i still hang my arms
out the window because
i need to feel the wind
i'd never call myself claustrophobic
but i've always been fonder of
wide places, as much as
my house feels like a
trench i still walk in
and breathe home
whether god is there
immediately or not
I have chosen to
believe he is present
in the most petty of
circumstances, even
then as I sat on my bed
debating the gas mileage
to his house, and instead
taking off my shorts
and turning off the light--
that each of these low blows
has been engineered and if
rolling with the punches
were any more true, (possibly
caustic) then I am willing
to take each hit or
throw a few if need


be.

it's still very strange
to silence a place as
you walk past
or to hear that you
are a ***** from drunks
i once thought that
love carried over
into rough circumstances
but I can see that people
will gather on sides
proclaiming their support
and hurling rocks--
i just never thought
he'd be the one to
listlessly watch
it happen.

i still remember how
it felt to hold your temple
fine dark hair reaching past
my second knuckle
and now my fingers plug
into air, i still rememeber
just how much to spread
them apart to accommodate
the sharp shelf of your
forehead, how to trace
your brow bone without
waking you up and
brush your eyelashes
to show how careful
i really am, these details
scare
me.

there are eggs on the stove.


and the house is clean, been
gettin' enough sleep, a little
bit free when you drop some
constraints, put up a little
gate--
and the right people like
to come as they please,
the wrong just sorta
skim the outskirts
pace the edge of
town and find
themselves wet
rags to peel out
of bed, but I am

rising
to meet
the day.

i've never wanted to
haunt a thing less--
when you find the
house is full of
ghosts and ghouls
faceless creatures,
and you're another
cold wind or chilling
touch, much as you
don't mean to be,
sometimes you
gotta just break
chain and go,
you're not
much of the
phantom type
anyway, meant
for warmer days
or a means for
such on brisk
nights.

i would have
withered away
the way insects
do at the bottom
of a local water tank

an old stray dog
panting between
street signs in the
boonies,

I have never fully
feared obscurity
but I would if I
slept like the dead
and found comfort
beneath a neon moon.

the window
always needs
to be opened.

even the air
needs room to
move and billow

like white noise
i  need to be reminded
to breathe, or keep driving

to will, to forgive
to let things hurt a little
and then move along
not think too much
about the way things were

the windows
always need to
be open, one
arm out, with a
good song to fill
you up, remind
you to breathe--
like the air,
in and out
in and out

out

out.