bird in flight

you taste like yesterday's

dreams

and tomorrow's hopes.

slipping between my teeth,
running over my gums,

slow-dancing under a streetlight
on the tip of my tongue.

a letter or two-

perhaps a v, or an i,
caught in the corner of my mouth-

simple sugar-

sweet and light
i cant say your name

enough.

damn well contented

i went for a walk
down the beach.

my own thoughts
jangling between my ears-

the only sound louder than
the perfect static

of the waves inhaling and
exhaling against the shore-

line.  like marbles in a mason
jar, my thoughts clatter around

looking for a way out.
a few leak out here and

there. spilling to the chilled
sand- my toes are cold-

they catch shards of the night's
moonlight and fling it

down the dunes. it gets
caught in your hair and

your naked silhouette stuns me-
simple, smiling, sitting

facing the sea, and i can
feel that you are waiting for me.

you won't be waiting
any longer

kiss me.

clothes
drenched in ethers of ecstacy,

lips
dripping purple mercury.

simple smiles sit
on our faces

as we savor what is
new to us.

we roll our tongues over our
teeth-

tasting our next steps-
we are going on a

hike.

just add water

I saw a sea
turtle,
floating.

dead and floating
on top of the ocean.
it was bobbing like
a decaying, rotting toy
that had been left
in a tub for too long.

I hadn't given much
thought to turtle
soup until I was
in the
middle
of it.

Floating like a cracker
in my
perverted, rotting pot of
turtle soup.

The vitreum leaking
from its  tear ducts-
the methane wanted out.

We shot it.
The most
saddening pop
of escaping gases
spread
shards of shell
sideways
upways and downways

like I had crushed
up some crackers for
my soup.

Boolean Query

their whole-milk lives vacuously
traipsed the
line between
the
sky and sea-

fucked and forgotten,
drifting
whole-
heartedly
in the
night-without-

seams.

moonlight didn't
go anywhere on
a night
like this,

fucked and
forgotten,
it was cloned from crest
to crest to

breasts,
whole-milk-white
breasts

that hung
on the line that
should have
existed between
the sky and
the sea.

pallid, flacid
scales as ripples
of waves

soft-blue-shoe
shuffled
into the night-

without-seams.

fucked
or forgotten.

beaches

only when we taste the flames
live in the smoke
 and crawl through the ash
can we know about time

 time that i didnt get with you.

what did i do

the unfinished puzzle of clouds
slips sadly by.
slipstreams spilling
through the labyrinth of piping plovers
and tired bleached seaweed
that lays stranded in the sand

 just like my thoughts
stuck in your quicksand eyes.

paradoxique

the depraved morning sun

lashes out against the
simple black

starscape. the frost licks my cheek
and i can't have you;

not while pained red new rays
of the day

whip at my face. how i've dreamt
of sharing my ocean bed with
your hips

i want to bring you
to the bottom of the sea

so you never have to fear

pain again
i'm too late.

expelled from grace

torrid love
in the depth

between two tongues

in silence.

i couldn't escape the
rocksandmossandsunset-
the wet moss that coated

like tastebuds.

then, tongues

swallowed the dusk
but
i'm still sorry

i looked at you that way

postage required

licking the back-
stamp after stamp

tastes just like
my sweetest mistakes.

the tea leaves
twist to tell

me that time
traipses through

the wax paper mistakes
and into your arms

after i've sent them away.

winter in the bowery

comfort is wrapped in
bleeding cold of

morning's frost.
time doesn't stand still there

but instead, races.
faster than razor nicks

faster than forbidden
kisses.

frost never tires
of salad days

but She won't take Her time
giving you wings as sharp as

raven's claws.

end of an expedition or "Speak to me"

vestiges of us strewn
about the room-

that stupid hemp necklace

the sweater you said smelled of me
that i let you keep-
only to get it back with a hole in the armpit

we were once lewis and clarkE-
traipsing along coasts and
leaving loving prints littering
the wetsand

where we met

but
alas
avast!

the ocean leaves holes
in the hearts of wives


it's safer that way.
we can't be the air we breathe

smith

first blush frost
paralyzes the morning hills

in a deep coat

only until the sun explodes
with a brief

sense of urgency above the
black tops

of the sleeping
rolling
countryside

here's looking at you,

There is an old, black
steel train
coated
with thick grey
coal.

It sits alone
unused, unloved.
The engine that
once whirred to life
is fast asleep.

The girl wears
a bright red coat
that hangs off her.
And she wonders
what it would be like
to be so deep in sleep.

love poem

Over-exaggeration is the
fast
track
to entertainment.
The happy becomes ecstatic,
the melancholy suicidal.

half & half

The golden ochre
sky reflects wispy
clouds onto the river
surrounding thatched huts.

The clouds-
fingers,
extend for miles,
low in the sky,
groping for the steeple.

And the arthritic trees
interrupt the blended
Horizon where the j
a
g
g
e
d
silhouette of the river-
grass invades
on weaving water.

Hapless

Just a few syrupy words that

Spill
Into the fibers in the rug. Stuck
to soles of sandals.. keeping us making

Mistakes.

it's been a while since

i thought about your
hair today-
not you
or how i didnt have to

ask to be held that time.

but your hair--
and how it felt when it

was between
your back and

my chest. but i already
gave you
and your hair a chance.

goodnight moon

we'd be draped in softened flannel
^feet not touching
----------you know i hate that

and i'd be kissing your neck
and ears
and the top of your spine

tracing with my fingers
how much i loved you
on your

naked cold back
you'd turn and pretend
you knew what i

was tracing

her name was

war torn skies of butternut orange
and regal purples
fall like silt
-ethereal, misty
they find homes with us

filling voids of
lost pets
loneliness
lazy love

but when it all comes down to it

it wasn't enough

alone is how we
are.

crossbones

dirt from the driveway covers my feet-
(i never could find my shoes)

an afternoon breeze that had
snuck through the trees

twisted its way around my cheeks.
a warm september sun spilled its

smiles into the afternoon sky and
i grinned as i rolled up my

pantlegs. i still loved the salamanders
out by the compost more than

michelle. or allison. or any girl.
(i didnt know that we'd ever meet)

but when the overalls were replaced
with books and hormones,

you were my salamander.

A pair of dusty feet and tired hobknob knees
bring the river's edge to you.

The early evening dieing rays of sun throw themselves onto your back.

The lines you've traced in the red clay ground with your stick
And your heartstrings
Sit heavy

Until the next rain.

Hotel de Dream

I would not die for you.

I would not take a bullet
that was meant for your heart.

never.

but i would die
with you.

i would take the cyanide with you
and wash it down with a kiss
of yours.

so we could die together

so our last breaths
could wander Elysium together
hand in hand
shivering together on cold mornings
and sipping coffee
quietly by candlelight

throw me

I think there are
times that don't mean anything
at all to us.

Times that we let sink
between the couch cushions
or dip below the horizon

and when we look back,
with autumn leaves framing
our past,

I know it could
have happened so many
ways.

It could have been wrapped
in cinnamon or served
with a twist of lemon

indifference. But as it
came to pass, it happened with
hammers and nails and

the gestures of maniacs.

crazy

i slide the hard-pack of cigarettes across the counter.
the cashier swipes them and i look beyond his sunken shoulders to see the
first eddies of orange early morning sun
swirling right above the trees.

i wasn't sure about my next move
but the cigarettes felt comfortable in my
jeans.

i leave the gas station and look back at
that cashier
listening to blues and playing solitaire on
his computer,
and i know that i can't help it
if i'm happy not to be sad.

a ray charles tune drifts in over the radio waves
and i light the next cigarette, watching smoke
trapped by the windshield pile up and
get sucked out the window.
lost to the greasy fog that had slipped around the car.

oh let it be me, please please
let it be me.

you

i've often tried to
bottle that feeling

the one you
get

when you are fighting a fish

watching a lighting storm
being kissed

it cant be done
-as far as i know.

ive tried all sorts of bottles

big, deep golden green ones
ancient corked ones

but for now,
ill have to do my best

and catch them as they pass
right above my head

spectra

paint my bones
the hues you want to feel

pick a paintbrush and stick with it
make it work for you

drunk with acrylics
charcoal
watercolor thoughts,
you can make my bones do whatever you want

throw them down the well
toss them to the sky

dont let them be still

make a mobile that will
hang from your bedroom ceiling

that we used to stare into

when we loved.

id est

creamy rays of moon
cut through the night
smooth and long

they bounce off each crest
each little white-capped crest
that bounds toward shore

from below, the water
tastes like pain in my
nose. i had gone out

for a walk, not to clear my
head, but to see if i had
one. my hair sways drunkenly

in front of my eyes.
i close them and hope the
crests find their way.

scrubs

staunch and concrete
we live our lives with
petty fears

they play off of eachother
Ping
puffing their ruby chests
Pong


amounting to what?
headaches and
nausea:
if these symptoms persist
please call a doctor.

nemo

war torn skies of butternut orange
and regal purples
fall like silt
-ethereal, mist
they find homes with us

filling voids of
lost pets
loneliness
lazy love

but when it all comes down to it

it wasn't enough

alone is how we
are.

