We woke to laughter breaking glass.

not hers, not mine, not morning yet.

The ceiling blinked a single eye.

A moth drew circles on my chest.

Outside, a streetlight peeled its skin,

blue steam hissed from its broken throat.

A train passed through the bedroom wall.
a hiss, then cabled rolling float.

last night was full of paper moons,
of bitten spoons, of matchbook lies.
My pulse made bargains with her skin,
her hands spoke truth her mouth denied.

I drank from bottles filled with bells.

Each swallow rang a darker note.

She stitched my name in spider silk

and pinned it in her winter coat.

The carpet blooms with cherry pits.

A handprint shimmers on the sink.

The mirror mouthed a warning once,

but I forgot how not to blink.

I gave her maps I’d drawn in ash,

each road a lie, each city torn.

She read them like a child reads stars,

the kind that die before they’re born.

She left no rope, no cage, no nail,

just shadows folded under wings.

I walked into the hallway’s mouth

to hear a single echoed string.

Some mornings take a different shape,

a wristwatch ticking in the trees,

a flame that speaks in borrowed words,

a bed unmade in seven keys.

Play it slow-
not for romance,
but because the strings are blistered,
and every note splits the sky
with fire.

Stroll through the panic,
it’s routine:
duct tape on the windows,
radio on low,
a list of missing birds
tacked to the wall
like fallen saints.

You said you'd carry me,
but the world’s gone grey,
and the olive tree’s
just smoke now.

There’s no audience left.
Just wind
and its thousand-watt warning.

Still, your spine curves to the rhythm
like a fever dream from Babylon,
hips like warning sirens,
ankles sunk in ash.

I want to understand
what we ruined,
but only at a pace I can stand,
only with eyes closed.

There was a time
we dressed like lovers.
Now it’s mylar blankets
and filtered masks.

We knew the promise;
we broke it anyway,
above it,
beneath it,
inside it.

Someone keeps whispering
about children,
as if hope still blooms
in poisoned soil.

Play it slow,
with bare hands if you must.
But don’t pretend this isn’t a requiem.
Don’t dress it up in velvet or vows.
Just let the music float
and burn,
like everything else.

Mortgage-bruised pilgrims
linger along Silver Strand,
pop caps against plywood boarding,
edges furred with salt-rust flakes
from storms that chewed the pier.

Seabee retirees
swap tide updates on porch steps;
third-generation surfers
stitch wax into their palms
and still call this south jetty 'church'.

Here my son and I rinsed sand
from our ankles with a garden hose,
him shrieking, laughing, shivering
when cold bit his feet.

I once yelled at him, raging
for dropping keys into surf,
as if that mattered more
than a day of chasing, wrestling in the tide.
He doesn’t remember.
I can’t forget.

Now, he’s taller than me,
vanishing downshore.

I stand outside, voices rise
in the salt-hard wind.
Barbecue smoke drifts
from driveways, tailgates,
settles into dusk-lit lawn chairs.

Boarded bungalows peel to raw board,
splintering porch rails;
nails weep orange along the grain.

A bike frame, chainless,
reddens into memory beside dune grass
still gripping sand.

There is grace in forgetting:
a tide lowers its voice,
sand swallows what was said.

clutching my crumbling holy relic,
that trace of her final kiss
still threading heat through quivered lips,
rise to find shelter,
move it safe from noise and haze

stumbling through shadows,
like uneven, forgotten lumber
patching gut shot with used bandages
the faded, drunken hymns of heart flung sadness
hang along Cahuenga Avenue, old and overplayed
wilted spider silk across a concrete violin

each parking meter my next crutch,
arguing with stoic streetlights,
giving their cold flicker that same
blood stained sermon,
self same pity, worn and overused

I warned, I was wounded, the cut never sealed
Never bled, just trailed smoke.
it whistled in the wind some nights,
she knew, it was permission to leave
reading the eviction note
on a house that never had walls,

from edge of a coin- I’ll scratch out her name,
from a nightman’s club- the darkness can fall,
from the tear of my eye- she’ll melt away,
from the skin of my teeth- I’ll feel the dawn crack
and learn, again,
to crawl

The 101 slopes like a spine bent too long.
Camarillo yawns wide in the morning hush,
valley stretching slow, hills bare-shouldered,
fields glistening, half-asleep, half-prayer.

Lemon trees blink slow, bruised gold in the mist.
Figtrees call a name behind a rusted gate.
Sagebrush whispers gossip through chainlink,
its breath full of stories that outlive the tellers.

To the east, the nursery stirs,
plastic sheeting *****,
row tags flutter in the wind.
A thermos, abandoned, rests by a wheelbarrow.
Mud boots, discarded,
stand like sentinels
against the wood plank wall.
No footsteps follow.
I never asked where they went.

Matilija poppies raise their paper-white heads,
and the raspberries, furred with morning dew,
shiver, just slightly,
as if remembering friends
they were no longer allowed to say.

A coffee roaster hummed somewhere distant,
low and steady, warming the wind.
That scent I never could shake,
burnt and sweet.
I could almost belong here again,
but it’s not mine without them.

I worked inside this valley with my back.
With my knees.
With the same hands,
now soft on the wheel,
muscle memory steering roads
as if nothing ever left,
as if the ghosts still ride along.

I pass a strawberry field, stitched in silence,
no voices rising in laughter today,
no corrido escaping from a shirt pocket radio,
no teasing between the furrows,
no calloused hands tossing tools,
only the soft ticking of irrigation
and the hush of work
that now waits for no one.
This silence has been swept, labeled,
nothing out of place but sadness.

I was here with them,
but only as a pair of eyes,
that never opened wide enough.

The strip mall stands like a broken promise,
painted stucco, faded western wear,
alongside roadside markets
missing the opening crew.
Still, the hills lean in to listen,
velvet green with memory,
quiet as folded hands.

Even now, under this sun,
the dust knows who knelt here.
Who sang into the rows,
who fled before sundown,
their names erased from the ledger
but carved into the earth.

And in soil’s hush,
their names still root and rise.

you spoke with your back turned
like nothing was wrong
the kettle sat screaming
its blistering song

your eyes crack with thunder
I don’t look away.
I taste every stormcloud
and swallow the rain

you asked if I loved you
then smirked at the floor
i said it too slowly,
you moved for the door

We fought in the hallway,
your knuckles went red.
You hit without blinking
and meant what you said.

you find every fracture
then press where it stings
You say, “it’s devotion,”
and tighten the strings.

You leaned in, now limping,
your voice raw and rough.
We clutched like survivors
who'd suffered enough.

Your hands then remember
what you never confessed,
you kiss where you hurt me
and ask for the rest.

but still, when you’re shaking,
and all fury’s gone,
I gather your pieces
and whisper a song

I stitched up the silence
you gave me to keep
and rocked us together
til sorrow found sleep

We curled in the ash
what didn’t survive,
and found even ruin
leaves something alive.

I.
Box fans and mowers drone below,
distant traffic murmurs through summer’s heat.
Memory presses: teeth and old thunder.
Regret. Punishment. Hope. Repeat.

My ears ring with histories,
sometimes cicadas, sometimes sermons,
sometimes her humming, barefoot by the creek,
sometimes the sting of my father’s belt.

Sunlight slants through bloated magnolia leaves,
thick as tongues,
slick with old rain.
It stains the walls with a color like yolk,
like aging joy.

II.
I wake in moonlight,
before the rumble.
Step barefoot onto concrete
still warm from the last sun.

The sky is full of stubborn stars,
hung from the last funeral.
I watch. I wait.
No birds yet. No breeze.
I stay.

I tell myself this is peace.
But the silence knows better.

I cannot leave with you, she wrote,
You cannot stay with me.
It’s just, I want to hold you still,
to feel what used to be.

One day, I’ll ask if we can talk,
not to fix
or to explain,
just to hear the way your voice
still gently folds around my name.

Sometimes I’ll cry, it's no one's fault.
Sometimes I’ll ask you not to speak.
like hope tucked in a matchbook spine,
too bright to strike, too small to keep.

If there is blame, let it go.
If there is mercy, speak it low

She slipped it here, inside my coat,
still holding warmth,
still not yet cold.

