"It must have been hard for your mother,
not having any children."
Ann Lowell.

You have to admire
these people,
so ready to love the worst in
themselves.

Remember when we were all legs,
all pomade,
all grayscale and bright,
when our joy was only getting bigger?

Yeah,
me neither

and I think I prefer
being bored
with our color.

It's a nice place to spend the afternoon though.
It's beginning to be a habit
with me.

There's red,
there's white,
there's blue.

There's other colors too.

Cover your nose.
There are new
bad things
that want to be
inside you.

Cover your mouth
and learn to
smile
with your eyes.

Every time you fall asleep,
something
nearby
awakes.

After you left
it was quiet.

I turned off the
air conditioning
to keep your breaths around,

made tea to smell you,

found the poems
I was reading
too dull for words,

saw you
in oak stains
in bedposts
the rest of the day.

It's so nice
to be so high
without doing
a thing.

A man told me about a woman
who lives in the desert,
eats only locusts,
honey,
and whatever's
bad in you.

Carry her to a nearby
nexus,
under certain stars,
and she will whisper
things
that only foxes
know.

She has a website,
and all proceeds
go to the
truth.

Do not soothe the pain.
Do not kiss the pain.
Do not bribe the pain.
Do not take the pain.

Don't argue with the pain,
the pain talks too loud
for civilized discourse.

The pain refuses
all rules of order.

Do not explain the pain
lack of water.
Do not name the pain constricted
blood vessels.
This is too humane
for the thing we call
the pain.

If you should begin
to consider
making the pain a guest,
remember the pain did not knock
and leaves wet towels on your body.

Never ever ever
write poems about the pain.

It is
generally advisable
to avoid
making pro and con lists
about the pain.

Whatever you do,
do not pray for the pain.

The pain has no soul.
The pain cannot be saved.

No.
As a godfearing citizen
of a blameless county,
it is your solemn duty
and right
to
****
****
**** the pain.

Now that we've learned
to love each other
so freely,
we make private fun
of everyone else.

We barter our secrets
for slices of carrots
or getting the door.

We negotiate our names,
swap stories for stories,
sell future favors
for the *** we just made.

At night we lock the door
and smoke each other
like cigars.

We scatter our profits,
roll around our wealth.

We soar like stocks.

you called me an angry thing,
said i blamed the leaves for falling
and noticed you less.

i loudly disagreed.

but as i watch you call for cabs,
scratch your ear,
and pack your books,

i miss the angry thing
i used to be.

I made the books on my shelves
straighten their posture,
I dusted lamps and practiced jokes.

I bought new things
for you to sit on
and next to.
I wondered which fruits were your favorite.

I suddenly
grew clean
and brave,
because I knew that you were coming.

"But sir, I heard
from several birds
of an oracle below."

"Come in, my friend,
I say again,
you passed it on the road."

When the full glint of doubting
came by
this morning,
I didn't hear it knock.

I was busy breathing
and counting angles
in the best air of the day.

My friend bakes bread
and wonders about plants.
My friend burns candles
herbs and oils.
My friend gave up movies
to watch kids play games.
My friend counts crayons
and chews her lips.
My friend gets drunk
and cries for strangers.

I think I'll bob a bit between them,
and chart them all
like stars.

when the bad things come
i starve them,
when good passes through
i launder the linens.

the cornets blow
and i brave up straighter,
the weather knocks, i put on
clothes.

i pay all the debts that make it back to me,
and the chores get done
eventually.

but as a friend
to a startled, starving anchor,
or as a citizen
of a chronic coughing country

i have no clue
just what to do.

little tiny pretty thing
pulling at my mustache.

i can't bring myself
to make you
stop.

my face goes numb
and i giggle like a baby.

of all the people i know,
i still fascinate
only you.

Two inches,
you frighten me
and
make me swoon.

I'm at a loss
to know the difference.

I can't tell you why.
I don't know why.
You're living just as well as I,

but baby mouse,
I'm sorry,
you're going to have to go.

"It is nice to fall down
with a pretty woman,"

I wipe my chuckles
on a nearby
beechnut,
then dare to jaw
you my open
hand.

my friend bakes bread
then breaks it,
feeds me freely,
and we argue
over which of us
to thank.

Like two friends
on either side
of a swaying drunk,
birds and leaves
are always ready
to catch me.

Last night,
I boiled
and baked,
fried at least twice,
a meal
of multiple courses,
balanced textures,
and a symphony of spices.

Deliciously earned,
in hours, in dishes,
it tasted
as good
as food
can taste.

.

This morning
I overslept,
groaned upright
into water and coffee.

This morning,
this banana,
is heaven on earth.