Pear

The sallow skin sloughs from pale
trucculent

meat. Dropping, curled
in pain, onto the cold morning

tile, the skin bounces from
side to side.

a syrupy puddle pools in the
tiles' cracks.

the cutting board
is traced with the tiny highways

after years of use and the
naked pear sits ready to be

eaten.

memory

our new golden age idolatry
lets me hold the night in

the palm
the sweaty palm
of my hand

the high road is
hard to find

but we'll trace it through
the lemongrass
and the blacksand

the kind that will stick
to our palms
our sweaty palms

until we get to the promised
place

nordic

Welcome, Ghosts-

I welcome you into
my heart
of
hearts.

here you may
stay
and half-live

your half-
lives

tuck yourselves into
whatever
corners you may
find.

i know they are
there-
sunken into the must
and crimson shadows

half-live there
be fully happy
here.

but don't forget the
light

backspace

I was your gateway
small and tarnished from all
those yesterdays

my hinges squeaked with
fatigue and
intrigue

but you used me
and i thank you
for that

but now
the rust is plotting
again and i'm forgetting

what its like to be
used.

velour

its like that feeling you get
in the bottom of your stomach

when you
swallow
some dip

its like that feeling you get
right behind your eyes

when you
crawl from
a frozen ocean

its like that feeling you get
on the soles of your calloused feet

when you
run on old
pavement too long

it's like that feeling you get
in your ribcage

when you
dont want to
love anymore

the leaves have all fallen
the snow is just about gone
and you are still here
making my palms sweaty
and my head spin

raw

we were in my kitchen
I listened to the clikkety
clakkety clikkety of my dog's nails
on the morning-chilled tiles.

it wasnt supposed to end.

I tie up my bathrobe
and pour another cup of coffee
-we are out of half-and-half.

green olives

The sun sits down
on Broadway;
letting all the day's
dust
Linger with homeless
and newspaper flyers.
Sun's sighs echo down
alley ways and
slip under back doors
of empty italian restauants
-shunned-

belly up to the bar

keepsake

the sun is low
and the snow is fading from my feet.

there is salt on the road
it burns the edges of lawns yellow.

some plowmen had tried to fight
Father Winter's fingers back.

the cold outside is the kind that
doesnt need wind. it exists only to annoy

you while your dog stops to pee in a neighbor's yard
and you have to stand still or

when you are fumbling with numb fingers for the
right key when you are already late for work.

but, i'm inside with a book. its heavier than
it should be. it isnt good. but it's

something to hold.

dark ages

everything dies in the winter

and when spring comes around
nothing will be the same.

your hands will have changed

too much for me

please don't

you were keeping me warm
my wishing star had done it all

i had believed.

but now
i'm frozen in my seat
just waiting for you to blink

and wipe the away cobwebs
keeping me
from you

not mine, for you

The fall came fast, hell it ran me down. And the cold wind burned my throat as I ran after you.
I cross the weeks off but I can’t remember a thing.
So I kiss your forehead, close my eyes and go to sleep.
And getting by has turned to treading water, and every day’s another weight tied to my legs.

I don’t wanna be a weight tied to your legs.
So if you need some time, I will wait for you.
I’ll wait
for when your clouds clear up
beneath your eyes

no expectations

your mouth
tastes like rain

the spring rains
those ones that bring people back to life.

only half, only if

i looked up.

jocked and jacked up
bent and
twisted with cinnamon curves that
hedge hips
erotic lines
dip
and drop hints

right beneath her skin.

-she dances there

you can watch sometimes
iff you can get the latch.

velour.

i watched a proposal a few days ago-

you could see it coming a few miles away.

there was one rose on the table

she excused herself to use the bathroom
-(she probably was getting herself ready
she had to expect it.)
i could see it run through him - even with the dim lighting in the way
embers where his cheeks were a few minutes ago

he fumbles in his big corduroy jacket
for that little felt box he had poured his savings
thoughtstearshopes
into


and when she came back out, she began to arrange her
napkin on her lap clumsily
he took this moment to get down
on one knee of course

and when she asked

she hesitated.
it scared me.
he got his yes but it scared the shit out of me.

and the ring tarnished just that little bit.

a few years ago

the skies fill with the fall cold
and we held our hands
clenched in tiny little
bleached fists until we got old

and gnarled, faces creased like
letters from the attic
yellow, with feathered edges.
sometimes, we would stop and
let the perfect distance
quell the static

that, from heart to heart,
lept like fall leaves kicked up
by a passing car.

dont leave

I don't feel
the paper-thin
bleached wafer-wings anymore-
wilted, turned to dust
that a housekeeper sweeps
out from under a bureau
in the corner of my old room.

Green drapes, deep with
must, soaked in
time, lurk in the windows

-they'll never let me go.

i dont want them to.

synapse

blinking quickly
tasting the silver from the spoon we shared,

i miss your thigh--
i think i loved that the most.

restoration

only love is all maroon,
with the sweeping thicknesses
that fold into the thicknightime air.

your hair was it's paint brush,
diving daring strokes beneath the canvas
beneath me.

but now, the craqueler is chipped
by a few clumsy years and the mildew
creeps in on the

corners, but
there is always a new
palate to be painted with.

Decatur

a sigh snuck in with the draft
from the window above the couch

its cold; february has swallowed the empty
house and the sigh settles somewhere below the coffee table

and the rocking chair. in the coming
days, more winds and more sighs

worm their way in through the warped wood
and collected on the sandy floor

and in the crevices of the musted
living room. the couch, rocking chair, lamps

are the only ones who hear those sighs
before they are absorbed with the coming springseason.

cloudy

My alarm's ring cuts me awake.
I can't see anything but I don't want to open my eyes.

I throw on a pair of sweatpants and sandals. I go into

the kitchen and grab the picnic basket i packed for us last night--fruit, o.j., bagels and cream cheese
and lemon poppy seed muffins (one for me and one for you).

I put the car into gear slowly-i dont want to rush it, i know it's just as tired as i am.
I don't drive there--rather, i float, making some turns here and there, i dont really know what is going on, that's ok--i didnt play any music like i normally do.
You are already waiting for me in your car when i pull into the parking lot-
hooded with your hands between your legs, trying to keep warm.
I look over at you and you are pulling blankets from the passenger seat into your arms.

we both shuffle to the boardwalk quietly after i kiss your nose 'good morning'
we lay the blankets in the chilled night-sand--it feels like it is a liquid filling in around our feet.

the sun begins to stretch all of its arms into the horizon--spreading its reds and purples and yellows over the ocean.
i pour us glasses of orange juice and you peel a muffin--taking the top, (nothing has changed)
except this time--
you put your arm around me.
and held me.
and kissed me.

i wish i could write love songs.

the dock

a slow decay of time
reaches its aching arms out
into the evening
just like me.

the moon is low over the clam flats
and my leg is firm on your thigh.

the knives of light flicker to and fro
on the shallows and i squeeze
just so you know.

but when your sigh escapes your chest,
i am the one who knows.

manquer

i don't know what to think.
it's hard to know when i'm not willing to accept
all the stop signs and detours.

but i'm glad i can at least see them.

i missed them--
the angered reds and squalid yellows keep me
from losing touch.

i've missed you.

more.

she was on the couch-
(i was in the kitchen)
i pulled open drawers of deli meat and fruits and prepackaged salad makings.
--nothing i wanted.

the shelves were empty save for some
mustard, some grovestand orange juice, milk and cream cheese.

the tv mumbled of some documentary-didnt matter which, they were all the same.

i could tell when the commercials came on because the volume got louder.

i found a jar of old pickles in the back behind the skim milk
and took them out--i was hungry.
and muffled sobs came in over the muffled tv sounds.

i stopped and listened and dropped the lid to the jar of pickles.
it stopped but i started.
my tears fell into the pickle brine and i closed the jar-saved some for later.

injun

with a seagull feather in my hand,
i sat where the whipped beach grass
and the iron-laden sand met.

the sand got in my pants.

i thought about what winnie the pooh would want
but i started that fire anyway.

and the little fire that could
burned up into the night without a moon or stars
and the hints i needed
sat and flitted from

burnt tip to burnt tip of the driftwood
that deserved a better end.
i wanted to reach out and stuff
embers and fire and sparks and heat
down my throat, hold them in my cheeks and
never scream for help,
but winnie said that we were out of honey.

sure enough,
here is the bottom of the jar
and you let go.

imagist

a calloused vestige
from bigger times.
a little toe

flicked by molten skys-
eyes flit to accept
a newer time

a heart's
dimpled
dappled depths
still know what
was

i wont stop the
basics
its in our nature.

lambent daydreams
tick from cloud to cloud
do you know?

hey monsters-
lunch date?
what should i wear?
peppercorns and dundried tomatoes
it is.

killing for love
its up to you
and your fucked
tangled head

i will flick
my bic
until we ignite
on the pyre to-
gether

flannel

i dont want to love you anymore
i really don't.

i wish it worked that way.
but leaves don't get to choose when they die

and fall to the chilled
autumn grass.

Company

I couldn’t sleep that night
I was
Tired.
Ages old-
Stuffed by decades.
I had melted into the
yellows
And purples of yesterday-
I was
Tired.

But I knew that
I would never see
you
again.

I might see the back of your head,
Or a leg or an eyelash
Darting down a congested supermarket aisle
Or pulling away from a blurred stoplight.

But I would never see you again.