The tractor coughed diesel,
choking on enlistment.
Pappaw watched,
relieved he won, without a fight.

I dug potatoes.
Hated gnats, the stooping,
dirt worked into my soul.
“We can’t eat what you don’t find.”

I carry his voice,
like gravel.

When I’ve had enough of soft things,
I take it out,
to hold my ground.

I trespassed through many lives,
some of them mine,
yours most of all.

Being young
does not excuse,
only shows how long
I've known better.

I thought breaking
was just another way
to change shape.
I mistook leaving
for becoming.

You stayed.
You learned to sleep
on a wet pillow.
I know.
I brought the storm
and called it weather.

You wake.
You endure.
You build a life
where I am a name,
a story you no longer tell.

You rise
like someone who had to.
I vanish,
like someone who chose to.

I see it.
Even now.

And I wonder
what it cost you
to stay kind
to the memory
of me.

She undressed in the mirror.
Only the reflection watched.
I found her candle,
cold and forgotten.

Her hands moved like smoke
understanding how to be skin again.
Not performance. Not pleasure.
Just unlearning the habit of vanishing.

Her shadow held her shape
longer than I did.
She said: “Stay,
but forget.”

Her child slept,
four states and a foster name away.
She traced a name in steam,
the S curling like turning in sleep.
then let it melt under a kiss.

There was a song
caught in the ceiling,
something we never played
but always meant to.

I kissed her hair while it was still hair
and not a question
left behind on a pillow.

I opened the door,
it sang some other man’s name.
A line drawn, erased. No message left.
The room forgot its language.
My ghost obeyed
and lifted.

“perhaps the sun is a teacup, spilled by a girl in a skyhouse who laughs in polka dots–”

You wrote like someone
who had been listening
long before speaking,
each poem a hush,
each repost a gentle offering.

This space once held you,
your words, your calm curation,
a gentle steadiness
in a shifting field of voices.

take this small goodbye
not as an end,
but as a door left open,
just in case
you return with your light.

Until then,
may strength find you
in soft moments,
and peace arrive
never needing to be earned.

Living half in memory
stitched with fragile thread.
Waiting on replies
to pledges never said.

Held the hands of storms,
drunk on joy and fear.
Kissed through rain,
like lovestruck fools
when endings felt too near.

left some names behind,
held a few too close,
one who lit the match,
one who loved us most.

That week was so hot,
every shotgun house gasped,
windows flung,
porch doors unlatched like unbuttoned shirts.

Touching skin felt like punishment
at first,
then penance,
then prayer.

We were thin, androgynous,
switching cut-off jeans,
sharing tank tops,
slick with sweat and shaved ice.

Strays ourselves,
barefoot thieves,
pirates of the quarter.

Hibiscus syrup stained our mouths
outside the Prytania,
where The Abyss flickered
and you cried like a boy
pretending he didn’t.

Inside your walk-up,
we dipped into quiet love
like bread in stew.

A dusty radio murmured The Ink Spots,
which I recognized but couldn’t name.
You mouthed every note like a secret
you wanted me to guess.

Faint smiling lines near your eyes
from knowing,
like you'd seen me
long before we met,
and were waiting
for the world to catch up.

Not woman,
not man,
just two bodies
leaning toward the same heat.

I wouldn't see your fall or your winter.
When the seasons change,
I’ll be gone,
back home,
watching rain from a train window,
each drop undoing what we were.

That last night,
you placed your key by the door.
I saw it,
watched it glint,
and said nothing.

The snails were climbing.
The air was too sweet.
You slept through goodbye.
I left the key where it lay.

At lunch I bought a pear,
its shape: a quiet joke.
I cut it clean and slowly,
the blade, the slice, the poke.

It tasted like a breather,
not sweet, just real and right.
Like silence in the stairwell
or breezes late at night.

The afternoon unknotted,
each task a gentler climb.
I fed the cat. I folded shirts.
You’re not here. I’m fine.

I moved it off the porch today,
where sun falls hard and wide.
The *** is cracked, the roots are weak.
Still, something waits inside.

The blooms were bruised, a weathered pink,
like lips that lost their say.
Still, one had cupped the morning rain
and hadn’t looked away.

