like burning meati have to get away from this absenceof feeling, it threatens to size meup to shut me down down like a turtleshelless and bubbling, waiting fora plate to rest its weary head upon--and we cackle deepcrackling our backslike fried skinsand snap like bonesbefore spillingmarrow all overfrontsof clean shirts---the texture i can feel mostvividly in my sleepis your skinthe smell that harassesme most nights, and snatchesof day, is too
wait forever. yes,the morning came in, thick as honey, studded with beestingers of shadows; the unlight from the trees' stagnant fingertips. last night i stood under the branch sky, and picked off twigs, still green inside. they tasted of fading things, like the peeling photographs of summer-skin on your wall. and you put two fingers and two thumbs together and found me in the middle and said you wish you had your camera. you called me picturesque. and i laughed and said, if that is what i'm like, why don't you tell me what i am.they come quiet and leave with such a racket, boisterous and petulant, with loud pouting lips unapologetically kissing my feet as i run ahead of you. the leaves, they dance underneath me all across the ground as they were once in the sky. the trunks sway their heavy limbs to a symphony of winter.you point to your naked wrist, twice, shake it like it's broken and point to it again, hold it up to your ear and snarl. it's not too late, i say, you have to wait for the flowers to b
an eclipse of thoughtif the moon were fulland you were runningwith me, up and downthose hallwaystell me,would you befrightened?
i broke one oncethe road to hell is paved bright bluewhat you can see in the aches and pillsof ecstasy, the astringence of piss.hell, they say, is an open palm.well, they, they could be me.but you'll never knowstacks and stacks waiting to fall overdrunk and vomiting splintersstop squintingyour eyes were not meant to readjustto natural lightbirds mock me. it was all becausei convinced myself their namedidn't exist.they twirl their asses on the uppermostcorners of crates and boxesand flicker sunlight betweentheir tail featherswooden structuresobscure the dawn, and i breatheon my fingers as if my mouth werean oven, and my words firei rip carbon copies out of a bookwhite blue yellowand remark the seasonal changes in the landscape:two fucked up sheds with windows busted out likepathetic breakings into dance,still the same,and a tree and field i've remarkedtoo many times to myselfto photographi think now i should say i will neverjust to damn myselfsomeone lost two feetspray
when you wish you had-n't-stringing your eyes with garlands of stars iwish to impeach you, maybe impregnate youwith a will to breathe(indeep)but what are you but an incoming breathto me? an unapologetic zephyr gracingmy inner vineyardsruffling the leaves with whispers(i understand itisn't so collapsible, andi'm forgetting i forgetyou)but when the winds turnyou're a harlot, ruining this year'syield of self(importance and confidence)and i'm understandably drinkingupdownthe vinegar lefttrying to breathe in the lightsi gift you with - alwaysand i have only the starsto thank,the stars to blame.
catalan nighti fall between the sticky sheetslike rice paper on the roof of your mouthwhen you bite into a white rabbit
-truth-will you meet me in the spacesbetween our fingersbecome tinyatom-likeindivisible, but one(and all the smaller piecesthat don't matter)trade electronsbecomeheavierelements----a hollow notecrawls upmy throatwhen youdepart----twenty minutes to dawn(i know this because we've been here before)in this moment, and this thing of arms and arms entwined, called embracethis moment on soft notsosoft ground sheetsthis lookit's the sameand in this momentthis moment is again----and your voicessinging as the pastricocheting offceilings and wallsthat do not house meanymore, i hear youstrum afarvoices lamentingas one.your mother----when ithoseit's likebut ithati can'twhat didcan youknow thatwait----you are farther awaywhen i am with youthan when we areso far apart----i do not have a traditional clockthat could tick away the nightin even tonesto focus onwhen i'm trying my hardest not to be awake----i only have digitalisations leftfor metaphors
a caucus ona sure harbour of sandy emotionbanked up, filling pockets withtiny bits of glass to cut yourfingers on; condoms, emptychocolate wrappers, cokebottles or zip-lock bagswhorl on in thumb, tongue,paper in side of cheek andburning proper bluesmoke whirling after your goodbyeissued
And if II will go gently through the mirror words and find my solace in your silenceI will masquerade in the dark and fall apart in their glareIf you should think, I fear your melancholy, you would be right to knowI cannot pick apart forgotten sentencesAnd if I were a child, I would be yoursI will go gently through the scrap heap and treasure lost boxcars of hopeI will dwindle on the scatterings and relive each tired momentIf you should think, I fear my future past finds, you would be right to knowI cannot change timeAnd if I werent a child, I would be yours
solely lonelybeneath all these wordsmade of space, i am just a yearning soul
CamaraderieOurs is an easy friendship;we both know when to speakand when to be quiet,when to pressand when to be still.In my time,Ive been blindsided,sideswiped,mowed down,but as long as youre here,I never have to worryabout my back.