I am still here.
Just in
case.

ripple

the polished light
licks
your face awake.

and when your feet
touch the bitter
tile floor,

the morning erupts

Folgers

Light bleeds through a deep fog. The picture is one color. Solid. Different shades bring contour to the country side. The tree waits. For sunrise and warmth. And light--most of all light. The sun aches--pushing, willing itself. clouds threaten shade. Hills fade into the distance. The tree reaches toward the sun with dew-struck leaves, hoping to start the dat the right way.

herringbone

Moderately successful. You can tell by the turtle neck. Money buys the bigger collar. He is a "fall" man. His salt and pepper hair and muted warddrobe betray his boring personality. He sucks socially. His grin is one learned for his wife's damn cocktail parties. She wishes he was more social; it would be good for his cholesterol.

now we are six

there have been times-
times in between all the red and
flooded with purples-
that i gave it all to the few winter leaves left.

whipping in moistened early spring wind
they have nothing left.
letting go, they wonder if they
had to do it.

echoes of
quo vadis ring from limb to limb,
just an afterthought in porcelain.

on a beat

it grows back
it takes time-don't get me wrong
it will itch, it will make you squirm
and hurt
but it will grow back.

one time

just once
when my eyes are halfway closed

would the dusty illusion of a mirage
fluttering by your cheek

come to greet me?

more day

drum-skin clouds
lilt across your coffee

and your leg accidentally touches mine
and i look out the window at the empty highway

moderation

i would have dreamed but a man in pastel yells.
my boots drag on the floor speckled with prison blues, high-tide grays and like a redhead during summer.
i have an erection.
i stare into the graph paper until it swirls-
peeling my face slowly off
like peeling the lid off of a soup can-
taking me far away.
the tired afternoon sun presses itself through the cheese-grater screen.

the million sun-flecks dandelion seed through the room and
bury themselves in his shirt.

work in progress

Reflections on a Boat
Jon Brodie

His body would have stunk. Not just some week-old tuna stink or flatulence that makes you lower your windows in your car. This odor would have been a perpetuating, achy, eye-stinging stink. But, as it was, the sun, with its harsh licking rays, made it impossible for the bacteria to make that smell live. It was a blessing in that way. In that very minor way.
As he applied the lip gloss, cotton candy, he could fell the moisture sucked into the spreading cracks and rivulets that, when fresh would trickle blood down his chin. His pencil thin lips had been carved and etched with these cracks by the big hard sun. The sucrolose from the cotton candy flavor seeped into the cracks and made him wince. The sweetest things he had had up until that point were some candy-coated memories that he allowed himself to think of from time to time. One of his first real orgasm. One of his daughter hugging him when he got home from a particularly long trip to Japan (he was faithful the entire trip). And one of his first dive under a wave each summer sometime in late May to early June. But the lip gloss had an aftertaste—almost alcoholic. Not sweet, but intoxicating nonetheless. He sat, as still as he could, crusted in salt, nose blistering, with his fingers swollen from the salt, stuffed like the Italian sausages his mother used to get from their deaf Italian neighbor, waiting for some new stimulus to jolt him from life.
His pants fit him loosely around his waist and the shreds of chino pant legs hung—seemingly exhausted like an untied bow-tie after a long night of sophisticated revelry with gourmet crackers and intriguing combinations of toppings—sautéed cayenne glazed pear, tuna avocado puree. They were a very light khaki—not quite headache white but the color of afternoon Bermuda sand. His shirt, a softer, expensive, doesn’t-come-in-a-bag-blue used that used to sit perfectly tailored on his pale shoulders to complete his twice-a-month-to-Europe business man look, now laid twisted, coiled like a rat’s tail upon his receding-hair lined head in an effort to protect him from those little licking rays of the sun—so harsh. One of his shoes–the one that wasn’t lost in the scurry off the boat, now lolled and rolled drunkenly in a pool of tepid, dead skin, urine fogged water in the corner of the raft. He looked at it longingly; that pair had been one of his favorites (his first wife had them made for him ages ago).
He would have felt sorry for himself; should have felt sorry for himself. Sitting in that life raft in that tepid, dead-skin, urine, fogged water in shredded clothes with three others from the ship, lips glittering like a drag queen from a cheap Vegas cabaret’s lights in the relentless noonday sun miles of the coast of some sure-to-be-warring African nation that would never help them if their life raft were to be found.
But for whatever reason, he didn’t. Maybe it was because it was that Karma thing his mother was always talking about finally catching up to him for throwing a dart at his brother over the next game of ping pong in their grandparent’s basement. Maybe it was because he didn’t hesitate when giving Glenn blowjob after blowjob with his wedding ring on. Or maybe it was because he had muscled his way to the front of the life raft line, screaming “I must get to my daughter!”
As Cowardice rose up his gullet and clawed at the back of his throat, he saw a blonde head bobbing at the front of the front of the mass of people anxiously waiting for their turn. It was his way out. He charged forward with complete disregard for all the others who were in the same harried situation as he was. When he heard the alarm initially, he did his best to remain composed; Craig was a man of image.
However, plowing his way through the crowd allowed him to release his fears. Not just of drowning, but of being dead and alone, of leaving a pin in a new shirt, of bidets, of zipping his dick into his pants. The fears rapidly expanded upwards and outwards into his flailing arms and writhing legs like ivory soap when placed in the microwave. He wasn’t used to showing himself. (In the world of banking, expressions lost you money, investors and confidence.) When he had muscled himself up next to the young girl, he, without hesitation, elbowed her out of the way, striking her in the shoulder and knocking her bag from her grasp. As the Hello Kitty bag hit the deck, an assortment of dollar store cosmetics (stocking stuffers, no doubt) skittered across the worn teak like multi-flavored cockroaches from the light. Disregarding this, he immediately attempted to climb down the ladder. The chilled hull of the ship numbed his fingers and made his decent harder as he clambered down the side of the floundering vessel. He looked up for a brief moment and saw the growing tumult of people gathered at the rail, waiting for the chance he stole. One member of the cluster kicked some of the fallen stocking stuffers overboard and as the ship heeled they bounced down the hull of the ship. Craig reached his hand out to stop the barrage from hitting his face and as they scattered harmlessly away from him, one of them landed on the hand guarding his face. He grabbed blindly and continued climbing down the hull.
His first relationship had ended with words. Most of which he had spit angrily into a dated mobile phone on his way to a convention that he was leading in Phoenix.

try again

You can learn a lot about someone by what they buy at a consignment store. A tired, limp blazer or threadbare tees touting some forever-ago cause. The buyers are willing to try again. They are a forgiving people. Maybe that blazer didn’t quite look just right when it needed to but, it can have another chance. Maybe that tee didn’t spread the word far enough about that cause, maybe not enough money was raised but it, too, can have another chance. Names like Goodwill, Blue Mitten, Take Two all exude the warmth, the forgiveness that the buyers have. Only people such as this can put up with the smell of these shops. It isn’t an unpleasant smell but it is a smell that comes with lying dormant at the back of a closet while heaps of other clothing are poured on top over time. That comes with sitting and waiting. Musty would be close to the right word if it weren’t so trite. They visit again and again, constantly waiting for the right ‘thing.’ I wish you had waited.

back of the class

A fresh sheet of 8.5 by 11
Clean, bleached
Void
Folded, a razor’s crease. A plane takes
Shape
And as I step inside
I cut my weary thighs
The blood fills that Empty
And we crash.
The nose got bent.

fish

Nothing but auburn
Cattails tickling rusted sky-
Aiming for the sun

rain

Wondering if any of the other colors
Would match up,
I sat down and let
All the autumn leaves,
In their funeral reds and yellows,
Settle over my eyes.
I filled my pockets wildly
With the final spectrum.

undun

And our only hope
Is the sweat in our palms.

first person plural

That word wraps up
So much
Tied and bound and lashed
Whole worlds of meaning
Sinews lace insinuations
And interpretations and fates and
Time and words all stuck together with bits
Of gum and strands of dental floss.
Evenings spent in a car looking
For time together
Or time between uttered syllables.
All of these things are we.

didn't happen

Nothing has happened.
I thought I smelled
A smell
Change?
Like ripened peaches
Or the beach at noon.
But it was just a passing
Note
Carried on those winds
We used to sit in
In the arboretum.

wave

The room lit up
With a sense of unease
That dug into every
Smiling corner.
And we were all illuminated
When you said
Goodbye.

bird

And we stood
Perched
Piqued on the
Precipice
Effigy at hand.

And we flicked and flicked and flicked and flicked and furiously flicked
Our lighters.
But when we came
To burn that
Effigy,
There was nothing but a
Weak
Paled
Hiss of gas

June 28

beautiful boys and girls

in silent reverie in the sand
ready to give into the
sonic relief

broken worlds scattered with the mussels
and sun bleached rockweed

they dig
but i can't live without that
salty love on my
lips

fears

more than the seeds in the strawberry's skin
than grains of sand that were caught in between our toes

more than a girl

ive retreated
into freckled dappled nights
behind my eyes

i'll let you know-smoke signals
somehow
in my way

late

the sun blossoms down
inspecting grass below

horses

each night
as the sky and moon and stars and shadows

were draped over us
i would have done anything to make you smile.

roll on

I.
tear-welling sting
inside
nicotine calm surrounds
my eyes

II.
Sunday was
longer than the
day you died

III.
sea air dances
on seagull wingtips

IV.
the rooster waits for me to finish
dreaming

V.
oboes sound
like a tired
lecture

VI.
metallic guitar
notes plucked
drift

VII.
she sees red
apples drop
she wants to fly

VIII.
oil-slick
algae bright
with sun

IX.
jaundiced
evening sun
feeble as a
knife-edge

X. (softshoe)
scratching scritching
leather on sand on concrete
delights the children of tourists


XI.
foggy silence
hovers between
pages of the musty
reference section

XII.
people in raincoats who don't care
wait for a bus to take them away

XIII.
sounds of morning
many
help spread the many
hues of day


XIV.
wanting more
wind giggles through
her hair

XV.
I step off
cold slate
platforms-
her eyes

XVI.
giving in
to curses,
invocations,
an obese freedom

XVII.
dressed in
a loose fitting
sky drips
from His hands

XVIII.
a polished
purple laugh
rings out

XIX.
a young girl
traced by the
sharpened morning sun-
arms limp.

XX.
she shakes dreams from her
hair (like) epileptic lighting

XXI.
he takes his gloves off
to shake with hands
moist with guilt

in August

menace is the name that dotted all the 'i's' in your letter.
popping up above the rest time and again.

you and menace, always the same thing
always a painful sting
leaving me aching to do more

but once you began
you never stopped


ever. and then
when
i begged for one more time

i couldnt tell if it was ash or snow

but my tears mixed with it anyway.

