You gild my haunted mind like Carnegie's ghost
A shining parenthesis for brass-poisoned dreaming.
I wish I could reach my rhizomes through time like you do--
          or space, even!
I want to watch you do anything.
  Fill a Passchendaele shell-hole with
  your triumphant tears; heal it, like it's easy.
I want to watch you do anything
  Stretch your Mud & Slush smile from the Esplanade-Riel
  across Minnesota and then right through me.

Reframe my failings, won't you?
(If that's what you think they are)
Or rewire my frowning night times, at least?
Spread me thin across your time, if you like;
but let me have some.

Find some worth, won't you?, in my fraying wires
  my decaying lines of code,
  my fear of success?

I have only my vagueness, and banks of bad metaphors
to measure against the tradewinds you blow across my minute bow.
You are such victory, such mighty reaching.
     Don't fault me my anxiety.

I found him late;
beautiful voice,
handsome face,
every sound I ever wanted
already sung.

He seemed kind.
Alive.

Then I read the ending.
So young.
So long ago.

And I just sat there,
stupid,
like it still mattered.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I already pulled at my hair.
“It’s normal” he says
I swear just to debate,
cause he doesn’t seem to care.

And I’m bleeding through
my scar tissued skin,
the layers only grew
still I find a way in.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I’ll be down to the last strand.
Check or fold the plays,
the cards aren’t that great
I’ll be down the my last hand.

And I’m bleeding through
my thick nice sweater.
It’s a shame as it’s new
and we’re reaching the cold weather.
It will stain the soft fabric
I may just grab the bleach,
but I always made it a habit
to always keep it just out of reach.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate
pretty soon I’ll be bald.
On hot coals she stays,
though she shifts her weight
and watches her soles scald.

And I’m bleeding through
my clogged and blocked pores,
and the remaining few
are becoming septic sores.
I’ll shed another layer
of a non-protective bubble,
and my hair will continue to get greyer,
I think I’m now in some trouble.

I was contemplating the interlude of breathing
the tease of the jasmine perfume
a wind without insight was resting in the hammock
a solitude round like the moon
the song of birds was inviting a blue exuberance  when
I had this dream... I dreamt streets flooded by blood
they seemed so real, like the amnesia of mercy
the intensity of red an amplifier for pain
violence this enclave of the soul hidden in plain sight
we watch wars on tv in the stillness of sofas
newborn tears claim the redemption of dawn
but we turn our back to the questions of time
no body line of thought but raw nerves,
blind tongues: as if our body is a world full of nothing
sometimes I have nowhere to hide from this feeling:
my blood is his/her/their blood

I cried for two years.
every day, all day.
Cara wanted to marry me.
I was hesitant. At that time,
I didn't know why.
Much later, when I was
in therapy, I came to realize
that, in the past, I unconsciously
feared that if I married,
most likely we would
have children, and quite
probably, we would have
a boy, and unconsciously
I feared I would treat
my son the same way
my father had treated me.
My father had treated me
harshly. He never told me
he loved me. I will spare you
the details. Cara grew increasingly
angry toward me for another year.
She used jealousy to try to
get me to marry her. She
swam in her swimming pool,
but when she dried off, I saw her
bruised *****, which I knew
I had not caused. When I saw
it, I went into shock and suffered
involuntary kundalini, which lasted
six years. After all those years
of excruciating pain, I finally
recovered. All this happened
45 years ago, but some days
I feel as though it happened
yesterday.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

We move through the night,
though the streets seem empty,
we look left and right,
electric vehicles are stealthy.

As we exercise stepwise, sunrise happens.
and black night fades its cover.
Like phoresy, painted, pieces of heaven,
the day opens with primary colors—
reds that delight, oranges that tease
and peacocking yellows that leaven.

As the counterfeit rainbow enchants and rouses,
streetlights waver and douse,
lights flicker on in houses,
and the earth blossoms active in borrowed hues.

Morning twinkles with its particular, angular light,
as we enter the still still lobby.
They’ve already set out the coffee!
With a sip, I feel the morning's started right.
.
.
Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse