i mourn the joy you gave away,
though you would never think to.

you belong to the ground you stand on.
it never occurs
that your shedded ghosts
could stand somewhere brighter.

you are the saint of gritty teeth.
martyred over meatloaf,
thought it merely dinner.

you polished our crowns of thorns
while we howled like haughty lions.

and in the face of
nuclear
commercial breaks

you kept to your gardens,
crossed picketlines of suffering,
made happy horrors grow.

The stone you strive against
with no success,
becomes the perfect
welcome wall
to rest your head.

Hell is a dry place
with coffee stains and fruit flies,
with lesser vowels.

I was born the calm disciple
of a tall templed God,
breathing straight lines,
walking narrow paths.

Now,
in my newer years,
wild things call me by name,
mossy nymphs,
grassy laughing.

I get stirred
curious
boiled
by the trills
of night creatures
and by the snaking lines
of rivers
on maps.

I think I wanna do something scary
in the woods.

Oh! Thank you!
thankyouthankyouthankyou.

Thanks.
Thank you.

That's nice, thank you.

Oh wow! Thanks!

Thank you. Thank you.
I appreciate that.

Hey, thanks.
Thank you.
Thank you.

Thank you.

I've started to wonder
how much *** you had
in that salty
Subaru summer
you won't shut up about.

I found you on the front steps,
fed you food and lies,
made noises til you laughed.
I stitched you over,
wished you well.

I found
socks
and poems,
a cat,
found
get-well cards,
under my bed.

I scan the room for smiles
like radar pings,

homing in on
easy love.

After five minutes
of pleasant conversation,
or twenty
of clenched teeth,

I grant myself a cigarette
and the stolen secrets
of a stranger's back porch.

There's always some other snake there,
and I remember to,
next time,
not wait so long.

I started rereading
Walt Whitman
to steal
some of his genius.

A couple hours later,
he had eaten
all of mine.

All these clumsy men
don't know what to be
and do even that
much too loud.

they came to prove us their blood
and left their exhibits
like caulk
in the cracks of Paris,
soaked the Seine
with their evidence,
took their turn
to blast Bastille
with chanting cannons,
'we're still here.
we're still here.'

we lack the liver
to filter the past
and so, call healthy diet
the avoidance of facts,
fats, bile,
and meat.

it is precisely here
we drown algerians.

I get dizzy daily,
doubting deadly.

I go mad with
breakfast,
and manic
miming,
chaining
choices,
changing
timing.

It's not
choosing one thing
that smalls me,
but refusing
all else,
like a spoiled
king.

I got sixty bucks
and three jokes.

One day all of this
will be yours.

If I were you,
I'd wear my armor
on the outside
too.

I kept asking you questions
about yourself,
but you only shrugged and
smiled,
until at last,
you invited me in,
saying, "I have more sheets
than I need."

And there,
stenciled on the walls,
were all my answers.

I was blessed
when you found
several seconds
to twirl for
me.

I blessed you more
with many magic
manic
hours.

We were both so
stupid
and so blessed.

I've always regretted
the skin I scraped,
left behind in Jersey.

But now I find fondly
moments of asphalt
embedded in my arm.

I pelt you with puns
while studying slate.
Insult all your friends
til you bellow and trill.

Clumsy and desperate,
I break taboos,
like a ***** boy
testing new squeezes.

It's just that
when I make you laugh,
I can risk to see.

Like a solar eclipse
I can meet your eyes,
in those brief brutal breaths
where I made Light snort.

Tomorrow
and tomorrow
creeps on
such
a petty
pace.

There's an overfilling
happening
somewhere next week,
kissing you.

I am never so sure
than when I steal
avocadoes
from beneath
your swinging
knife.

If knocks on doors
frighten you,
think of the courage
it takes
to knock.

i was never half so naked
as you torturing your genius.

when you put me into poses,
made me lines and blue,
drew me over death,
sketched me skewed
atop your live-in girlfriend.

when you found your lost
love
and painted,

and when you found it less impressive,
you and that child,
sealed your cold, careless
portrait of me
behind ugly bricks,

made art of your apology,
and grace of your grace.

I sniff old poems
like ***** clothes
to get me through
the weekend.

I.

you grinned at me
simple and syrupy,
a dollar reason,
a summer treat.


II.

like a road map
on a car hood,
we checked and folded
checked and folded
each other's lines
again
and again.


III.

you winced hard
against acid mist.

i watched
the bug spray bead
on your calves
and neck,
thought about blood
and the taste of you
later.


IV.

we drove around
looking for lakes,
or parks,
or picnic tables.

any new place
we could be the same.


V.

no matter how used to it
we get,
the sun stalks longer
than we'd expect,
jealous of our colors,
worried we'll set.

I know every inch
of this, my hell,
and I've never seen
you before.

Like a miner,
or a lama,
I spiral
deeper,
getting
quiet,
lighting
candles,
to read the backs of books.

What shady grace,
as tall as trees,
you refuse to not
look up at me.

the house i am myself
sweating and spitting
returns my feelings.

we merely found each other,
neither choosing,
in our lazy, natural state.

she is cheap.
i ask for little.
she gives me less.
i give her nothing.

so she bakes me for the rocks i kicked last winter,
and i casually curse her too.

but once or twice a season
her humble hills
align along
my stooped indecision.

we pass each other on the mountain,
surprised we are surprised,
at another kindly solstice.

then we both resign our rage,
to sigh and sleep together,
quietly at home.

My clocks unwound,
I tell time easy,
by the angles of shadows
piercing
my floors.

I let them point me
to how to be
next,
follow them in circles,
chew lip askance
at whatever sun
I'm slowly crashing.

It must
be hard
for you
to say
nice things
with such
long teeth.

my favorite coffee mug
lost its handle,
i burn my fingers,
don't look back.

In the desert of south Utah,
lies a staircase of gods.

Follow the southwestern wind
there to the middle,
until you find
the tomb of The Gore King.

The smallest version
of a frightful legend,
five-inch fangs
in sutured jaws,
a skull like a comet,
dragging death forward
to
any
next
new
blood.

How quaint,
how horrible and honest,
to demand your meals,
to roar your lust.

You should have stood straight,
practiced grins
and built museums,
friendly temples
of natural history,
yesterday's dangers
made safe
in cartooning winks.

Now,
your reign of terror
diverts
our screeching young.

A careful kind of coward,
we pretend to be calm,
budgeting our secrets
like money or time,
waiting for some weather
or high holy eyes,
to take down the china,
to feast on each other.

Barring water,
bathe in wine.

If hearts are scarce,
eat seeds.

Without words,
make any noise.

You came with all you need.

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

I'd like to
be lucky
enough
to take
some mountain
for granted.

people are wearing masks
to keep each other safe.

and i thought 'how sweet,'
and 'of course.'

Your pain is a false debt
I want to forgive.

The weeds that find
the cracks
in your concrete
have begun
to peek through
me.

We love when children
say words wrong,
and hate
when we do
the same.

every morning
boasts its ripeness,
begs a beginning,
nothing cleaner than a feeling,
nothing fresher than a poem.

I take
propranolol
and it makes
my jaw tight,
like mushrooms,
but I flick
my fingers
somewhat
less,
and I'm less
distracted
by beautiful
things.

Empty boxes bellow
with very violins.

The ones I love whisper,
mostly out of tune.

Let me leave you gently
to come back content.

Like pianos
or ovens
or puzzles,
some people
see mornings
and know just what to do.

Why are you trying to get me to hate someone right now?
The world's not ****** enough,
you gotta spread the news?

I click
and click
and click,
mining new words
to mean new things.

All your heavy, gray
groaning
accumulates
like nickels.

What am I supposed to do
with all these nickels?