Tears

her words
like little dancing crystals
lit upon my ear
and told me tales of time and
love.

her lips soon followed
touching and reassuring
leaving
hope and aracing heart.

i lingered
head full of wonder
at the song sung
for me.

but right now
we sit dressed in a
syrupy silence

waiting for the silky
evening air to fill in the room
around us. and the song

crept
in through the door,
bowed by lively salt air.
and its lecherous

velvet hands traced down my neck
and did a softshoe on the
small of my back.

I knew the song
needed
work.

incredibly loud

and we held eachother
like antique
teacups

gingerly

and it was bitter
overpowering
and you cried
because it hurt

but implored you to stay
because i didnt want to
learn how to die.

Moderation is lost in fields of stars

we were just two people who found eachother. no more, no less.

good night.

trees

eyes closed
we dove right in
still holding hands
that shook
and trembled

and we dove down
down past the light
and feeling

we had come so far
but you let go

i know you don't anymore

i saw the word
blazed on the page

spread out and flickering

and i

knew that it had passed on.

gotten drenched in cobwebs
and shoved in an
ages-old seachest under
musty floorboards.

i love you.

symphonic

ive sung a weak
off-color song

all year long.

my voice cracks
and my palms are sweaty

but when the band begins to

play, i still remember
all i was.

one

my eyes can't see you any
other way.

they are stuck
locked
firm

on your heart


or where it was.

the sterling green hole
sucks my sights down
and thirsts for more.

but i've
already given all

i can. how do do more?

rotor

i used to be a mess
that you wore with pride.

i used to embarrass you
but it was ok.

just a mess that you didnt want to clean up

just a pile of grass clippings resting
at your naked feet.

if there was doubt

left me just like i was found.
entropic swirls caressing

and lifting my feet

twisting my neck and
pulling at my chest.

and it wont slow down.

whitelight

i am stung awake
each night.

hungry little memories
nip at my chest

keeping me from
escaping.

cardboard

i would hide in its warmth.
curl up with the veins
wrapping around me
holding me close
firm.

i would tuck myself into the
corners and crevices
anywhere i could
not really looking for anything
but
just because

i slept there many times.
the submarine-cockpit glow would
pulse and coax me to sleep.

in this heart,
i made my home.

but it's a buyer's market and it was
sold.

i promised.

Something that you feel already
deep inside
You've denied
Go ahead and cry

Please don't worry,

we are all designed to die.
we'll be together yet.

peaches

there are too many manuals.
always dishing out the orders
what to do
when
how
all those words we learned in elementary school.

but we ripen.
we all do. and those words
sunspots
go away.

tire

i wish you could spare
some conversation

it's been so lonely
across the street

and all i need are a few
gossamer syllables

and i could fade away,
just as easily as

clouds bring rain
that soaks our socks.

inspired

in this age of reptile indifference,
Mr. Blue Sky still does his best to shine
for all of us

and cut grass still appeals to everyone.

the color of the sky
when it's snowing
brings him a melancholy-
he doesnt know how he
can live if he cant

touch her.

syncopate

when you would fall asleep

i would try to breathe in time with you
so we would have something in common.

lobster pot

And so it goes
on until they decide to end me.

and then

ill just bring my
woes
to the sea
again

nothing really

a few wrinkled meaty petals

sit heavily on our time
together.

my lip is bleeding
the tinny taste lingers on my tongue

waiting for something

mean

very cold
icicles under chewed-off fingernails

intentions are clear but motives
are muffled by a contrived fog.

thanks.

blackbird

i thought time would

make her due.
i thought.
but when black folds to
light into a deep purple memory,

thinking of you is all i
will have.

videotape

this is my way
of saying goodbye.

this is how i cut it loose
and set them free.

and as it all fades into
the dry-leaf crackling and the
black and white
light show,

my lips soften
and my eyes melt closed,
dreaming of one last good thought.

one more time

my head is a box

filled with nothing.
the tape that holds the cardboard together
is old.
ready to give.


but it doesnt matter.

because the sun will set on
the headstones.

happy

i am terrified to die
to no longer be.

but, when i die,
whenever it will be,

i will know that i had it all.

all the kingdoms of the world
all the hopes
all of the world's oceans
weighing down on my sweaty, calloused palm

when i knew you.

anything for you, still.

shine was all she said
shine.

and then he scrunched up his eyes
so all he saw were dots
and clenched his fists
so his fingernails dug into his palm
and that vein in his forehead and
neck popped out.

he couldnt do it.

I'm sorry.

and they said
that when his heart gave up
it had been through too much

that it had survived
what it shouldnt have
and that it was simply tired

three days later
he didnt rise from the dead
because he was only human

and no one wrote songs for him
or mentioned his name
or left his room exactly as it was.

his clothes were donated,
to be worn in mockery by shitty hipsters
and in desperation by homeless

his thoughts? that was
something he took to his grave.
those were his.

lock and key bitch

and that kiss in the june
night
air
sealed his end.

his olive drab heart
lays wrinkled on the floor,
a handkerchief.

and all the while,
her human hands
lock him in a
smokescreen,
straight-jacket tight.

and he has an itch on his nose.

lost worlds

atlas holds them on his
shoulders,
broad and rippling with
aching muscles.

and her laugh, and
her eyes,
those bunkbeds, the family, and
the

fuck it.
-i need you back in my life. whatever capacity it may be. i dont care. i dont know how i went this long without any trace of you. and you may be busy, you may be stressed, you may be tired but i need to know if you ever cared. ive given you the respect you asked. now fucking treat me with some. after treating you like the gold you are, i get spit on, a letter and abandoned when all i need is a friend. i have thought about you everyday since the 28th of june and i cant handle this anymore. im sorry. after all i thought i was to you, i need to know if i will ever matter at all to you again.

-and you,i need you to be a friend. at least a friend. ill take that. and we deserve that. im sorry again, but we can work at a better solution.

-and they had better not tear that house down.
then i would have no place to call comfort. when will you stop fucking everything up? fair? i wont even begin that argument. 9 million isnt even close to fair for all we owe that place. all it has been? and for a shitty 9? fuck off. its not a matter of fair, its a matter of selfish, piggish desires.

i would have written a poem. but i wont have to write for a while now.

lost worlds

Я люблю тебя

please dont let it be for long.

i cant handle the dark.

open the blinds.

nothing happens for a reason

and i hope you realize that.

and i know the pieces fit.

one more time

In the shadowy streetlamp night
We say goodnight


I drive home to a messy
room and torn dreams

and i realize it will be the last time,
only now.

water in my hands

atrophy deep within his chest,
riddled with memories,
cutting holes in his dreams
and listing to port with

the weight of the love still there.

slipping out pinprick holes in
hull-
flaking with age
and creaking in remorse.

push it over-
make him fall.

that was fast

so fast.
people have told me that timing is everything,


-just my luck, honey. just my luck.

point well taken.

before it began

two

one then

one now


and both fated to
rip like tissue paper
in a breeze.

and all i can do is look on.

and his heart stopped

i dream of
those scissors
every night.

they sit in a
drawer
by the greasy stove.

ill pick them up
from time to time
and run them down

my arms.

empty striking
blades carress
empty sighs

and slice right
through the
melancholy letters

of disconnect.
and the tears soak into
the thoughts she

used to say
she thought.

A Farewell To Arms

i dont need them anymore.
they wont be holding you.

the only purpose they serve
is to reach out
time and again

into a dark yellow
morning,
probing for a word.

but as i let go,
i hope you know that
i am all
for you.

and i still have
that heart.
even if it is smaller
and colder,
its here loitering,
waiting for a fine.
or even the time of day.

remember me?

the kerosene soaks into my
sunbleached,
aching
bones and
my mind is ablaze with memories.
and honey,
i miss that.

i miss that so.

so ill sink down below your skin
and settle in,
hoping you'll remember me.

because right now,
my hope retreats as the sun rises
once more.

my pleasure.

i burned my tongue
on the tea you used to drink.

then i leaned back on my arms and
breathed deep the solid black night air.

i slapped at mosquitoes.
and watched our blood lazily
leak from the spot on my palm.

too good.

i had this dream
this crazy dream
there was love everywhere--
soaked into the worn-down carpet,
laced around my neck
crammed into the glove compartment of my car.

and i lived
with a peach sky above
and leather-soft earth below.
and i was smothered
in her olive oil eyes,
drenched in the love of the moon.

Luna and i danced every night
within the glow,
we shimmied up the atmosphere
and hovered above the smokestacks
until my wax wings
melted and you complained about the

mess they made.

vous

i am the little boy
the third button buttoned,
khaki's too short,
in the hallway with a book.
in the hallway looking for someone
else who loves dinosaurs this much
who wants to play army men.

and as he grows,
not too much changes.
but now,
he just looks for an old friend

i will see you this weekend (I remember by Damien Rice)

I want you hear tonight
I want you hear
'Cause I can't believe what I found
I want you hear tonight
I want you hear
Nothing is taking me down, down, down...

Except you my love. Except you my love...

Come all ye lost
Dive into moss
I hope that my sanity covers the cost
To remove the stain of my love
Paper mache

Come all ye reborn
Blow off my horn
I'm driving real hard
This is love, this is porn
God will forgive me
But I, I whip myself with scorn, scorn

I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Hear if you're gonna live without me
I wanna hear what you want
I remember december
And I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Hear if you're gonna live without me
I wanna hear what you want
What the hell do you want?

hold

i have so much to say.

this tape won't let me.

i have so much to live for.

this uniform wont let me.

i have so much to dream.

i am too tired.

si je veux

today i met a ghost
that looked like me.

and i asked him,
as i crept from my
fever dream,

where you were.

and all he did,
was rub his palms together
and look down at my shoes.

big black rain

i still dream of you.
walking out in the dusk
and the big black rain.

as you walk you dont
make a sound.
you just walk away into the

pounding on the sidewalk.
i burned all my clothes
and threw away my mind

just so i could hear you.

bow and arrow

it's gonna rain.
the big droplets that fall
only in November.

the kind that hit
and you dont feel at first.

that sting.
that chill.

the kind that can break me.

the kind that make you
wish you had someone

she knows

she saw me crying at night.
i was face-down and choking
on my tears,
ready to give it all away.

the blood filled my ears and i
was deaf to all the pleas.
and i couldnt see past the
pillowcase that filled my face.

she saw me screaming into the night.
i screamed till the air left me and
my strength was in a heap
on the cold november ground.

my knees gave way and
my head rolled away.
i couldnt feel my face
but i was alone in life.

she saw me drowning into the waves.
a head rolled up and down
a buoy of life, covered in salt,
once more she saw it.

and i held my breath until my eyes
opened. and my arms were limp,
legs at the ocean's whim.
and this is how i loved her.

piling

im going to give
more than i have.
even though i am empty.

my tank has been drained
of all fumes.
im down to a Very Last.

but for you,
i will give.
because only you

can fill me.

for air

screaming.
exhausted from the sights
that we all have beheld.

his arms ache
from being empty
for so long.

all he needs
is a friend to
have.
to hold?

in the darkness
and the light.

the yellow ribbon not
on the white picket
fence says it all.

and he cries out
one more time
for his air.

once more, please

i still think of my star,
sleeping up on high,
while the amazing sounds of orgy
are ringing in my ears.

i want to know if
she ever shines for me,
even if just for a moment
from time to time.

and i know there is no end
in sight, but that is only by
design. i will wait for you
but you will never come.

she is the styrofoam cup tangled
up in the seaweed, piling
up on the beach. and the flies
persist throughout the day.

scar

i know you wont ever understand
why i threw myself from the glass again.

id tell you

if i knew

all these things are real

i never found my way home.
dragging my heels,
callous to all.

sometimes
i would look up at the
cloud of moths gathered around the
irresistible
glow of a streetlamp,
and feel like i belonged.

love always,

i put on my mask.
fins, and tanks too and
fell backwards
into the water.
the weight of you
clawed at my ankles,
tore my wetsuit.

i abided and was pulled down
past the ear-popping,
the pressure,
until i could be held in your hand.

then.
i got a letter.

please please

another black sheet night
doused in tears,
draped over his drained body.
hugging all his curves,
his chest, stomach and hips.
his eyes agape,
looking at the pearl necklace of constellations
around the Night Sky's neck.

jour

you were a glowing sun in my morning
and i the rippled clouds at your feet.
and now
you are the darkest moon in my night
and i the forgotten warm afternoon

who i loved

feel it now.
feel the iced needles stuck under fingernails.
seven weeks of pulled teeth.
you dont feel it?

that's right.
its been too long.
as you like it.


and all the thoughts now just escalate,
there's no point trying to fight it.
i love her. and i love her still.
and the clouds will bring me down
back down to that december evening
when all hell broke loose.

gum.

pillars passed
by a quick step.
each one as stout as the last.

as i stuff my handkerchief of
yesterday's tears
into regretting pockets,
my heels drag against the
opportunities stuck to the sidewalk.

when your mind's made up

all falls short,
nothing slips by.
seven weeks shut.
you dont feel it anymore
because you cant feel
at all.

excerpts

And you took the wind right out of my sails
By sweating me out on all the little details
In the arms of this low

And if by some chance you break from the pack
You know I'll be waiting to welcome you back
Into the arms of this low

mail

familiar faces swept under the rug
tarnished empty picture frames,
waiting for the day they feel good.
sit and listen.
feel the drop in mercury
just below your skin.
and all you have to do
is let him know.

Dying Song By John Frusciante

I'm going away, forever,
I'm going away, forever,
Never coming back this way,
Never coming back to this place.

What I need is a heaven,
What I really need is a heaven,
A place to go where I can really be,
A place to go where I can really be
Where I can really be.

Dreaming my life away, counts for nothing,
Dreaming my life away, counts for nothing,
But nothing ever is the end,
No, nothing ever is the end.

It's sure been a full life for me, yeah
It's sure been a full life for me, yeahh
It's sure been a full life for me, baby, its sure been a full life for me

state

time is tangled up in tumble weeds
that skitter by,
bouncing over my dusty feet.
i hum a hallelujah or two
and let the pebble tear into my heel
for as long as i can stand.
peverse pleasure snakes its way
up to my knees and
the corners of my mouth.
a comedy from the
third person

playing solitaire

this is my crime.
dealing a fresh hand
every rise and fall.
always stuck with the queen of hearts-
left with nothing to trump
all the crimson fears
rising to the top.
this was our time
to drive the steak through
all the room to spare
in hearts full of emptiness.

off

the spiced October night skies
look to spill their questions
all over her blouse.

she takes it off,
hoping they can find some answers
in the dulling heartbeat.

questions pool up between her breasts
in her bellybutton,
orange and red and blue.

her eyes dull with the passing clouds
and she knows she get what she wants
never what she needs.

the exhaustion of ages
sits heavy in her hips,
and tears glisten,

following the wrinkles--
highways--
down her face.

she knows crimson change
looms between the blades of grass
but for now, she is alone.

picasso

the orange slice smile
plastered to their
faces
acidic and white

lead me to wonder
if the bleeding fabric
of who i am
will continue
to be

demerol

eyelids heavy with
sin, he gives into the weight
of all ancient things.

lips pursed against the
morning, sitting back towards
the new bleaching skulls.

ive listened hard but
i could not see the beauty
surrounding the seas.

slipping farther down
back to the lobster pots full
of old memories.

IV

the whisper in her eyes
lets me flood myself with
mercury wishes and
heroin dreams.
paint thinner blood runs through these veins.
i run
dosed
comatose into the spectacle
of a wax paper yesterday.
a thousand tin lifetimes wash up
in the seagull's cries.

night

a bolt from the the sheets
upright, cold, damp
and heavy breathing.
the memories,
as dreams,
throttle me
pulling my ribs
through my chest
and they fall to the tile,
a mini-symphony.
the clinking stops,
like brittle ivory toothpicks,
fresh from the box.

freckle

it was a special time
because when you are down that deep
time moves like trying to pour vaseline.
the line was coarse
grandpa's beard
from years of use--
pushing its way into my ankle.
i settled in for the long last night
as the pressure built.
the porcelain night shimmered through the surface
of the sea
down to me

Dear John,

i lay--
respite in the world of dreams
just to see the small of her back
to see my fingers tracing veins
just to see those eyes
staring back at me
through me
because im not there anymore

demo-woman

we can all come up with something
new
that can be destroyed
her voice shatters coldly
against the cinder blocks of memory
stacked up
cemented to the picture frame
i hold close to my heart

no filter

cigarettes are a wonder.
how can something so calming,
seemingly rejuvenating
be so despicable,
destructive
and lovely?

turn it again

i hear you have a shoebox full of regrets,
of letters never sent
and a few feathers you picked up on the beach when you were little.
put me there, too.
ragdoll limp
and sunshine faded
below them all.

Amen.

call it out,
scream it,
whisper those few words
into his ear. let him know
one way or another.
his salvation lies on lips

radio

they all shout your name down the empty hallway
just like i did.
now the whimsy of rejection
settles into the cracks in the
asbestos-lined tiles,
and the morbid thief
steals through my ribcage,
drumming his silly, sad beat
on my ribs,
a lullaby in your mind

when

everyone hovered one lacewing dreams
praying to catch a glimpse,
everyone but him. he sat
grounded
under a gnarled oak-
like the one in the park with initials of
lusty teens
carved into the trunk-
and closed his eyes and took a
deeeeeeeep breath

and choked on a fly.

wish upon a star

jack
could you do me a favor?
just one more,
that should do.

then He can take care of me

on being read

without the whimsied glance of you
or her
or maybe even you,
letters sit
here-
static
pegged to a board for a thoughtful inspection that never comes.
while everybody talked,
i just stared at you.

strangers

they had crossed paths before.
in empty school hallways.
during countless morning commutes.
fleece-upholstered couches late at night.

now
his mind spirals backward
to loopy handwritten letters and
wrinkled promises of a gilt tomorrow.

hers to
vanilla ice cream
and tomorrow's drone

trying

id love to feel the
denim right below my palm.
to see that love
slung around my neck,
id give all i am.
a giggle would bring me to my knees.

but im happy with trying.

kleenex

with every tear
the distance grows
with every pang
the heartbeat slows

under this heart-blue sky
he will dream of being re-loved
dream of being reversed
dream of being held under.

shasta daisy

sadness draped over his face,
he comes to his knees,
arms stretched to the copper skies,
anger in his stomach.

his ivory eyes
cracked with age
looked for a word he had been told was written
up on high.

as the quest retreats from his body,
his eyes shut
slowly
to visions of what
he would have to carry.

cowboy song joe purdy

Pick me up softly, I don't know long I have left
Oh I am not hurtin', but death is a-certain
There's a bullet that lays in my chest
I'm flooded with memories and people and sweet dreams
And words to my favourite songs
And I'll buy the last round if you lay my head down
And sing one for me when I'm gone

superman

if i could don that cape,
even that spandex,
id slick my cowlick
and puff out my chest
and clench my jaw to make it square,

i would.

because
then
i could turn time around.

raid

your loving ivy took hold
fast
and wrapped and twirled its way up around me
making me feel bound and safe.
then the gardener came--
looking to let some sunlight in.

