well something deeper
than the ocean here burns,
splits apart and quakes --

we've seen farther than the working
men can go--felt the emptiness of a
disillusioned life, wondered how the
masses buy away their souls,
he touches you and you feel
not a thing, just the skin beneath
his hairline that doesn't glow--

You hear about his sanguine childhood
a finespun gossamer thing,
stretched across the state of colorado,
webbed and spun around
tent stakes, campers, drawn into the Four Corners
spooled in a Chattanooga coffee mug, dipped in  
day old orange juice
I have
settled
into the bottom of his
cup, a thick pulp, rind
and stem -- terrified that
I won't pull through,
that this isn't enough
that I am too much
or too little, haven't
been or seen
there are no
scars on my knees
or callouses on my hands
when the bears came I had
no pots and pans --

I study the sofrito, stir the
rice, break open green olives
and slide the pimientos onto
my tongue --
deftly speaking about shredding
chicken, chopping onions, rolling
corn tortillas
wondering what it is about people
about parents, about chile con carne


this pan holds 21
like the age, like the game, I think.

I am truly terrified.

Autumn clovers leave
The dirt it stays behind
Steelheads turn up the arms
I don't wanna stay, I see no thing but pride
That man he drowned. He loses everything.

Pinnacle ladies cry, they move up the yawn.
I shake the bed, until tomorrow's grieving.

It shucks our graves in two, splits the pupil's
Fearless cast. I can't run away, I can't make Friday.

The needle takes too long, the blood doesn't leave a trace. The opening is long to go, but
We wallow with it.

Each funeral is a thousand alms
They call to each other's arms.
They won't go astray, even if
You leave them.

Sorrow is my brother's lot
It takes up the head, and leaves us sideways-
Another whim lilts in two. The bridle makes the saw, that breaks down every god. It brands the flock, I don't look at anything.

This day grief makes it hard to go
Another man is bent.
My crooked spine, he shakes in torment.
Up upon the piste, broke down onto the knees
Nothing's there, but I can't look away.
Keep me to yourself
Like a secret you don't know
If I could just find a way
To live another day.

i have survived
storms.
i have survived a father's voice like thunder;
handprint lightning flowers petal over my skin
like i am a garden to sinners-
adam and eve call my grassroots their home and hum lullabies-
i have survived
anger.
pros and cons of
clock-ticking therapy sessions where money is thrown at my gaze,
fixed on the wall,
dollar-a-second drumming fingers
screaming so loud that heaven shuts the blinds and hangs a "closed" sign on the door.
pros and cons of
stumbling home,
under a murky peerless crowd of smoke,
slurring words trail around and behind me like moths to a porchlight.
morning headaches,
angry adults
damaging drywall and breaking family portraits
exhausting search for answers
exhausting search in a silence that lengthens the disconnect from child to mother
where your mind goes red and the honest truth that stays stuck to the roof of your mouth falls out
where you become an overflowing mailbox and your hands shake
the absence of parents who never taught you to hold your tongue
i have survived
hurt.
i have survived the specific type of loss that you feel in the pit of your stomach
the one that lies next to you
when you stare at the ceiling and your face hurts from crying
tears scrub your eyelids raw and you promise,
"if i ever make it through this,
i will never be here again."
i have survived giving up,
taking it all back, throwing it all away,
parallel structures of contemplation and decision
i have survived
lonely.
angry storms of abandonment, melodies of the lonely and the hurt
i reprise to the ones that add injury to insult,
you are not the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
i echo choruses to the people that force me to grow up at sixteen
i have destruction embedded into my neurotransmitters
i have shooting post-traumatic pain in my memories
i have survived
a hell that your hands are not stained enough to touch.
i assure you,
my love,
i will survive
you as well

You will not see my shadow pass
the gate of mournings eerie dark
Nor hear my voice among the reeds
that grow above my silenced heart
No fondest kiss to furrowed brow
to quell the torment of your making
for you have left me here alone
to sleep the sleep that knows no waking.

I made a film last night about a man
who hates  neckties—silk, cotton,
and bow.  It is a documentary
of sorts,  that reveals  his
drawbacks, peccadillos,
discrepancies, lies,
and misdeeds.

I am the only character, me,
you can not watch it.
Never.   It is mine
to slowly edit,
and wallow
as I view.

For the last few years
I've lived by the water
and when I come home
from work I grab a bottle
to pour something from
and shut my eyes
to sip it or something
like that I look like
I'm dozing off but not
really because I'm a star
you think is a moon
that is moving like
the water I live on
sitting up in my bed
ashamed of the books
left in outlines and
shadows in the shade
where I draw a breath
all thirsty for the unread.

Her online dating profile said she was "Outdoorsy".
She asked if I wanted to go camping.
I told her, "No, I'm done camping."
I spent enough years sleeping outside,
and even more sleeping in the dirt.
It wasn't all bad.

I got to sleep with the stars and wake up with the sun.
once I woke up in the middle of a circle of deer.
I opened my eyes and the fawn looked at me, and I smiled.
She nodded at me, I swear to god she did.
Then she nudged her little ones awake, and they went off to find another spot so I could get ready for the day.

I've encountered ghosts along the rivers, and thieves among their banks.
I've never successfully started a fire without the aid of Gasoline,
    and it cost me the title of King of the Hobos one year.
Even as a homeless guy, I was mediocre.
I'm good at some things though.
I have references, I told her.

The next day, she deleted me from her favorites list.

I surround myself with
Laughers, drinkers, talkers, thinkers,
Who convince me that the
USA had hand-drawn and cast
The moon into the sky
And that God was born in the
Grass and that's why
Flowers smell so heavenly.
And I believe them because
They send me stinging bolts
Settling, lingering zaps with
The swift gesture of their hand.
Reasons, I, engrossed as
Paper crushed in a fist.
I am curled in shame in
A fist like paper.

I lied about so much and in such a shortspace of
time that I should probably begin

with the   circumstances of my birth.

There were three grainy    home movies in existence

that captured the

unbelievable    incident on camera.

A soft mewling sound was found to be issuing
from the manger
                                                              at the centre
                                                         of a school nativity play.

So that's me, then. The baby-saviour whose sudden

appearance was not recognised as a miracle by the State.

My origins are disputed and there are

some schools of thought       that consider me prop-made-flesh.

Others are rooted in more digestibly Anglican ways of thinking;

degenerates made me,                                    degenerates left me.

god he saved me how about that?

I remember my home phone number
                  from a house we left when I was 5 years old,

but there's sadly a decent chance I can't remember your name.

you finish your drink in a vicious way,
                                          as if you hate it.

I'm going to hold onto my birth certificate
like my mother holds onto receipts

and when I write my last rent check
addressed to whomever lives upstairs

I'll knock on the door

and when they open
I'll kindly flash them the paper
which never expires
and I'll ask
for a refund

and they'll say "No,"
"We only accept exchanges,"

and then I think I'll believe in reincarnation.

A solo crow's morning flight spoke
of castaways and solitary nights
on its wing tip hurried flight
and its mid-air broken croak

Recounting storms as eagle talons
wet in feather drenching dreams
cuts and glide through current's seams
drops to land on earthen patterns

Seemed within its bird-brain canon
day's release from hunger's pang
a weary eye on sturm und drang
to covet worm and bolt on cannon

-cec