrest
Mr. Wolf Majesty—
I read the sealed communique from
His Majesty's Chihuahua envoy.

And we all know that
—I'm no kind of Faust!—
I am the Something more!
Word-wise: please,
Hit me with your best shot;
I'm every Duke, and too,
This is an appetizer to a white tiger
Deep from my poetry.

Come Fearful eye, come
And find me!
Chase me once
More! From...

...Station to station.

Jewish Blue

Most Mormon gay men born 1976, not now—alive on Earth—
Didn’t vanish from AIDS; we killed ourselves before living as
Men might have killed us.

Some, like me at 18, guessed wrong which whole bottle
Of pills would actually work and so somehow survived.

Soon after though—Tomislav Katsuic—you
Somehow showed up to be the young man
I realized I wanted, who could make it all
Worth it for me, who made me want to
Want to be married, regardless of temple
Ceremonies, the 20th Century Supreme
Court, or my family’s would-be-native,
Ersatz Utah gods.

But, Tommislav?
My Mr. Tall-dark-haired-and-twenty!
It wasn’t until just this year, 2021, when
I finally realized your favorite thing about
How I looked next to you, how it must have
Been the same favorite thing as Kamisha’s—
The girl who was my only actual girlfriend
Ever, for a month in high school.

Now—and this is your fault! you did this to
Me!—whenever I catch, in a fleeting
Mirrored reflection, a glimpse of my face
I understand my eyes’ hue to almost
Have been, to in my heart’s heart
And thus are and still ever will be
Eyes the color of Jewish Blue.

To All The Young Ladies

You should
Use Poems
To sight
And fire
At that
Young Man
That You

Brian David

Coronation For The Crimson Emperor

Good morning—good morning!—
My sunshine daydream
You, my love, this morning you
Were—there, next to me—
Blooming, bloomed!
Out indeed
Between us—

Your pale skin and body
—quiet next to me in hum—
Blooming like a deep red rose
—this and you so sudden in
Morning, in the dawn!

You deeper still you, my
Cherry-blood mouthful
Red—you, my bold
Bolder man maroon
Deepest maroon

Flicker fire fire
Engine red
Across me
In passion
Passing here
Between us,
Passion past
Across your skin—
You! Your body!
—so red—
The deepest of dawn—

Then, here beside
You red you within you
With these perfect pools
Of such pale purple
That swell and the silence
Somehow that passes between
The silence and tender between
Us—I can finally see—

There, here in your deep red’s
Night night-est light night
I can see the how and the
Delicate of that blue of me.

You always seem to yearn
To be lost—consumed—
Within!—with my every
Touch softest touched with
My eyes—my glance
—Press’d deep and so
My eyes the pale of sky-blue
That—there within those of mine
—Twin skies, their glinted sighs—
You my ripe reddest man, love true
Pay in love back to me my gifted
Desire as blue within blue.

You pay with that weight of your
Warm and red and smile and red
—and body and red—
—and so long years—and red!
Every time I feel your rogue glance
And too your red candle candescent
So iron-hot Rogue red
R o y a l R e d Emperor.

Here, in this quiet of morning
Please, come stay yet
To yet rule this the
Vast empires of my azure—
Oceans of love, and
Oceans of air
Oceans within with me—you
Emperor Red of Me Deepest Me
Deep Deeper Space,
Deeper Blue, Bluer
Blue so infinite in within you.

Utah Gothic

Silence—the shutter—chill and still
Across grave stones in a graveyard
In Smithfield, Utah, its
Claim in the dirt—Sacred Soil for
Souls—Radical Souls, Soul Revolutionaries
Souls who lifted Themselves up—
Translated themselves into Americans
And citizens in and of Utah.
Utah Gothic.

Ogden, Logan, Roy: northern cities
In Utah; Grandmother Alice’s house
Was across the street from the Mormon
Church there. It was a short Summer walk,
For me, to the Logan Temple: God as
Immediate as a trip to the grocery.
Slightly more distant was a campus
For Utah State University, the Aggies.
Cache County was seat of North Utah;
This Mormon Empire—citizens from
Norway, Sweden, England, France
Were here for a new God, a new country.
Utah Gothic.

Retired by the time I visited Summers,
Grandpa Garnel kept equipment left over
From his farm: canvas hoses, tin and wood
Fittings and boxes, to use for irrigation with
The Spring rain mountain runoff from city
Gutters. He'd water the lawn, bushes,
Trees on the front side facing the church,
Watered the backyard garden, raspberry,
Blackberry bushes.

You could walk to downtown from my
grandparents’ house, to the town library,
To storefronts there since the 1940s, 1950s:
The Bluebird restaurant, the Beauty College,
The ice cream factory outlet.

20 minutes drive brought Gossner Dairy:
cheeses, bulk curds, milk in sealed sterilized
Boxes and guaranteed for ten years from
Purchase, produced with equipment from
A manufacturer in Sweden.

On a distant edge of Logan was a petting zoo;
Opposite that was the giant grocery outlet.
Drive past the outlet and you’d arrive at
What used to be Grandpa Garnel’s farm.

Utah Gothic.

Radio Supernova X

We hold these poems to be self-evident:
The shadow of a palm tree approaching noon is a poem;
Las lagrimas-—tears that flow to the ocean
For lost love are a poem;
Birdsong in dead of night,
A rooster at dawn and
A dog’s distant barking:
Each is a poem.

A lost child in a mall praying to find mother prays a poem.
A punchline of a joke, from a forgotten friend—suddenly remembered,
As if by ambush—is a poem.
Pleading eyes for hunger or lust
Or warmth plead a poem.

The arctic Aurora Borealis in smeared-sky rainbow;
The infinite disc-edge of a black hole;
The radiation soul-heat of the bang that was all big creation:
These each play in the top ten greatest hits, nightly, of this very station:

Radio Poetry Supernova X.

Lullaby Y

You are
The way
That a
Is a

Brian David