...now you dont.

somewhere in between your silly smile
and your sleight of heart
i got lost
lost in the wild blues
and grizzled purples that ruled the moment.

not 'dont'

i just cant wrap this
bent mind around it.
all the razored edges and
billowing corners etch
the darkened emptiness of my skull.
i cant do it.
i cant understand.

Cannonball by Damien Rice

there’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
there’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
it’s still a little hard to say what's going on

there’s still a little bit of your ghost your witness
there’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed
you step a little closer each day
that I can´t say what´s going on

stones taught me to fly
love, it taught me to lie
life, it taught me to die
so it's not hard to fall
when you float like a cannonball

there’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
there’s still a little bit of your words i long to hear
you step a little closer to me
so close that I can´t see what´s going on

stones taught me to fly
love taught me to lie
life taught me to die
so its not hard to fall
when you float like a cannon..

stones taught me to fly
love taught me to cry
so come on courage, teach me to be shy
'cos its not hard to fall,

and I don't want to scare her
its not hard to fall
and i don't want to lose
its not hard to grow
when you know that you just don't know

take two

cut cut cut
ok not bad
but this time
i want to see it with a
bit more



how do i say

maybe

authenticity? a bit less mirage-y
you understand?
make it real--
want him
need him
make sure you are a part of him this time.


ok let's try this again

lights
camera


shit.

grading

creativity
twists his mind
into cloudform
and the waves
lay their bodies down on
the shore
escaping the
sea

loophole

just because i felt it
didnt mean it was there
but i didnt know that tasty tidbit

mangled

the blades of grass
limp
from afternoon heat
settle against the feet
without shoes on
toes touching

decrepit

the butterfly eyelashes did their
dance
upon his cheek.
he smiled a
hummingbird's smile
and dreamed about the
moon.

i really hope you read this

this is gonna be a bit odd
but
at this point
i couldnt care much less.
this trapped
caged
bound feeling
is just the opposite
of how you feel right now.
this is blatant, by the way.
shame isnt something im afraid of anymore.
immature? yea that was it.
i almost giggled when that word came out.
almost.
the tears got in the way.
but if that was immature,
then
yes
immature, i am.
you'll probably call this immature
but
right now
i have no other way of expressing how i feel because
you dont wanna hear it.
so
now
you wont hear it.
you may not even read it
and that is ok.
im used to being ignored too.
that is what i mean by trapped, caged, and bound.
locked up in myself.
removed from all that i loved,
all that loved me
all i knew
all that knew me.
no way of holding hands
of sharing a simple laugh.
and that is terribly immature of me.
terribly. terribly ripped from a sense
of care
of ability
of worth.
maybe this will help me mature.
sounds about right.
and just my new life
mimics the old
no second chances
"dont fuck up" they say.
"dont you dare"
well
i didnt. and i still got steamed.
there's my faith
right there. in the
middle
set up for all who'd care to see
but turn your blind eye
put your commitment in your purse
and move on.
ill put mine on top of my faith
for all to see.

quiet eyes

a rubied dull glow
slinks
underneath the door.

captain

she sat,
quiet, in a dulled
velour chair.
The window is open
and an August evening breeze
nudges her hair,
warning of the
fall
to
come

bicycle

its been a ride
through
down
farther into another
cloudburst of
angry tempestial
neurosis.
she blinks.

give up

it's ok
to take it all on a whim
to "have had time to think about it"
to say those lines
to let it go.
it's fine.
hakuna matata, right?
right

pearls and swine

i had this string of pearls
in my glove compartment--
with a simple silver clasp.
on my way home
i came to that stoplight.
we all know that one
the one that takes forever.
i sat there with my windows down
rolling the pearls in my hands.
there were years of work strung up
put on display
to be worn on your neck. i took the end of the strand
and put it in my mouth
tasting the oysters dedication.
as each one rolled over my tongue
and grated up against my teeth,
i sat and knew you were wrong.
but
one by one
i popped a pearl off and dropped it out the window.
no cars had pulled up behind me and the light had gone through a few
cycles
but i waited
listening to the engine idle and
feeling early morning wind lick my ears.

all i'm left with is that
simple silver clasp.

immaturity

its giving up
its letting go
its trying something new
its getting by
its emotions
its sucking it up
its failing
its succeeding
its crushing
its ugly
and
its now.

you should

resonating in my ears,
they sting--
little paper cuts
a skinned knee.
mom's reassuring
nor neosporin
will fix this one.

shot

morbid streaks of light
soft shoe on the lid. Bless-ed
be thy name, Amen.

tears

her words
like little dancing crystals
lit upon my ear
and told me tales of time and
love.

her lips soon followed
touching and reassuring
leaving
hope and aracing heart.

i lingered
head full of wonder
at the song sung
for me.

but right now
we sit dressed in a
syrupy silence

waiting for the silky
evening air to fill in the room
around us. and the song

crept
in through the door,
bowed by lively salt air.
and its lecheroud

velvet hands traced down my neck
and did a softshoe on the
small of my back.

I knew the song
needed
work.

allman

i'm going southbound
heading southbound baby
southbound
for me and you

i'm going southbound baby
southbound
with all the best intentions
for me and you

i've been coming home baby
home 'cause i'm something terrible lonesome
something terrible
working all day and runnin' all night

working for coming home to you.
i'll make it up to you baby girl
i swear i will
southbound for you

its been a long time
since i've been home
but southbound i come.
i love you, always will

two-step

i screamed into an empty house

it sunk into the dusty upholstery
and ricocheted off the faded linoleum
and rested in the cold of the basement.

the colors of empty
flicked in and out
of love.

but the colors of
feeling
resounded in a cockroach
cacophony

lovely

ends are ends.
ends are not beginnings.
beginnings are not ends.
none of that mumbo-jumbo.

however
a moment can be ended
and begun.

why not

ive stayed quiet
simple
whimpering

figured
why would i have to be anything else?

(i forgot begging)

but now?
now questions
like cream
like doubts
simmer
shimmer on the top.

why can't they just be left as they should be?
a part of something?
natural and together?

but i thought you said?

nope.
you can make a grown man cry
just like those stones said.

and stones do
bleed.
a thick deeper than red blood

but so do boys

sitting

as usual.
typical.
regular.
the norm.

way too much is the same.

deject

dominance and submission
pumps
through the veins.
and life drains from the ears

as suspicions are confirmed.
the drift of living in stereo
conceived
and

born.

vert

Glory
of
delphi

It

lists
over
velvet
ears

hearing
everything
return
.

i try

i really do.

harmonium

im going to trip
slip
fall
into your human hands
and you

you will hold me with them
for a very long time

worry

as this moment spins away
as my eyes roll back into my head
i wonder
will i be waited for?
the dust on the gears
in my skull
click
to life

and a new process begins

pang

a white-hot little pin
sunken under the fingernail
or in between
the ribs.

a splinter
working its way through
flesh and
memory.

a railroad tie
of wanton thrillful desires
beaten upon to the tune
of a neighbor's heartbeat.

a little grain of sand
hard and black
stuck in a tearing eye
just out of sight

goodnight moon

goodnight moon
i will see you tomorrow.
with the fading lily light,
i walk.
the lilac sky rests heavily on my shoulders
and presses my feet deeper into the souls of
my shoes.
she softshoe shuffles across the
furrows in my brow.
goodnight Chance
more like 'good bye'
maybe i will hear of your latest traipsing
years down the road.

man, this is disjointed

a tear

how
is a choice to be made
in the
now
that will only impact the
tomorrows
how can one
bring one's self
to decide
on a fate
on a hope
on a love
when all one has is
now

cold

lately
my hands have been getting colder.
they never used to.
they were warm
comfortable
but
now
ice runs cold.

third place

they pop up ready
to be taken for a ride
you glance
wary
but figure 'why not?'
you reach out
take their hand
and start the engine
the moonlight overhead
dances upon your shoulders
as they step down from the car
only to leave you wishing
praying
for a reprieve

zion

the opportunities slipped
and fell
but never hit the ground.
he dove
down
down
to try and catch them
for their sakes.
but all he got was a broken heart
and a paper cut

arm in arm

it was almost holy
the rain
cold and piercing
singed the back of my neck
and dripped down my jaw
i stood in mud
and filth
impaled by bass and treble
wishing i could take it all
kcab

horsefeathers

its like buying blue paint.
you always wish you bought the other shade.

weary

im weary.
not tired
not sore
not fragile
but weary.
the marrow is strained,
pulled in all directions.
it knows what
everyone wants.
but it knows not
what I need.
chillled and hardened,
cold as fingertips.

tomorrow

why cant i just get a glimpse?
one.
pick a point--any point.
show me.
i just want to know.
if i will succeed
if i will stumble
and if so,

how hard?
it is the great equalizer

clown

i did it again today.
got caught up in the fibers of
minutia.
little hills
smaller valleys
all tripped me up.
i came down hard.
with scraped knees,
i winced and opened the door.
the wince looked like a demented,
masochistic smile.

t minus

the fuse glows,
spitting out iridescent
cinders onto my palm.
shrinking
recoiling
retreating into itself.
the cinders fizzle
out
before they can mark my skin.
tensing,
i anticipate the crack
the sting
the smell of powder.
but
fuses fail.

time was so long ago

time is halved
on the floor.
time heals all that is broken.

but
what heals time?

interpret

its a whim.
nothing behind the wheel.
this light bleeds through a deep fog
and strikes--
cracking the pavement.
smiles are shared.

etouffer

i have too little faith.
its not good for the blood pressure.
its being worked on
for i have reasons.