PhariseeHe watched a bug writheon its back on thewaxed floor thenflipped it over withhis foot, distressedby its panic.In its relief, itran into a wall andturned over again,its legs flailinghelplessly inthe empty hall.No witnesses,he pressed the smallthing gentlyinto the concretewith the sole ofhis shoe,satisfied whenhe heard themuffled crunch,that hed savedit from furthersuffering.
a show of respectthey buried him yesterdaylaid him in a polished boxhis widow will work three yearssweeping floors to pay offthen stuck his shining mahoganyin a hole in the ground thatwill cost her five moreas dirt lands withhollow thumps on the lid,she weepstears falling amongthe arranged flowersnow as dead as he isto me, she will no longer speakmy refusal to attendhis send-off anunforgiveable affrontshe cannot comprehendthat Ive already saidmy goodbyesthat the cold thing theyplanted in the earthlike a dog burying a boneis not himpumped full of formaldehyde,it will survive untilthe apocalypsebut he was not thereamong the gatheringof polite mournershe was already goneflown away on the wingsof his hoped-for redemptionon a warm, clear morning
if a tree falls in...a fenceless gardendefenseless and unguardedshe watches you grow
the sensation of drowningi.all my life i have hidden myself in the memory of a time and place half a planet and a whole decade away. my faded cotton-candy dreams are no longer pink and sweet; they are light as cloud and i am so close to forgetting that i am afraid everything i have ever loved will go the same way. i dont want to fade into the ether of space. i want to have a place in the world; i want to be found; i want to stop being lost. i am the only person who can find me and i fear i am not ready for it, now, when i need it most.ii.today, home stopped being a place i could run to.all my life i have had this place where i cannot be found because it is mine. but when walls are made by mothers and their drift is stayed by the hands of fathers, you learn that they are human and what they make is only as solid, as perfect as we are. it is not that they do not love me enough to hold back the breach, but by the process of love they hav
AddictionThis is where I let it go...She.Is the essence of impracticality, impossibility.But you tie her down to keep her near, and she pretends your ropes can hold her.To need so direly something so unreal, how can she protest?[She is only a figment of your imagination] Can you see through the clouds?The stars themselves have frozen And you somehow manage not to notice.The rose that fails to bloom is locked in a perpetual state of almost and even in the warmest nights of summer sweet, Is edged in a shro
Time TravelCrawling backwards through time, Trying to find the placeWhere the bookmark slid out From between the pages.When the rain stopped falling.When the dance began. (Infinitesimal sweeping footsteps Brushing a trail into the sands of time)[We all need a little cliché in our lives]When the Once Upon a Time Forgot where to find Its Happily Ever After.There is a place
pathos as a punchlineand then, mid-rinse, it hit me.there's something a touch more troublingabout quiet desperationshowing its face during thefamiliar & commonplace.weeping in the shower; fully lathered,ears ringing.red-eyed in the mirror;shaving cream scattered,small cut crowninga procession of teeth.crying at breakfast;full stack of pancakescooling on the table.miserable at brunch;spinach quiche crumblescollecting on the chin.it's a fully realized sadnessfit to laugh at, on the screen.it's a swallowing despairto bear in skin.
ThirstyThe evening sweatsa bottlerum darkthrottled bydaddy's handssmall feet dragsthirsty heartoutsideto swig the moon
looking uptell me how to forget, andi will teach you how to leave.i will teach you to read downside up. i will change the colour of my heartfor you, and i will forgetwhat it means to weep. keep meon the ground, where i can be sureof my feet; let me catch the motesof love that float down from afar.oh love, will you be my sky,be my eyelids when i fall?
Boy Playing HimselfBoy Playing HimselfIStanding there on the porch,his colors hushed by shade, he iscooling himself perhapsholding in the last lung of smokehell get today.IIThe blinds behind the windowarent moving. The porch swing isntmoving. There are no birds in the eaves.He is not moving.IIIAbout four steps from the doorand looking away into the street,he waits on a U-turn to takehim back across the bayto the peninsula and then into the citywhere his friends are gathering.IVHands in his pockets he islocked out. He was expectingsomeone who isnt there yet,or at all, though there was probablyevery reason to think they would bejust turning off the t.v and risingto get the door.VThis life of his is not easy in mymind, it is not easy in that way not like a bag caught in blades of grasscatching the breeze as a bottle drops.Could it be hes counting cars as he passesthe time before walking the dog?VICould he have begun turning
the hardest parts1.the thing aboutyour ribcageisI can seemy housefrom there2.you make afist andI make afist andwe end upholding hands
fooled.becauseI smile whenhe liesto mehe believesme unawareof thedeception
talk to mehad I known the lasttime you called thatwe would neverspeak again, I wouldhave talked longer,kept you on the linebabbling about the weather,asking inane questionsjust to hear your voiceproduce the answers
ajarthere's something about the voicehow it trickleslike warm honeysoft and stickysweetness fading as memoryforgotten laughterthe way a word is saidand then unsaideaten up againlike cold toastwith honeyremnantsof another drone'shome