My back cried out. I crouched and worked,
Hard knuckles in the dirt.
I cut the dead, I turned the soil,
poured water where it hurt.

I set it by the cedar rail,
where shade and heat align.
Still stiff. Still sore. You’re gone. That holds.
It’s standing. So am I.

here we know the teeth
here we show the marks
from lying underneath
what wants us in the dark
 
you shame and curse my name
in safety of the day
then pull your velvet drapes
and beg for me to stay
 
we claw and gnash in heat
and tear at tired skin
through bone
and blood
and meat
to taste the drug within
 
others cannot sleep
we bend against these walls
we grow
and swell
and creep
our scent hangs in the halls
 
you cry for noise and rain
to wash away your fear
you kiss your saint of pain
and drink her ivory tears
 
refuse all gods and kings
and move across my floor
you are my everything,
my queen, my child, my *****
 
press your hips to earth
reveal the peace within
begin the warm rebirth
of flesh
of life
of sin

A coffee swells in waxy skin
The city squints through windowed glare
She’s creased inside a wrinkled dress
Her shape hangs limp in laundered air

A payphone rang, one ghost, one ring.
No one moved. We all just knew.
A siren dragged its echo past,
delivering a distant queue.

Fluorescent hums a migraned god.
My coat spins slow behind the glass,
zipper beats like trapped bird wing.
A sock grins dumb from wire racks.

This street is lined with yellow stain,
lights too bright for folks this small.
I sipped, I burned, I thought her name,
it drifted in suburban sprawl.

She’s someone else’s Sunday now
in fresh-washed light, her hair tucked neat.
Vanilla steam and honeyed bread
laughing soft in kitchen's heat.

The dryer stops. A broken chime.
Just silence, stretching like a neck.
I crack, not loud. Just wide enough
to feel the break beneath my breath.

Here my soles are worn too thin
A half-full cup, a sleepless eye,
no grace, no hand to lift away,
this curb, this ache, this grayer sky.

Barn wood creaked
under a blistered roof.
Cicadas rasped like torn zippers,
gnats frenzied in heat-stung hush.

Pappaw’s tools stood like deacons,
rakes, blades, shovels,
a rust-bitten vise
clung to the bench like a wounded jaw,
bolted there decades before I was named.
Its grip slick from the sweat
of every hand that disappeared.
The dust smelled of grease
and something sweeter,
like old rain
hidden in burlap.

Out back,
the wheelbarrow slept
beside the seed spreader,
its mouth open as if to confess.
I built stories in those shadows,
called it a castle,
called it a ship,
called it the edge of the world
before I knew what endings meant.

I was a boy
who heard grief in hinges,
saw narrowed eyes
in the heads of railroad spikes,
spoke aloud to heroic hammers
like they might answer.
I named everything
before I knew
what not to love.

It wasn’t make-believe.
It was how the world arrived to me,
in stories,
in gestures,
in objects
aching to speak.

The *** leaned inward,
as if listening.
The seed spreader waited
like it still had something to offer.
The wheelbarrow, tilted,
cradling sleeping rain
and maybe me,
once.

He crawled through seven weeks,
her voicemail still unplayed
burned letters on the stovetop,
and brushed the ash away.

The mattress holds her perfume,
her hair still haunts the sheet.
It lingers just to gut him,
then breaks beneath the heat.

"I gave you what I carried,
a key, a ring, a name.
You marked it as a chapter,
the ending never came."

Streetlights blink and stutter,
pulse yellow, white, then blue.
They gnaw beneath the ribcage
and press on every bruise.

He heard her laughter echo
through gutter sweat and smoke;
coins scatter on the concrete,
a rimshot to the joke.

He cut this trail in whiskey
left dents along the floor,
no battle flag, no anthem,
just shrapnel from the war.

Her glance, a flint and trigger,
still burns behind the eyes.
Not love, not even fury,
just silence split with lies.

The bottle knew its ending;
its glitter salts the ground.
No sirens in the alley,
all bodies have been found.

He slips the lock in shadow
and drifts beneath the gray.
The gospel wilts by morning.
He never meant to stay.