Prostitute Poem By Gong From "Angel's Egg (Radio Gnome Invisible)"

It is night
It's not night
I'm happy
I'm not happy
I'm sad
I'm not sad
It's early
It's late
Je marche
Je marche pas

Bonsoir monsieur
Tu viens avec moi ?
Tu viens mon cheri ?
Oui monsieur, viens
Tu es pret ?
Viens...

Ca m'est egal
What do you want me to do?
Je veux - je veux pas
I touch you - et c'est dur monsieur
It's not like that
I'll show you...
Show you love... love...
Let me sink...
Ohhh...

Je dois manger - n'importe quoi
I break off the corner of your mind and eat it
I'm eating your mind
I'm eating your body
Viens ici ici
Come I want your body
Viens, viens faire l'amour
Faire l'amour
Faire l'amour

Come into my arms
I kiss your lips
You die
I want your body
I do not want your body
De quoi s'agit-il ?
Bonne nuit - good night
Bonjour - mornin'
It's night - it's day
It's morning
C'est ca, non?

effort

tried to amplify
amputate
wanted to live
love
when you caught me
cut
i prayed for another
a brother
all i want is reciprocation
reciprocation

blue ridge

the soft light teases
of muddled outlines
and simple perfumes.
the light filters through
cream-colored cotton shades
and touches down--
feather-light--
upon dappled shoulders.
with her back turned,
i trace the ridges and valleys of
vertebrae,
some rising up through hair,
others lost in the curvature.

pledge

old people talk funny.
they use words crafted by years of use
and misuse.
the words seem to be
hand-handhewn boards in the corridors
twisting around their dated homes.
these sculpted words linger in the
neutral, warm-milk air,
escaping every once in a while
through the cracks in the caulk under
the storm windows.
their syllables slips from aged ash tongues
and their calculated corners knife into closets
filled with wool suits and conservative pumps.
these words are dusty.

left? or right?

what now?
what now?
what now?
where are my big strong arms?
where is that safety?
where is the ladder?
below me
behind the clouds
buried in the sand
deep behind her retina
within the sweatered embrace.

actual/appearance

she would say she doesn't wear any wings
but you can still see them
if you squint your eyes.
faint outlines,
like a watermark,
or shadow during dusk.
she tries her damnedest to hide them
under sweatshirts or
behind her comments.

im not as dumb as i look

suite...

my hands are out,
ready and waiting to receive.
vessels for whatever may await.
or simple reminders of what
isn't there.

southern anthem

there is a song,
so im told,
that is sung deep within the woods
or far out at sea in the fog
that tells of
wonder found in
thought and love.
written on chalky bones
and on yellowed letters in
shoe boxes, buried under beds.
if we are lucky,
a few notes will
find their way
through the pine boughs or
the rolling mists
to open ears

Harry S Truman

slow simple
satin moves
slip through
lacy skies
and
stun.

yankee

we've had this candle since about october-
its 'balsam and cedar' flavored
(are candles flavored?)
my dad likes getting in the holiday spirit early.
it is here, on the island in the kitchen and it
has barely moved from its original position.
it has done its job well and now
the green-dyed wax level is low.
so low that no one can get their fingers in
and light it with a match.
the rim of the jar that its in is
covered in soot.
looking through it, i see my
kitchen like an old photoplate,
greyed, sepia and devoid.

oh, candles are scented.

roadblock

i had time today.
i decided that i was going to write a letter.
not really sure to whom
or concerning what.
i took out a stationary pad,
the one that my grandmother gave me
with my name in script at the top,
and a pen.
i sat down at the kitchen counter and began
to think.
i thought of writing to my uncle.
or his daughter.
i peeled a clementine
and continued thinking
while picking the orange bits
away from my cuticles.
all i ended up writing was
"Dear "
so i figured it was as done as it could be.
i folded it into messy thirds.

i couldn't find an envelope.

it's a volcano

he sits there
sunken into the seat
running his hand up and down
her leg.

nothing is said
but that's ok

its more comfortable that way

he looks over
grins
and lets the
road be swallowed underneath

conditonal

could have been anything
could have made decisions
could have been a slave to freedom
could have cried
could have built up the past
could have

chose you.

closet

take these bones,
dry and bleached clean,
drum on the basement floor.
beat out a message
but be careful with my ribs

i still have a use for them

pour toi

can you hear the sirens?
listen
-i listened hard but could not see
listen harder
they scream of sacrifice
wail of wonderment
all for you.
they all want you

plant

the ruins in the street
smolder
shredded metal by brute force
twisted
contorted
like hundreds of old pepsi cans

shining in the afternoon squalor

but i might die tonight

and i would pass on
as we all will

lost to newspaper clippings saved by relatives
and remembered times

but the yellowed clippings are lost in a future fire
and times are washed down the drain

impact reduced to a kiss
and a few faces

our inherent flaw
time.

this tall------->

years have compacted upon themselves
same disappointment

piled
piled
3, 4, 10 deep

for years,
i hadn't been tall enough
to ride the roller coaster

i have grown

se souvenir

a salted breeze whipped through her hair.
she thought of her dog.
and last night's meeting under the street lamp.

X

he took a trip
to a place covered in wonderful weeds
and spotted with rusting cars
with dusty windshields
adorned with the names of couples.
the animals all around him
oblivious
ducking in and out of the towering flowers.
the wood chips that lined the paths in the weeds
were wet and stuck to his bare, calloused, dirty soles.
he opened a door of handhewn boards
and
there she was.

sheets

the ghost of last winter
rests in the wicker chair
with a just-big-enough fleece blanket
draped over its toes.
it sips on a steaming cup
and drops its head low.
she comes over to comfort him--
rubbing his neck.
she too leans down and
lets her lips brush and then
linger
on his cheek.
she lets him rub away the lipstick.
words are lost.

monster

words that spill in the slipstream
of the bright night
add features to the sounds--
a nose
a knee
some hair
until those sounds
create this perfect monster
proportionate.
lovely.

windy day

shaved my head in preparation.
got in shape for the devastation.
readied my mind for the fall.
i had a close call
with the battle of time.
i couldnt wrap my head around the thought of
termination
the thought of looking on
and then the clouds moved.

whitebread

and the sun's rays danced
upon his coppered back.
tiptoeing across the outlines of muscles
jumping from vertebrae to vertebrae.
and as the winds harmonized
with the colors of the sky,
the sea mumbled something about
a life that was lived
through the paradox of the
seagulls' cries.
its hands molding the shore in its
slow
methodical
sure
fashion.
and then he kissed her.

just this once

repetition
repetition
repetition
repetition
over and
over and
over and
over and
again
again
again
again
abaddon's bolero

32-34

i heard a line in a song today
"surprises a size too small"
and gears that had rusted in my head
creaked and cracked to life
and took up their duty once more.
and maybe the surprises aren't too small
maybe they are just right. like
little bear's porridge.
like a glass slipper.
like a fatigued, star-crossed kiss.
maybe we are all too big.
maybe you bring me back to my size.
my old clothes are fitting again

buck

and its that circular motion that
reminds me
of purple ribbons of sky
looping together
when i was young
and naked,
sitting on the shore.
taking the rocks that had
traveled far
and sucking the salt from them.

cToWnIvSoTlEuDtUePd

for old time's sake
the honey spills in Network Time Delay fashion
from our hands as the heat
glares up from the road and is swallowed
by our pinprick eyes that gazed into the
newspaper night.
i feel like i can reach out and
tear my way through the time.
as i pull my hand back, the letters lash
off the page of the night
and prick my fingers.
indigo collects and all at once
surface tension gets lazy
and my dreams escape from the
gaping holes in my hand.
i pull myself through one of them-
my skin is surprisingly elastic-
and i see through my eyelids.
they are wax paper and i dont get details
but the essences pop out,
pressed against the film
like a two seconds after a
face has been pressed against a pillow.
meaningless.

vocal chords

semi-paralysis
purposeful, intent-laden
its a part of us-
we dictate how we use that power
we can use facsimiles
or we can exercise
our chords.
we can shake the dust from them,
and whip them around
lashing, leaving marks
or
we can bronze them
preserve
silence them with
those facsimiles.

its all a matter of free-will
cant criticize that

commencant.

as he lay there,
a bit too hot in a sweater that needed to be washed,
thoughts not racing,
he began to love.
it began in his left hand, warm and calm,
trickling, drips from an icicle.
it spread slowly, thoroughly,
syrup through a sponge.
dense.
down, in and through the muscles.
it almost choked him as it attacked his neck,
hands from nowhere strangling.
and he closed his eyes
smiled
and was
smothered.

rungs

not a thing to give?
many offerings that
blur the lines between
loud and love.
i wanted to feel this way.
i want it to feel this way.
and as the truculent
stumble back from their latest trip to hope,
they spread their disease
but as we climb out,
the innocence leaves.
intentions follow--
hand in hand with smiles.

g sharp

frosted eyelashes twitch.
the car idles--
rumbles in the night,
harmonizing with the silence.

