I'm not making promises anymore.
Not accepting tiny requests at the moment.
This happened because somebody
taught me how to lament the limits
of love. I thought the pleasure I got
from sit-ins with you was pure.
I looked at you through ****** sizzle,
sometimes outright panic. You seemed
a candidate for *******, and also
precious. But why not more.
What is wrong with me.
Why do I make you wear costumes
like extractee, validator, jezebel?

Why not more.

How did I learn
this love. A love like licking the ooze
dripping down the decanter instead of
cleaning it?

So I need some time. I've flown wrongly.
I thought wingspan was all it took; ******
lift, drag made it go.
Let me learn how to choose you,
how to Look at this man as man again.

after C. Sandberg

It's hard to know you now.
Classic sadness, wide open.
Words beneath driftwood
flayed on top of cornflower blue

Ocean.

Remember I was afraid
it might never be love
But now it scares me that
Love is all it is.

Do you see me
as conquered or had.
Here's how I see you.
Imagine how ants see.
They won't know what
stairs, bridges, and ledges
are for. Everything valleys
low or high, endless surfaces.
Sprawled and
likely untreadable

Ocean.

I saw a dead
bird on the ground
while walking home.

How bad had it gotten,
I thought, for someone
who could fly
to end up here.

I wondered if I should
leave it be and walk away,
or say something.

“I didn't know you,
but I hope you
had a great life.
The things you must have
seen up there.”

Then I continued walking
again. I don’t know why,
but I thought of
the way my little sister
says “computer shop,”
how lovely she sounds.
The loveliest sound on
the planet, for me.

My valleys bleed blue. They rhyme under only
The language of summer, coarse and sticky.
A droplet, spineless trees, baked mahogany.
A piece of clothing soaked in water
hangs at night on a beam, begging for mercy.
It's been many years since I had
A clear head. Tonight I watch the sway
then swallow the sway, and the sway is in me.
It feels like magic foam fluttering here, or
kids hopscotching and the noises they make.
Do not question now, only wait. It ends when it ends.
Do not catch up now. A handsome sky pauses
Your song to try and say, dance without it.
You can. It is there, the sway. Even in summer; in coarse,
sticky summer.

Pretend you’re dead
after risking it all.
You’re on your stomach
sprawled on a moor.
Someone approaches.
Limps forward, more like.
He’s dark, and being
hounded by bees.
Pretend you lost everything
after betting on him.
You’re on your back
in an empty house.
Someone opens the door.
They start beating the carpets
with a bat. You hear puffy thuds,
like rust prongs landing
on thin cotton against concrete.
Pretend light enters
after injuring yourself.
Someone checks for blemishes.
His fingers are lava hot.
His voice so cavernous there’s
echo and delay.
It terrifies you, what this
Man might do.
You shed skin for the day
and return to the kiln. Then you fall asleep
to the sound of creaking gates.

It happens when
we go quiet
and then quiet
hangs in there
a bit longer than usual.
I look away
and think
—will it ever be love?

I lost track of time
& fell short of a lot,
like I fell short of
a body that could be
happy by itself.
& I fell short of basketball,
calisthenics, boyhood. Where
growth should be was misshapenness;
where rapid should be was idle;
where scrutiny should be
was massacre.

& I was terrifically sad
yet deemed not officially depressed,
though in front of the mirror I would
see bathed in motor oil the reflection
of my genitals, which is made of
calfskin and bruise. I also tried
various other things, like
licking my armpits, talking
to a tree, snorting
ammonia off public urinals;
every sample of grime I tried
to touch. Maybe just
to see if cleanse was a finite
thing, and if I was nearing
the end of my supply.

& I fell short of buzz cuts
and *******. Also, fighting
after school and legitimate
swagger from a legitimate
boy.
I looked too long
at differently colored lights
and stared too little at
women I was meant to
impregnate by some order
of prophecy — or the privilege
of *****. I trimmed
my nails each week and
waited for my beard to
grow. I didn’t own
any robes, and I didn’t
drink alcohol. I also
trusted too much and
ended up on the last
waves of a beautiful song,
jumping at the right
moment before siren
becomes pause.

& I fell short of bones,
breath, and humanly powers
of affection, and I waited
for someone to explain how
everything worked because
the gospels put the world
in a jar and threw
them between fire and cold
air. I would step inside
churches prepared to listen,
then at the pew I would
get lost in the tar pit
of my subconscious.

& I fell short of being
a son, a brother, a friend,
an avid decipherer of
the poetry that lands on
my palms and eats itself
if I don’t eat it first.

& I fell short of saving
the world every chance I got.

& I fell short of distinguishing
love from pity.

& I fell short of the
day a promise was supposed
to unfold
in the brink of disaster;
and it just so happens
I was asleep when miracles
occurred under my blanket,
and so to me healing
was just waking up to
an alarm clock.

& I fell short of days
I was to remain
in place as the planet
anchored itself to
the rungs of my rib
and flattened like a
gum under my command.
I was my own God, my own
whisperer of lies. I tried
to see beauty with
these eyes.

Each day, syrup.
Each day, sedation.
Each day, escaping lament.
Distortion was the
language I fell into
and bounced on.

& I fell short of
this poem, which I had intended
to make perfect sense.
Maybe to some of you
it will.