by Greg Baysans

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one

the pattern of a poem 
is a poem 
and how that upsets 
me. 
I 
am at a loss to words 
become the first part of the poem. 


two

Outside the window scene reminds me of 
long walks in tunnels of winter. 
I learned how to be crazy doing that, 
kick a chunk of ice the long mile home. 
The frost on the window is well-lit, its pattern 
reminding me of blindness in the snow. 


three

This is the song on the radio, 
this is its windy grand opening, 
this is where it's suspenseful, 
this is where it builds, 
this is where it alludes to the theme, 
this is where it remembers its past, stops, 
this is where the theme's energy lies, 
this is a different suspense, 
and this is the theme in extreme. 
This is where it starts to slow down. 
Here it hints there's a hit 
and relaxes a bit, 
intent, and then hits hard. 
This is "Funeral For A Friend."
It's an excellent arrangement. 
This is from a complex heart. 
And it's meant. 
This is where the song realizes it's replaying. 
This is where the song 
tries to regain what's lost, 
and here's where the song ends. 
"And love lies bleeding in my hands."


four

     These ugly days are the days we will cry about 
five years from now when we want youth back and didn't 
know we still had it. 

     These ugly days when we seem unsatisfied, days 
we put in the garbage bag and carry out three days 
later. We'll cry, wanting them back. 

     Cry we should, knowing that having them back 
they'd be the same -- necessary rhythm, senseless 
repitition, these ugly days. 

     We'll think how stupid we were not knowing there 
was still time to affect a change, change the pattern, 
the repeating rhythm, the hum of bad habits and headaches 
these ugly days. 

     We'll cry wanting them back. What to do with 
them now? 


five

I want to plant a bomb 
inside different poems 
to take pictures of 
how they explode. 
Someone on the phone 
has the same criminal 
attitude, planting a bomb, 
haunting, taunting. 
Jay calls. The calls stop. 
We talk about disease and death. 


one

I want to plant a bomb 
the pattern of a poem 
inside different poems 
to take pictures of 
how they explode 
is a poem, 
and how that upsets 
someone on the phone. 
Me, 
I 
am at a loss to words. 
Has the same criminal 
attitude, planting a bomb, 
haunting, taunting, 
become the first part of the poem? 
Jay calls. The calls stop. 
We talk about disease and death. 


two

Outside the window scene reminds me of 
I want to plant a bomb 
inside different poems 
and take pictures of 
long walks in tunnels of winter, 
how they explode. 
I learned how to be crazy doing that. 
Someone on the phone 
has the same criminal 
kick a chunk of ice the long mile home 
attitude, planting a bomb. 
The frost on the windows is well-lit, its pattern 
haunting, taunting. 
Jay calls, the calls. "Stop 
reminding me of blindness in the snow." 
We talk about disease and death. 


three

This is the song on the stereo.
This is its grand scratchy opening.
I want to plant a bomb.
This is where it's suspenseful, 
this is where it builds
inside different poems.
This is where it alludes to the theme.
This is where it remembers its past, stops
to take pictures of
this is where the theme's energy lies.
This is a different suspense, 
how they explode.
And this is the theme in extreme,
this is where it starts to slow down:
someone on the phone.
Here it hints there's a hit 
and relaxes a bit, 
has the same criminal
intent and then hits hard.
This is funeral for a friend
attitude, planting a bomb.
It's an excellent arrangement?
This is from a complex heart,
haunting, taunting,
and it's meant.
This is where the song realizes it's replaying.
Jay calls. The calls stop.
This is where the song
tries to regain what's lost,
We talk about disease and death.
Here's where the song ends. 


four

     These ugly days are the days I want to plant, 
a bomb we will cry about five years from now when 
we want youth back and didn't know we still had it 
inside different, these ugly days, poems when we 
seem unsatisfied to take pictures of days we put in 
the garbage bag and carry out three days later.

     How they explode: someone on the phone.

     We'll cry, wanting them back. Cry we should, 
has, knowing that having them back they'd be the same, 
the same criminal necessary attitude rhythm planting 
senseless a repetition bomb these haunting ugly 
taunting days, Jay.

     Calls.

     We'll think how stupid we were not knowing 
there was still time to affect a change. The calls stop, 
change the pattern, the repeating rhythm we talk, the 
hum of bad habits and headaches about disease these 
ugly days.

     We'll cry, wanting them back. What to do with 
them and death now? 


five

And love lies bleeding in my hands.