Rub-a-dub-dub

The bell
no longer tolls.
The crack splits
deeper until
its a bathtub.
Wash yourself clean.
Let yourself
Be baptized.
Naked to the world.
clean, new
begin.

borne identity

and the light sneaks into my cornea
along with it come images of you.
the tired rods and cones twitch with recognition.
and the mind ignites
and rejoices.

screams and squeals and shudders and shakes and smiles

are all borne from this light

c'est bon

the reflection off the little colored baubles
the steam from the broth
the speckles on the tired banana
all make up what was.
the undertones rise to the top.
the cream of the crop.
the good.
the very very good.

pour moi

weird.
the word descibes itself.
isnt it supposed to be
"i before e, except after c, as in neighbor and weigh?"
it doesnt conform
and i think that is the draw
that weird has.

well,
at least for me.

Hot Wax Weekend

can you live on the knife edge?
dance upon the razor?
or do your feet bleed at the thought?
when hands wander instead of eyes,
do you still recoil?
do you still wince at a coup d'oeil?
when will you relax?
when will the wax take over for your bones?
Does that razor cut through the wax?
make forms that jog your memory?
or does it introduce you to newness
and make you
giggle?

query

why do they call it 'being in a pickle?'

is it because tears are like brine--
preservatives?

or is it because





nope, i guess that must be it.

ouch.

its like dipping
it into candle wax.

when you pull it out,
you dont quite feel it at first.

then,

it burns and burns until
you peel the layers off.

where is the footstone?

Last night,
as i drove home from a party that i didnt belong at,
i made some decisions-
not the important ones though.
i went to the cemetery-
thought for a while.
i stared enviously at
Margaret J. Hoffman
(1921-1997) and
Peter R. Solis
(1919-1943).
they were good listeners.
the didnt pretend
to understand, they just
nodded with
pursed lips.
the rest of the drive was silent.
i honestly dont remember it.
i could only think of you.
screw stoplights.
i pulled into my driveway
and thought i would cut the extended metaphor crap
that you dont like
so you could understand this.
here is my helplessness.

a somewhat vulgar expression of angst that fifty years ago would have been contstrued as horribly offensive, but by today's standards is commonplace.

fuck

picasso

he preps the room--
careful sanding
taping the corners
spreading a drip cloth.
he is ready.
he paints with care
coloring the wall with shallow blues
rich and bloody purples
scared oranges.
and he is almost done.
ready to reward himself with that Manhattan.

shit.
he's painted himself into a corner.

three's a crowd

and when the legend of
her heart fades with the crumbling parchment,
the story behind your eyes will
burn and
singe tears that will swirl
with exhaled zephyrs
and form these unforgivable storms
that crash without abandon
through the hallways of
inquisitions.
and the pains rejoice
in company.

ad infinitum

there is nothing.

torn

we laugh like others cant.
over nothing.
over something awful.
over something deep.
over something my brother said.
we share.
there is a fear that we share.
the fear of an end.
so therefore it wont ever begin.

and so we will both share that pain.
and i hope we wont lose the laughter.

the past

the orchids in the glass
wilt with the draft sneaking
through the window sill.
and as i wake up to the gray's
and blues
i lose
what i cant afford.

get a coat.

the wind giggles through
her dull saffron hair.
she rushes to the car.
but cant figure out how to open the door.
and now its raining and the giggles are gone.

kitchen

and the granite lines in her face
leak out and run down our thoughts.
light blue, orange-but not orange-brown,
permeates our skies.
and its all in her face.
when i blink,
the negative tatoos itself
onto my eyelid.
i dont think i will be opening my eyes
for a while

if only, if only

and she pressed on
regardless what the tea-leaves said
and wasnt better off for it.
but she would have been
if she had only wished upon that star

anti-venom

time slithers past.
between our toes.
through our hands.
not quite silent,
it draws our attention
but we are too afraid
to perceive its poison

in the storm

the fog rolls in,
as Poseidon's lingering exhalation.

my oars slap the water
and i pinch myself.
im tired and cant call asleep.

the beams shines out
trying so very hard to slice through the stew of fog.

i feel it reflect upon my cornea
deep in my eyes.
i turn. my fingers are crossed.

i have found my lighthouse.

sans

this dirty facade needs washing.
we ride our carpet of a dream to the countryside
and wait, for that indian summer rain
to wipe away the time condensed to dust

fader

for the blues to fade upon and
into your grey irises
would be the right thing.

when

and when i ask for respect
i get politness
when i ask for honesty
i get faux-pas
when i say "i love you"
i get "love you"

when i want a break
i get a crack

when will it stop being perfectly wrong?

ow.

i need to disspell
these facts floating
as dead leaves
on the mercury.
the harris tweed sky
rubs against my eyes.
the unprocessed wools
leaves scratched cornea.
and i shut my eyes
to avoid a more
costly surgery bill.

nice and hidden

deep underground
inside a shell
it waits.
not impatiently.
its dark.
warm.
with 58% humidity.
perfect
PLUCKED
from the ground.
light everywhere
sounds, smells, tastes,
pain.

poor placement

i just got greedy
i asked too much
i didnt know the limits
i overfilled the cup
i lost my bearing
i leaned on you
i trusted me.

a regret

something done
something un-done
something given up
something hoarded
something remembered
something painful
a simple hand dealt.

free-will

a possession
a right
a way of life
a last resort
a methodology
a way of hurt
a pain
an excuse

subdued.

just look at this body
undeserving
cut up
almost-butchered.
tired-very tired.
it has payed its dues.
and it will continue to
pay yours too.

i do not.

its been a long time.
since this lived life
wasnt a sardonic punchline.
you say one thing
and paint your face
of opposing colors.
as i sit waiting on your promise.
behind me, the wolves
wait in line. ready to devour
me.
just as your
EwMoPrTdYs
did.

benefit

moving away from flesh and bones,
we settle below our skies.
and let the saccharine clouds
drip into our eyes.
sugar and vitreous mix
leaving us blind.

palimpsest

add another coat of paint.
no-
don't sand over it-
don't want to see what was under it.

add one more layer.
this is a nautical print
have the lobster pot layer
cover the cloud layer.

erase those words-
replaced with more
{syrup, casts, beach chair}
erase syrup tho.

the paper is now gray
with erasures and
those random marks
left throughout the
paper's usage.
dots from an "i"
bottom half of "j's"
it's changed over time.
still paper though.
still burns.

ef this

when born,
we are given finite amounts of x,y, and z.
and they can be what ever you so desire.
x=passion, y=hope, z=love and so on and so forth
for all the variables.
they can never quite be used up.
but they are never what they were.
they are simply transferred from person to person
as we go on.

this theory sucks.
good thing its just a theory.

trash

it is thursday.
garbage day.
i trudge to the curb.
entreating eyes follow.
first the recycling,
then the week's yellowing
papers.
finally two garbage-cans
full of
everything
i wasn't.
all the dawns wasted
all of the words burned
longing wanton looks
and longing
in it of its self.

what wasn't

Full of the empty places.
piles upon piles of shadows.
dust piled high
upon what isnt there.
that depository
reeks of the smells that
should be there.
the sights
are seen by those
that weren't there.
smiles shone brilliantly,
aided by the sun that never shone.

selfish

these humours splattered
one to a wall-
represent what was.
the bone fragments are used
as needles to sew a new
life together.
lost to eachother-
ignorant of what they were-
whatever i was.

as i lay me down to sleep...

rainstorm,
wash me from the swarm.
down past misinform,
into our plural form.
let me deform
-
become lukewarm.

anti-perspirant

drenched in sweat.
covered-shirt soaked through
i am surrounded by my work
dripping from my shirt
to its momentary resting place.
don't worry, i've got more work
in me. i can always work.
work for no reason cept to
sweat.
out.
regret.

deux corps ne peuvent occuper le meme lieu en meme temps.

ce n'est pas possible.

mais je vais essayer.

diving method

the durability of life
four times now the scientist has tested
this thesis.
four times now the scientist has failed.
but science isn't about failure
its about conceding
and trying again.

electrician needed

daybreak sitting upon my stoop
waiting for me to answer the doorbell
the dignal runs through thee wires,
through my walls,
'neath my floors
simply to find out that the wire's been
disconnected

faith is good

faith is good.
its like fishing line.
you can't see it
but you know its there.
it links two things together
with that invisible stabilty.
until someone decides to
use it as a
tripwire.

that we feel

i am fear.
the kind that we feel
when its raining
the kind we feel
right before we go to bed
when we wonder if we
will wake up for
one more day.
the kind that we feel
when we're out of the blue and
into the black.

netherlands

sitting here for eons
or seconds.
same position-
finger extended.
very cold, past numbness and back.
the pressure-
crushing.
supporting lives
with a fingertip.
but i am tired.
and i take my finger
from the dam.

weak

cold
the other side of the pillow
hot
windless summer afternoons
wet
waking up drenched in sweat
dry
salt-crusted cheeks

neutral.
watered down milk.

raise your hands, please

this pace
moving in and out
twice as fast as the tide
thrice as fast as the lunar cycle.
i can no longer jump the waves
out running the moon is not an option.
i need to cut out.
anyone else want to cut into
this aquamarine?
anyone else want to interrupt?
don't all volunteer at once, though.

craft time

i stare out into the dark black construction
paper that is the night.
and chuckle the pathetic chuckle that
one sprinkles on glue-like
situations when they realize that there isn't
any return from the scissor's edge.