Half of the time we are silent.




I see the tip of your tattoo--the head of an eagle
at the nape of your neck below the delicate loops of a
thin silver chain -
and the thing about skin is that is whispers and pleads
to be seen or stung or washed

to be photographed, of course
mountains and valley exist on more
than one visceral plain, the earth comes
on more than one planet, one grain, we know.

That scientific studies show water to seek
the lowest point,
the lilac crest, the thoraclumbor fascia
(are we water? are you water? am I water?)
a percentage of it is water and the rest is
heart, the rest is soul

go stand beneath the water
and take your shirt off, take
your shirt off, gentle so that
the muscle doesn't stir, so
that you feel every inch of
cloth that doesn't belong
so that you don't see me
behind the lens
so that I don't
ruin what
good can
come of
being
naked.

there's a ringing in my ears that
sounds like the feed trucks roaring down 50
and  broken country music coming through
an ancient stereo, sounds like the way your
thick palms look when they pull a cap off a Coors
bottle, and that side eye you give, why do you keep looking at me like that?

Like what? As if my looks were incendiary glares and not photographs, I'm only taking you in, not taking you out. Like what? Hasn't anyone ever traced your lips or wondered if God built you out of brick? Laid silk over your harsh corners and sanded you down with a smile--why am I looking at you like that?

sounds like I put myself here and effectively took myself
out, sounds like you're one of kind and so different
and i've never felt this way
but I've heard all of those--

he's not waiting but i am, maybe for some kind of epiphany,
some kind of insurgent thought--an outpouring of light in the
rooms he thinks are lit, i wish I could light candles down his
tenebrous hallways, hang lanterns in the crook of his elbow,
make sure that the shadows only ever follow at a distance
but I can't assuage the feelings you haven't found, the fleeting
thoughts you ignore, I can't smelt the ore from your blood or
even pull a
splinter from
your palm.

He told me once he was in no hurry, no rush. But I've felt like i'm waiting on him, how strange, he'd probably say. Probably tell me
at least once more how much sense I don't make--but I tell myself that only a few people beat for me, run the tracks at the same speed--
that my explanations are enough for every other part of myself
and trying to explain that I am many, that I hang fire and break beds with prayer is like trying to describe colors;
warm, but not bright. Rich, hearty, elegant. -- Untitled. 1994. Oil on canvas.

What is wrong
with talking to
me? Is there something
wrong with me? is there
something wrong with me?


is there something wrong with me?

His friend once told me we
were
in lust

but hayden I've loved you
since I can hardly remember, there was Colorado and then
there was you, any time was a good time to be graced by your presence
I suppose you would think it's scary, to hear these things but
don't you know I would in a heartbeat, in less, in less than there is to be of
a heartbeat, I would

don't you recall all those times where the moment was only
my imagination, of course, but what did I do because you
left, and
"Nah, Dude, A lot of **** has been happening."


And there are some memories not shared,

but
there is
no lust


hayden i've loved you
since I can hardly remember

I had a dream we
kissed and you ****** the air
out of my lungs, said you were in trouble
oh, but it was a dream, I was in no wrong so
I kissed you again, gave it back

there's white ice in my ears
and I've tried to avoid this
pitter-patter palpitation for
so long, but it's here now

it's here now.

I don't know how to let
go of people, unintentionally
maybe I never learned. I'm
okay for a day or two, week,
tops. I sort of sink into the
corkboard, cheat the air,
clean my room.

I cannot get rid of
the things people
have said anymore

My hair was once all aquarelle
and peony, I wondered who

painted me

I fall in love with faces
down cliffs, down jagged seaside heights
strewn on the rocks, sunbathing on jawlines
pulled taut in sharp angles that cut my fingers
have you ever fantasized about the way
his lips would fall op en?

you're so brittle
sometimes I feel stronger than that
but you make me seem like some
stained glass window in the belltower
of a church, you don't want to touch me
for the sake of a metaphor you heard once--
but I won't collect dust on your mantle
to satisfy your mirror tropes and sweet,
sweet, nothings.

that's exactly what they are, right? more than
once i've peeled back the ***** of a wound just
to make a point, to emphasize a passion, only to be met
with *is that any way to live? As if you were accosting me
in the street for the birds in the trees or dirt in the cracks
as if you were saying is that any way to be you?
I don't know, is it? Bare your heart! you tell me,
and I do, I bear it.

i
keep
hoping
you'll
talk
to
me
first


                     you're
                     just
                     a
                    ghost


what
about
endings
do
I
not
understand
?


                          how
                          done
                          with
                          me
                          are
                          you?


i
made
everything
abundantly
clear
to
everyone
but
myself.

I do not know
how to forgive
them, though

please
say you
forgive me

I hate to see the life
you've created without me
because I don't think I've
created one without you