Archive for the Vintage Category

vote my soul

Posted in Poemage, Vintage on March 11, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i took saint jude
to have and hold
as my confirmation ranger
in a clapboard dusty pew church
i attended at parental gunpoint.

c’mon saint j,
i thought under wafer breath
as i slouched to the altar
so a bishop could lay fear
on my bald head
with egg white misery.

c’mon saint j,
patron of dump life
and safety pin girls.
don’t give me an empty wallet,
hip music parents,
some sign you sip my confessor’s cup.

i bent my head shy,
let god’s man brush my forehead
with heavy silver precision,
and i rose saved lashes
to see his distaste.


the comfortable shoe drama special

Posted in Poemage, Vintage on February 27, 2007 by Mike Rosales

must get more shoes
and polish the ones that i have,
where the ocean meets the razor.
i can’t argue with what i know
and therefore am blindfolded
by standard competition ratios

ah, like you said, you get eyes,

and that’s something–

but i

liberation through housework

Posted in Poemage, Vintage on February 21, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the floor is a canvas. the broom, a brush.
and i,
the consummate artist,
am sweeping up a masterpiece.
cleaning the toilet as it should be cleaned–
equal amounts of pride and care added to the soap–
is a task of holy and heroic proportions.
scrub brush in hand,
i stand kissing the lips of god.

ten odes to friends and family

Posted in Prosage, Vintage on February 16, 2007 by Mike Rosales

badman and throbin
i fantasize that my father and i create similar glimpses of a more expansive consciousness.


summer is amazing and so is a best friend with whom you can camp at beaches with and laugh all night long.

mel, may you rest in peace
the angels are drops of water sliding back and forth on anxious fingers ready to testify: maybe i should pretend they’re not there. they’ve all gone anyway, like a million glances evaporating quickly into make-believe air.

she’s plucking eyebrows and staring in the mirror and letting it all blow up.



Posted in Poemage, Vintage on February 11, 2007 by Mike Rosales

it is a dark flitting thing,
can turn the black sky white-grey/gray
soft sheets into fluffy clouds
that wrap tightly around the neck
blue blood into red rivers,
wet mouths into dry tourniquets,
skeleton trees into shimmering ravens,
forever seeking what’s not here.

i called it love once.

but it was only the distorted reflection
of me in your late night pane.
if i were a gothic policeman,
perhaps i could arrest it
with painted handcuffs
as it rests briefly
on the lucid ledge,
plotting its next move.


Posted in Poemage, Vintage on February 10, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i’m ninety kilometers from serenity,
past the stomach drop of a fright coaster
my garden’s trashed, think any
low-down-dirty-all-gone-dead thought,
or pick one from my pocket.

but your breath left drops behind my left ear
and they watered,
tympanic membrane,
my epileptic center
and those mung hope sprouts
shot sparklers,
grounded me again.

meditating buddha made of stone

Posted in Poemage, Vintage on February 1, 2007 by Mike Rosales

there are moments of startling clarity
wherein the moment itself ceases to exist
and all things stand revealed as one formerly concealed.
eternal. now.
then there are, more frequent by far,
those moments
wherein i feel not unlike a buddha made of stone:
gray and opaque, unable to get in from the rain.