Movement One—The Death of the Day

I brought you to my quiet place,
where love and weeds bloom
on the hillside, a steep, steep place;
much better for rolling down
than looking up.

We closed our eyes,
those sweet, subtle sounds
whispering in our ears
while my fingertips scream,
aching to connect with yours.

And I wait
for you to be brave
and reach out to me
in this moment of openness
and fear of regret.
But you stay
still.

I yearn for you to feel the way I feel;
to say what I want you to say,
but you say     .
(nothing)
You leave my hands cold,
my hopes futile.

Movement Two—The Arson

But what you do,
you do with no apprehension:
you leap onto me,
a lion onto a waiting gazelle,
your hands ravenous for my flesh.

My lips have no chance to speak
as the spark they once held is extinguished
by your own cruel, white flames.

I can hear the smothering of my bones,
the last gasps of my heartbeat
as you pin me to the grass and burrs,
my hair entangled in my mistake.
My skin is the only thing that can speak,
as bruises begin to whisper
the evidence of my demise.

And I cannot lock the gates
as you stampede over my body,
tearing buttons, stretching fabrics,
and I hurt so much
but am stuck in the quicksand of silence.

Movement Three—The Rebellion

Why were you so kind?
Why did you convince me you were different?
That I was interesting,
that you don’t treat girls
THIS WAY.

I throw your impudence in your face
with my words,
without silence.
With my dignity,
without hate.

Movement Four—Like Air

Number 12, you were so fair.
Number 12, you did not break me.
Number 12, I am no ashes.
Number 12, I swallow you whole.

when you die
you are dead

when you are dead
you are not alive

A mountain is not alive
A sunset is not alive

In this room,
a quiet room,
my dear friend
plays the piano
(he sighs into the ivory keys;
his fingers urgently pushing them
to their limits.)
                                  &
tunes his voice.
             (“I’m gonna make a lot
              of weird noises,” he says,
      aahhh,
        aahhahaaahh
                       ­ &trills.;
              Up to the ceiling, his voice goes.)

He pushes&pushes;&pushes;
his voice,
echoes&echoes;,
his eyes,
              closed.

A smile
peeks out through the syllables caught in his cheeks
while his feet aimlessly step upon those three little pedals,
as if he’d just been doing
the daily commute to and from work.

I sit on the floor,
a floor dusted with the footsteps of ***** shoes and
the result of lonely instruments.

I listen.

After he reaches that high C,
I look up at him and smile
and he looks down and smiles
and for a moment,
all of the pains I had
before I knocked on his door
dissipate into the air,
as beauty radiates in the room
in the form of eighth & quarter notes,
Italian & French,
aaahs & the silence of
            peace.

me:

i am moving across the country
                                         
i will be gone for four years

i will be writing and seeing and photographing

and hell is not a place,
hell is having to kiss your face goodbye.

him:

i miss you already

i have a good pair of binoculars

your dreams are beautiful and i am patient as a lion after prey

heaven is not a place
heaven is knowing that we are that one-in-a-billion story that stretches past distance and lasts forever

It would be nice to pick up eggs for you while I’m out
Save you some time
Knowing you won’t be hungry tonight

It would be nice to wash our cars together
Sharing the bucket
Shining our chrome bumpers to reflect our smiles

It would be nice to go to a wedding together
Wearing our new shoes
Dancing with the crowd and seeing only you

It would be nice to take a walk around the block
Holding hands
Feeling your warm fingers intertwined with mine

It would be nice to pick up shells on the beach
Footprints in the sand
Bending over to pick up that one perfect shell

It would be nice to look at the full moon
Moonlight shines bright
Illuminating our bodies we enjoy our nakedness

It would be nice to tell you good-night
Fluff up my pillow
Falling asleep cuddling you, I am content

we were cut from the same fabric,
                                                     he whispers into the morning
and my agreement echoes in the seamless stitching of our bodies

too bad John and Yoko already took that photo,
                                                     i whisper back

Remember when you were pure

Happy

But swing chains rust

And see-saws break

And we become broken

Our paint peels

We are chipped away

What a shame

We all become

Such fragile broken things

gurgle, gurgle,
groundcurrent unsettled,
moon unseen like stars
fever dreamed,
dissonance for the melody maker,
dissonance for the retired risk-taker,
dissonance for the hips of homewreckers.

civil, civil,
no minutes can afford the divide,
aside, to the crystal buildings and
the sky's sputtering cries,
compliments to your forehead's ****,
compliments to your forefather's rash,
compliments to your aforementioned crash.

the current, the current
rides hot and merciless along thigh,
dribbles down chins and nightgowns,
dries--a permanent badge of scattered life,
electroshock seeps from self-made holes,
electroshock seeps from smoldering bowls,
electroshock seeps from typecast roles.

volcano, volcano,
grumble and moan.

volcano, volcano,
clear cord and stroke.

volcano, volcano,
grieve me in ash.

volcano, volcano,
I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad.