I reckon that
if'n you can't see beauty

in things abnormal,
I should slap ye for

seein' otherwise.  Like if
all of the different

tongues of the world
were up'n snatched and

tied together and
then everybody with their tongues all twisted

would try and pull back
at the same time.  And finally

we'd all be speaking the same language:
Pain.

But the knot would tighten.

That morning,
I smelled something cooking
so I stumbled down the stairs.

My mother
stood in the kitchen, apron adorned,
frosting a chocolate cake in the sunlight.

Her hands
were stained with dyes,
the frosting was yellow.

Her daughter
loved yellow.  My mother had decided
to plant marigolds by her grave.

She looked
over in my direction.
"I figured we could still celebrate this year."

My head
shook without me thinking about it.
It took a second, but soon she was bawling.

The counter
only supported her grief
for so long.

Soon enough,
she was on the floor,
her unanswered questions

had spilled
all over the kitchen.
I did my best to clean them up.

We sat
at the table, the third chair empty,
my mother's mistake in front of us.

It said,
"Happy Birthday, Love Always,"
she took out two plates,

and my mother and I sat there,
silent in the yellow sunlight.

I live
long, awkward silences in the moonlight
on the surface of another planet.

History is our theme song.

You live
with demons in your brain, in the country home
that is the back of your mind.

It lives
like a dog without hind legs
pulling itself along in its own chariot car.

We live
five miles from the waterfall
at the edge of the Mercator Projection.

They live
as a herd of emotions
stampeding out of control.

History is our theme song.

as you turn away
your face wanes
like the face of the moon

hair, billowing black
and white shades
enlace from east to west

love tastes like
the vastness of the
starred space above

and below
it is sound ceaselessly echoing
off the walls of a canyon

the galaxies careen
outward in the endless dark
like spores, searching

We smear red clay on our faces,
under our eyes and along our cheekbones,

across the forehead and down the nose.
It is something like war paint.

The noon sun watches intently
as we sharpen our spearheads.

Our naked backs begin to sweat
and glisten in the light:  hunched,

preparing.

To craft a poem
is to carve a small wooden figurine
of an Arabian horse
out of a redwood tree—
a trinket
whose sole purpose is to gather dust.

And when comes
the boa constrictor of slow sleep,
you, young author, will have this poem
as the great pharaohs of ancient Egypt
had their treasures—
beads, idols, canopic jars—
accompanying them in their tombs
like a crowd of onlookers
surrounding the silent scene of a car crash.

Novelty items, family members, memories—
words to be whittled down
into useless artifacts.

Between the hours of twelve and one
sleep comes upon my head

and should I not doze off outright
I make prepared for bed

and every night I do the same
with flossed and brushèd teeth

the coffee *** is timed to brew,
sleep setting on T.V.

There's little more a man could do
inside so small a space

with front door locked, and lights turned out
I tend to end my days.

Yet there's one thing I leave unchecked
and do so knowingly:

The Peephole in my ten'ment door
does seem to stare at me.

But never shall I look again,
not through that small inlet,

because one fateful night I did,
and now I can't forget.

It was a night without a mark
to make it stand apart—

I thought about the coming day
while walking through the dark.

And without thought, I stole a glance
outside onto the street

and through the peephole, there it stood
just staring right at me.

If somehow it could sense my gaze,
I really could not say—

with heart in mouth, I held my breath
and tried to slink away.

I crept in bed and pulled the sheets
around my trembling frame

and sat upright, until the night
did give way to the day.

A knock upon my door at nine
aroused me from my state

"Delivery!" a voice called out—
no longer could I wait.

I sprang from bed, my nightclothes on
and toward the door I ran

and without looking, opened
hoping I would see a friend.

Instead I looked around in shock,
for nobody was there—

no package left upon my stoop,
and silence in the air.

And as I went to close the door,
a wind began to blow,

a wind that whispered secrets that
no man should ever know.

I went inside, and horrified,
I knew I'd paid a toll,

and nevermore could I feel safe
to look from my peephole.

It’s funny how addiction brings
us to a place so many times—

an alleyway, a bathroom stall,
a lonely nighttime balcony.

Outside I stand in winter snows
all blowing in with violence,

and smoke my cigarettes alone
and sip the whiskey from my cup.

It’s here I think about the past—
regrets resounding in my brain,

the loved ones lost to death and chance
and all the chances come and gone.

And every time, it’s all the same—
the muted horns in foggy night,

the couples walking, huddled close,
the taxicabs all chugging by.

As close as this whole world might seem,
my habits send it far away,

and snow builds up upon my coat
as I am left with just my mind.

A bottle clasped inside one hand,
I search for ways to leave this life.

The sirens echo off the walls
of buildings fading into night.