Now the cuts
have faded to pale seams,
from the girl
who left her key on the counter,
and took the why with her,
and the friend
you hadn’t seen in years
but still called brother,
his last paintings
hanging quiet on walls
in rooms no longer yours.

like the ghost of an old song,
still in key
you rise again
fingernails dark with soil,
burying sunflower seeds
in morning’s cold fog.

The dog needs feeding.
There’s toast to burn,
and leaves to steep.
You carry your small life
like a cracked bowl
that still holds water.

After years bent in ritual hunger,
knees pressed to rock,
tongue dry from vow,
nights lit like altars,
no revelation came.
No divine telegram.
No trumpet of truth,
just the kitchen humming
and the silence after the call.

Only the widow neighbor,
waving through fogged glass.
Only the pipes in the wall
clunking like an old lung.
Only the light
barging in
without your consent.

You believe in coats
with missing buttons,
safety pins where zippers gave,
old threads that never matched
but held anyway.
You forgive the past
not because it asked
but because you need the room.

It builds in your bones
like wind in an empty house,
constant, uninvited,
and full of old names.
Like a tune half-remembered,
only the hum
remains.

Old man stands alone,
shirt undone,
hair silver and lifting,
the sky begins to split.

The storm enters
not with cruelty,
but with memory,
that deep breath before
the world unbuttons itself.

Thunder cracks like bones once young.
The rain walks sideways,
then vertical,
then all directions.
He does not move.

Was the storm that raised him,
not his father,
not a stiff lipped god behind a pulpit,
but this:
a violent choir of wind and water
tearing through the trees like language
he always understood
but never spoke.

Remembering it in his legs,
how the wind,
long ago,
swept him off roofs,
out of dry judgement,
into open roads and beds and truths.
How lightning never hit him,
but always pointed
and directed.

He once chased it,
barefoot,
drunk on youth and refusal,
beautiful clouds, black and blooming.
giving permission
to crack open,
wiping dullness off the skin
that last coat of sleep.

Now, old and alone,
he feels it again,
that holy silence between the strikes,
that rush of air through the ribs,
the kind that makes love and sin feel small.

The wind doesn’t ask where he’s been.
The rain doesn’t question strength.
They just take him in,
pulling his bones into a long, level song.

No one watching.
No one shouting him back inside.
Only black clouds
reaching low enough
to press their foreheads to his.

In that communion,
the unspoken pact between man and squall
he closes his eyes,
and lets go
of names, of time, of answers.

Only the storm
knows who he was.
Only the storm
still loves him for it.

Steel pan in roadside dirt,
just beyond Exit 11: Quartzsite,
sun bouncing off like a flare.

Handle loose, rim dented,
but not ruined;
still whole enough.

It felt like one I swung
at Tomaso’s,
sweating
through the rush,
that night
we plated sixty covers
in under an hour.

Me, this pan,
were used
the way hard things are:
oiled, scrubbed,
flame-kissed and blackened.
Something thick stuck once,
then let go.

I lifted it,
right hand curved
around the handle
as though it never left.
Some things remember you
even when you forget yourself.

I set it in the backseat,
beside the blanket and bag.
thought I’d clean it up,
tighten the handle,
set it on flame,
hang it by a stove again.

I don’t believe in ghosts,
but I believe in steel,
in things that hold the heat
and give it back to you.

in darkness
I left you
was when your heart was slow
instructed by the western strand
'gather clothes and go.'

I missed you
this morning
we moved from where we strayed
slipping free of drunken vows
fevered flesh had made

your soft
small picture
commands me now to kneel
deny the gods I knew before
and drop this broken shield

I'll ask you
tomorrow
'please cut this tender thread.
it bleeds and binds my all to you,
your body, and your bed

that simple
small mercy
returns my broken life
where your kiss can never hurt me
Orion fades from sight

I know how
you'll answer
'we are so lightly here,
It is in love that we are made,
in love we disappear'

too wise or
too simple
it's either black or white
unhealed, I'll tear at stitches
bleed out this fatal life

remember
years later
onto those soft lit eyes
your warm belly fluttered
in a melody
of sighs
then drowsy, low rain
fell so we would float
and drift through
wet desert
in a folded paper boat.

You pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm.
You fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm.

We waltz through the wreckage,
it’s all we have left.
Your hem lined with ashes,
a fool and his guest.

The clerk asks for blood.
The stone has run dry.
We promise “tomorrow”
and feed him with wine.

Dark clouds now move faster,
with voice of hard wind.
It speaks to you only
as thunder moves in.

You twist here beside me
and curl like a vine,
your teeth in my shoulder,
reliving some crime.

You hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows.
Your secrets stay hidden.
Your tears are so loud.

You staggered through the double doors,
a trail of red on bleached-out floors.
The night was humming, wet and mean,
your busted life in Trauma Green.

I clamped your vein, soft as thread,
and dared the gods to count their dead.
You lay there broken, no ID,
just blood and ache and urgency.

Your heart fell still inside my hand,
as if it paused to understand.
Then breath returned in stuttered moans.
your chest arched up to meet my own.

The wound was sealed. Your sigh came slow.
You could have left. You didn’t, though.
The sweat still clung. Your gaze went slack.
You pulled the gown and turned your back.

I saw you later, checkout nine:
frozen dinners, boxed red wine.
You seemed like someone death forgot,
barely awake, missing the plot.

You looked right through. You didn’t know
the hands that pulled you from below.
You don’t remember. I can’t forget
how thin the stitch, how deep the debt.

Your demons don’t play well with mine,
They bite and they bruise and entwine.
Yours weaponize tears,
Mine whisper, come near.
The chaos is purely divine.

Yours gasp for the rush of cool air,
Mine drown in your scent, flesh, and stare.
Yours vanish like shame;
Mine burn all the same,
Still lit by the hunger we bear.

We drift toward escape, dark and slow,
They bloom with our secrets and grow.
Yours tear through my seams;
Mine knot in your dreams.
A dance only demons could know.

You smiled
like I was worth the wait-
or the lie.
Couldn’t tell.
You left the kitchen light on too long.
I stepped inside.
The floor gave way.

I slept beside you
as a thief
-quiet,
not for comfort-
but for the hush
that comes
when no one asks
what you’ve done.

Your shoulder
held the part of me
that still wanted
to be forgiven.
I kissed you
like confession
with no priest,
no promise,
just heat and teeth.

You didn’t flinch.
Didn’t ask what made me
this way.
Didn’t try
to fix it.

I’ve burned names
like receipts.
I’ve swallowed shame
like spit.
Walked out
of too many mornings
with hands that still remember
who they touched
and didn’t deserve.

But you-
you just set a cup beside the bed.
No questions.
No sermon.
Just water.
Just presence.
Just mercy,
without the bow.
I drank the quiet.
It didn’t heal me,
but it stayed.

And when you sang-
not loud,
just soft enough to hold the air.
you said my name
like it was still mine.
Like it wasn’t
something I’d dropped
on purpose.
Like it could
come back.

for the one who didn’t

The tomatoes hang eaten.
Some rodent, maybe.
The cayenne doesn't work,
just burns the air I breathe.

Knees swell.
The doctor?
I haven’t called.

This is the small life
we once smirked about.

Summer again.
No mercy.
Too much.
Too bright.

Lately, I forget:
the grigio in the freezer
the last message,
why I opened the drawer.

Lately, I drop things,
envelopes, keys,
my grip softening
with everything.

You said,
“That’s what old looks like.”
But you didn’t get here.

We stay,
we wait,
for mail,
for quiet,
for a name to light the screen.

Oceanside,
in shopfront glass,
I glimpse my portrait
eyes storming, squinted,
shirt caught on wind.
And I ache,
to be so
briefly
here.

I loved a star that never knew my name,
a silent flame,
fixed in the wreck of night.
Her stillness fooled me
into believing she sang.

She blinked once
in some long-dead century,
and I’ve lived ever since
by ghost light.

They say she's gone,
burned out or broken,
but I keep whispering psalms
to her afterglow,
drinking to the shape she made
in my sky.

I don't need the truth,
just the dream
of her burning.

Like something that waited for me,
not knowing I was too late
the moment I began.