Let us ignore
the wall
built in his honor

a looming crow's nest
black mangled stone
and onyx

Can we not forget
the bodies
the people lost after

the ground sank
deeper

esther She says
she's it and
double that
she Says all
doubt you'd held
in the chest
dormant like
some sort of
bomb

was just
prison

*******
you're more
of yourself
than you'd
wish to
admit

So pointless, still starting sentences with
and as though I am curtailing from
previous profundity into present thought.

Silly, still. Finally I have found
inspiration in the smallest places,
skin-deep moments, echoes.

I don't have anything to do with this

          imperfect receptacle,
light of pre-dawn-breaker-
bringer of boredom.

                    There are systemic means of
                    hurting oneself, the constant

ripping and stitching of that cherry-
          covered cloth

                    it's like drowning in
                    maple syrup, sticky and

sweet. I've been told that dropping
drink was the hardest thing I've

                    never done.

          I found these things,
these iron pores dripping
iron sweat, remarkably

                    easy to ignore.

First we watched the fires dance
lapping at the old wood like
a parched dog's tongue to water

Second we bought vegetables from
a man and ate them without washing
or burning with fire

Next I can't remember but it was
so very long and sad and the things
that make people cry
made us cry

Without a compass I can't move
a new direction even if the wind
rips at my back and thrusts me
forward

I am the shadow of tree limbs
on bright mornings

Dark and soft and untouchable

The subtle act of meeting
old friends with lines on my
face, pock and blemish
dominating the right side of
my face, left to them. Swing
left if you've an inclining.

How many times have you
reached out to a friend, tiny
gestures or grand statements
that state the grandeur of
relationships, twos and threes
and dates and early mornings.

Left to myself in bed I sleep
and toss and dream of friends
I remember and forgot about,
not but a text message away
from a rekindling, idling in
neutral and there's a hill ahead.

I'd rather
talk at you
of filth than
speak to you
like a man

Outside the crop has wintered,
tall husks of green lopped over
and fumbling for sunlight.
        There are rules to the arrangement.

The limits of energy and
abundance, lost somewhere in
a fray of hot sound, cold
        Frame for the crop to weather.

Let it slip away. Humble yet
whorish for warmth, bare skeleton
of being from which to frame the
        Praying, hand scraping concrete.

Find that voice. Put it in a box.
Punt that box into oblivion, a fire
of sunlight, warmth, a burning skeleton
        Begging for life; hollow shell.

What songbird?
thought my bucks and belts
might make air cowboy
soft embrace landing

buck the rest &
bite the wrist right
scrape knuckle on cheek
cutie

I've heard cranes creak
less in your ears than
when I said it all
everywhere

Imagine the world
as your palm north-
south'ing your face

from fleeing fore-
head to flicking
brow-ridge to
nose-bridge

and all of it you're
stuck with and with
everything it hides

you're stuck with

stick it to your chest
and let it pump
rage in your veins

see it die in whatever
vein tracks from clavicle
to un-sunned wrist
it's wind; it's fire

singing your hairline—
your eyebrows though
thin as they are

they're still strong, love

I am plastic, c-through

the gnats in my bedroom know as much
they fly into me as though by accident

an impossibly clean sliding-glass door
that upon approach is nevertheless shut

these small things hit my skin
but leave no physical marks

no gnat guts splattered
on my pocked arms

I am not glass but plastic
I can bend without breaking

I told him what it was to
tread water and he, for the
longest time, believed me.
My friend is a musician and
the instrument that chose
him is the keyboard, with
it's near infinite possibilities,
incarnations, iterations.
Different lives, so to speak.
It is a craft that as it is
learned learns you. Small
flash of contact. Text
message. Unreturned call
with voicemail attached.
We've learned to sing over
the phone. I hope that doesn't
ring flat.

I remember your naked body
like it was yesterday,
bending about your bedroom, quiet as
drifting rose petals stripped straight out
of a summer sunset sky.

I remember our naked bodies,
touching in discovery, swimming oceans
between ourselves we never fathomed
into existence; never questioned out of it.
For the first time, I felt at home—at sea.
Innocence no longer played part.

After the crescendo, I saw the clock beside
us on your nightstand. I used it as an excuse.
"I really should leave, it's getting late," knowing
full and well that she could see right through it,
right through me. I lept through the doorway,
sparing a look back, parting with my shame.

I got home and ate pizza with my family.
My mother and father chuckled about a newscaster.
My brother and I bickered about housework.
I went to my room after dinner and collapsed on my bed.
I wept as my eyes surrendered to darkness.

I am lost at sea—and so is she.

This city I've found,
ruined and beautiful,
cloaked in floating plastic bags
full of pipe dreams and
unhemmed seams. Shards of light
stitch the surface together.

This city I've found,
benign in all it's wanderings,
never sharing it's secrets and
never quite hiding them either:
the ugly walk the streets in
alluring strut.

This city I've found,
sifting through my veins and
pulsing in my head—

This city I've found
that's yet to find me.

the rim-rocked voice bellows
'I was a maid once. On the
Titanic, most famous one-trip-ship
in the history of mankind.
A tragedy. A massacre. And I survived it.'

a shapely cigarette clenched in her jaw
'It was such a magical place. The air
was so static and vibrant. Everything
was bright, audacious, unflinching.'

sound of sirens stabbing through smoke
'And as soon as we were so sure the
world we left behind was quiet, mortality
reminded us of its omnipresence. There were
screams, terrible screeches piercing the beautiful
starry night.'

smell of spoiled milk, sour
'I think God turned his back that night.
He couldn't bear to watch. But He knew He
had to remind us of our place. Somehow.'

the sky is never blue before sunrise

There was the moon
and then there were the stars,
so bright and boisterous,
far away from us. Less familiar.

We were always looking up. Be it
the stars or the moon in the night sky
we always found a way to stir up
some trouble under the endless
cover of darkness.

There was the moon
and then there were the stars.

We loved the former because
it was close, reliable, beautiful, serene.
We loved the latter because
it was adventurous—you couldn't
fit your small fingernail on it.

We loved what passed. We remember.
All the stars are gone. Now there is darkness.
Nothing to light the way home
but memories and kerosene.

Save a piece of me.
A laugh, a smile, a subtle flicker of my eyes when the lights turn on.
You have to remember something, so make it small. Don't keep the battles,
the strife, the words I said and never meant, the words you never thought you knew.

If you save anything, let it be a moment. A second.
So brief, so inconsolably unmemorable:

A candle's flame. A flower's lonely petal.
A breeze, pushing us both in opposite directions.