oh but we are all
divine in that we
have souls, the
way that fills
my mouth
is stupendous
they say that
your fingertips
can feel nano-scale
wrinkles on a smooth
surface, a new level of
sensitivity not previously
recorded and I think that is



beautiful.

this is a q u i e t type
of living, I want to get
lost in this sweater or
sink in these shoes,
sometimes I wish
I would drown
in cups of water
or burn up against
the wick of a candle
i've been setting three
alarms to be up before
the sun and it's working
out pretty well but I no
longer find solace in
paints or peace in
lead pencils
the things I
love are made
of rice paper and
dissolve under the
weight of words
and bowls of
honey nut
cheerios
I am at a loss
filled with sighs
filled with sighs
filled with sighs

I remember a
hundred nights
in your apple room
beneath ramen kisses

i want to tell him
something about
how he was a monumental
loss, but I'm too afraid of the
ways in which he moves, afraid
of the ways he blinks and talks
of all the truths that are no longer
i could be moving forward but I'm
stuck on him, and bits of dream
cling to the walls of my consciousness
I'd say this is a matter of letting go,
but this is a matter of cutting ties
but which ties, which cords, which
wires, red or blue? Red or Blue?
red or blue?

I crave the dens,
the brick caves strung
with lights where no
one is above the murmur
where girls come to leave
necklaces wrapped in lined
notebook paper (here, take
this, take this from me, please)
and the various spaces are lined
with a thick aroma of espresso
and the burberry perfume from
the woman at the table over whose
thighs could stretch across the atlantic
but ships could never sail across her
in the way you can't tread over hot
coals, climb mount everest in a day
or ask her out for coffee.

am i so wrong for wanting to feel right?


am I so wrong for wanting to feel right--
to go without an ounce of distress, to feel
like the corner of a couch was a cove and
not a prison, or that the ***** of his nose
were the side of Humboldt and not a cliff
edge I want to throw myself off of

because i feel trapped.


because I feel trapped--
i alluded to a rabbit in a cross-hair
when my mom asked. The rabbit knows.
The rabbit knows it's been caught, it doesn't
feel right.  She freezes. She tenses. She's unsure.
She's grounded amongst the long weeds and bulrush,
is he waiting? is he watching? When he touches her
shoulder, what is he saying? When he stands between
her and the door, is he a threat?  Is it presumptuous to
think he can enter without invitation? how many
doors in a house require a request to entry?
just the front? the bedroom? the heart?

I feel small.

I feel small, like my body has shrunk and consists of
significantly less matter, less much, less stuff
which is scientifically impossible, matter can neither
be created or destroyed--but I can certainly be rearranged
in space, so I melt into the backboard, become one with
the paisley pillows, find solace in holding my own hand
solace in my unassuming nature, in my rapid bunny
heart--
and
therein
lies
the
problem.

I set your glasses
upside down over
my nose, tried to
see the world the
way you do, but
I could not, and I
am

sorry

everybody
inside your
head is real

the song faded and
the crowd hushed
scott spillane played
a soft horn lullaby
and I watched Koster
love us, love us soft
so soft because we
were good listeners
without knowing
one another.

I'll be blunt;

I'm quartering myself
down to the bare minimum
because I see these pretty girls
everywhere and I tell myself
he'd fall for them, easy. I am
having trouble finding what
anyone could possibly see
in me. My countenance is
quicksand, don't struggle.

maybe i got caught up in that rustic
devil-may-care way that you leaned
on any counter, how the hot oil from
your grandmother's pans shot up and
flecked across the posterior of your
hand and you didn't even flinch, just
sort of sighed through your teeth
and how I spent the few seconds after
that wishing I could press myself against
your back because you are so solid.
But I digress, because I've learned that
idolizing people is a mess of self-inflicted
palsies

Nevertheless, my affinity for compounding
problems manifests in my lack of willpower,
in your forearms that are like thick bristlecone pine
branches, dry and scarred with your
obstinance--

and when you would go to wash your
hands, you'd roll your sleeves in
this rough, intensely **** manner
with your hip pushed up against
the lip of my sink, working the
dirt out of your knuckles.
So as you kneaded your fingers
back and forth; your Venke's
pulsing, I found myself to
be too hungry for you,
for this