The mountain
gets bigger
as you draw
closer,
is at its tallest
just before
you begin.

Being right
is not the sole
of not being
wrong.

Step softer, my friend.
There are people underfoot.

People say
they love the smell of books.

I'm not sure if I do,
but I recognize it,
and I sniff at every one,
furtively,
a bit afraid someone will see me,
wanting new friends.

I wonder if some books
have a thing for thumbs.

the hours play pianos
through the scaling
spiraled
march of truth,
out my window
afternoons,
fleet of foot
and sharp of tooth.

stranding through the moments
come glimpses
of tomorrow's
news,
inked in future
blacks and blues,
just off beat
and out of tune.

surely there's a braving
somewhere
waiting for a
nickel rube,
selling something
old men use,
softer eyes
or faded suits,

where sighs are money,
and sleep is grace,
i can settle in
the spot they've saved.

People can't stop praising
your laugh and your wit.
They tell me every day
about your very long legs.

But me,
I love your deep cuts,
your cultic elbows,
your hidden hairs.

Ether phases, cones of power,
lunar cycles,
witching hour.

Many mansions, herbs and candles,
live aloud,
the goddess answers.

My eyelids are a coiled bolero,
a bear trap,
a battery.

My tongue is bitten with
careful measure.
The skin of my teeth,
a dormant antique.

My breaths tilt forward
to the next dry season
and downbeat ignition.

I keep faith with the calendar.
I worship the prophet,
the savior spark.

My country is coughing,
my neighbors number.

I search for pictures
of places
I used to live,
find landmarks
I remember
in lesser light,
scroll to the bottom
of local news,
where lonely hearts
notice me missing.

Remember when you coughed here?
Saved money to leave?

It's collected some dust,
but we saved you your spot.

An army
conscripted
from neighborly realms,
mismatched
but straightbacked
in clumsy formation,
armed to the spine
with the strange words
of fiendish friends,
an occupying force
of Sunday afternoons.

They've come to make war
on our boredom.
They've come to free us our time.
They will marry the sons of our
doubting
and build new nations
atop the chipped marble
within.

lost half my hearing
to drown out my droning
some newfound finding
and a longlost uncle.

This bed
creaks
and swings
when I
shuffle
and shift,
but I like
the way
it makes
the most
out of
moonlight.

Birthday cake tutus,
bobbed barbarians,
these children
screech
when they aren't
dead-eyed
or
cackling.

we missed each other like bricks,
talking into navels.

each sighting uneven.
always just leaving.

somehow we made home,
kissed bellies,
and met.

I'm at the point in summer
where the heat doesn't hate me,
but bullies at my being,
like a hungry cat
or pop song,
will not go away
until I love it
like a brother.

Like a hound sniffing,
a boy groping,
ivy climbing,
we hover cursors
over choices
of things we wonder
if we'd like.

When we said our goodbyes,
something strange happened.

I couldn't feel the ground,
my feet,
my mass.

What quiet powers you have,
to turn me to bubbles,
to float me on wind.

Give a penny,
take a penny,
spend the rest on stickers.

Some long-haul trucker
told me about
a buffalo people
who have very
light souls
and bathe themselves
in seeds.

There are bugs
who bounce
and flit
between
the same empty
things,
who would ever,
who would ever?

I'm long overdue
for a poem
on her eyes
or her lines
or her
sleepy Sunday smile.

But first,
how do you write a poem
about another
person's
jokes?

you swam sleepy by
in the sweaty spring air,
drunk on pollen
and nowhere-to-be.

a few speedy flutters
like sharing a secret,
you went on your way
to porches unseen.

In tiny sips,
you make me
bubble
burn
and lick my teeth.

Lizards, snails, birds, and *****,
tobacco plants,
thornapples, obscure types of
buttercup.
Pinecones, arrowroot,
the more striking moments
of fossil remains,
foreign fish and normal bugs,
a terracotta monkey.

We took the things that matter,
gilded them in squares,
glassed them astride.
We enshrined your lazy gardens
in a temple on the cheap,
reminded you to
visit,
to look up
at the world around
above.

The stupidity
of children's songs
is second only
to forgetting them.

I imagine you
mopping,
mad
but determined.

Dripping with dirt,
I spent all night
digging up graves,
looking for mine.

I watch old movies
about love
and loss,
and all I can think
is how
they smoked
different cigarettes
back then.

My fingers through your hair
leaves your hair
through my fingers.

We chase each other
in circles,
cause we like
where we're at.

when i kiss
your clarinet
fingertips,
i honor
the arcane arts
that unlock
ancient melodies,
lifting
catacomb curses
and stirring
restless devils
within me.