I've never been around so much
man,  so much cord and bark
i've never touched a person and
not felt like I was going to slip
through them like some spectral
being, like their spine would
give way before they bend in
two around my palm, barely
grounded by their own
body weight.
The difference is (was?) that
you feel so full, so stalwart
and



(I got to thinking; maybe I wasn't ready.
Because for all your worth, all your
redeemable qualities, I'd cashed in on
the way you made me feel when
I hadn't for so long and that's not
the way I want to,
Not the way I
Want to
Not the
Way )

i stop dead in my tracks
when referring to their
house, because it doesn't
seem like mine anymore
but I'm confused as to
what really is a home
in the truest sense of
the thing because
I feel like a molecule
in a widening bubble
the farthest from claustrophobia
that I've ever been, there's nobody
that I want to see, and everywhere
I want to go, but like a machine I
seem to require the right environment
to function, so i'm canceling all my plans
ripping excuses out of the cookbook
missing the sun when it's right outside
my window, sometimes right above my
head--and this rug beneath my feet feels
more like the only safe place in Canon
everything else doesn't belong, everything
else doesn't          fit eve
                                        rything
else can't           be in the s a me room as  



me.

we are encouraged to be light
but I beseech you to be heavy--
with your skin and hair and every
bone, with your gossamery soul--
a soul that could sink ships,

be heavy, you are much.

in the shower i stare at my fingernails
thinking that soon I will be in the plane
on my way home and the entire day will
have passed and I will never get it back.
The water is warm and I wonder if this is
how I time travel, by merely thinking of
the future. I tell myself I must appreciate
every moment or otherwise not think of
such things, but within seconds I am
hours away from that shower, then
suddenly on a plane, and soon I will be
in my bed wondering if this week even
happened or if i am just dreaming.
traveling. Only
Remembering.

He says
you have a pretty
voice and I find my-
self singing just to
see if I actually do.

All my seams are
popping, all of my
thoughts are poking
out, all the stories I
want to tell are only
pebbles in a jar.

It's okay if
no one reaches
for me.

i  c a n n o t
be l i k e my
m  o  t  h  e  r
high strung &
domineering
callingallthe
s   h   o   t   s
loading all of
the g  u  n  s  
have held the
trigger in fits
of   epileptic
shock, crying
please. *******.
save. me. from.
myself.

had a dream she
was a white horse
standing in the middle of
blood red stream, silver
hooves beating the earth
around my head, trying
to be the savior I didn't
want but always had

and somewhere along
the way I decided to deboard
the maternal train, stop trailing
her coattails, cause her faith had
gone stale, and mine was hid away
couldn't find an inch of myself
that wasn't stamped with
her approval and I guess
everyone caught me at
a the worst right
time when I
decided an
old me had
to be extinguished
so here I am all
raw and naked
as the day I was
born as they
saying goes--


all raw and naked
and waiting for some
clothes, the saying is lost


all raw and naked

all raw and naked

all raw
a n d
naked

when you still sneaked out
of your house at midnight
(when sneaking out was still
a thing) and we watched that
Jim Carrey movie until 3 am
when my room was still blue
and I always smelled like vanilla
I told you,
when you hold your hands
like this
over my heart it sort of feels
like maybe you're keeping me
together.

you

chopped
two letters off
you've changed
(so have I)
but I want to know
why my body still
skips a beat or a whole
bone when I hear about

you.

i've worried for too long over
the things I cannot control
so today will be the last
time I write about

you.

I've asked so
many times for
you to put a godsend
on a train, ignited with
a passion for discovery
on wheels that sing my
name, you remember,
don't you? Instead,
should I have requested
a send God? Is it not
enough to act under the
assumption that I don't
even need the train,
that sometimes I hear
your voice in my sleep
but people always say
it's the thought that
counts, right?

there's a candid
shot of you at the
picnic point beach
when i told you to
turn around and you
smiled as you did with
the water framing your
shoulders.

I find G o d
in the dust
up  against
chokecherry
trees by the
river, when
i talk to him
s u n l i g h t
brushes  up
my   thighs
or   f i n d s
me through
the   leaves
encased   in
honeycomb


encased in honeycomb.

Candace said:
all it takes is
one comment
one look in the
mirror, bending
over and feeling a
fold and i thought
maybe I am her and
she is me. And why
does it take a freaking
army for me to love
my body, in all it's
states and seasons
in the minutes that
it exists. If I am really
something like star
dust, valleys and
mountains then
why can't I
love myself
why can't
I love
my     self

2014 started with
Brett's car breaking
down on I-25, 45 minutes
before new years, and me,
giving the bird to everyone
on the shoulder of the exit
ramp, mad that Joe ditched
us to smoke, (but we didn't
know you'd be so hurt)
(I almost kissed you)
(then told you)
and April was barely
a thought, February a
single sentence, a moment
of silence for the love I still
had for you drowned in 8oz
of milk and espresso
straight into October,
November, December
there's still no tree but
this house couldn't
feel any less empty
nobody notices but
I've tied my anchors
to the construct of
time and we're
weighed in at
6pm, stopped
the clock like
a Havisham
where do I
begin, where
do I begin?

I won't take you in
i'm unwild, unwild
wouldn't wind my
way though all of
your knots, my
pages are dog-eared
unalphabetized, uncapitalized
you can't hide behind that, no
curtains, big windows, small
door, free but contained, uncorked
but restrained, tied my hair down
for sails, a single breath could
******* away.  won't build
monuments in your name
or dress your letters in
gold trim, i've
idolized too
many men.




but i
could
love
you.

you cannot
unknow the
warmth of a
body.

I stepped on a plug
it left a **** in the
middle of my foot
and I saw your tattoo
for the first time but
kissed it, because I
thought that maybe
forgiveness should come
from the heart, where you
kiss scratches to make them
better then you shakily told
me you had another, on your
leg. I cannot kiss there, I thought
to myself but i started to cry
anyway because it feels as if
everyone has lied to me, as if
no one has ever told the truth
so I lament the things I have
believed

I thought about
how easy it would
be, today.

What safety do we
find encased in arms
in warmth, in blankets
in sharing sleep, on beds
so close, the same to trees
who grow in bunches,
birds were kind to them.

we're whipping through the backroads
without seat belts, kicking up the dust--
the Sangre De Cristos looming with chalky
crowns above the hills, riddled with fence
posts and battered lean-tos, homes with
green shingles and matching john deere
tractors--the mountains, the mountains.

you go around every corner like it's a straightaway
I still see you smiling at me through locked doors
cradling me like a baby bird and hoping I might
throw caution out when all around your heart
there's these warning signs on big yellow placards
glinting in the night.

there are a dozen thoughts, all equally crippling--
staggered images of you squinting up at me on
the hill above the barn in that wrinkled white t-shirt,
a gray murdoch's hat pushed high up on your forehead,
hip cocked out with your hands twitching at your sides
rubbing brake fluid between your fingers

brooke, it is pointless to you. That's so obvious to me.
they tell you to stay down when shot, play dead when
in danger, but i've been seeking solace in your neck
trying to keep myself from telling you that  I love you, feeling
it at the back of my lips ready to spill over, overcome
by your gentleness, asking God why, why can't I just
love him?


it's so obvious to you? that i've spent a  month telling myself that it's okay, that you're right, that you're harmless, that things can work
out, so pointless goes on ringing in my ears, clattering down the
airways into my heart where i love you still hangs loosely by a
thread, or maybe a rope, maybe an industrial wire ready to bring
the house down with its weight, a marble for each day, a stone, a
boulder.

county road 255 seems a whole lot shorter,
I'm preoccupied with the dry shrubs the color of verdigris, the color
of your laugh,  how i can't see through the tangle of my own emotions, how i really do want you to be the one, the one person that just happens to be right--it's so obvious, you said.

so obvious.

I remember once
your dad was nice
he put tiger balm
on my elbow and
bought me socks