this uncertainty is frightening
but fleeting

because fading are the echos
of them telling us

how this is not right
but what do they know

about you and me
about right and wrong

for in this bed of secrecy
we still find truth in you and me

so I want you to ask
is this alright
just so I can say

Yes

her skin tastes like sour patched kids
and she was a
sour,
patched
kid,
with more stories about rusty space ships
than about boys who say no.

my brain feels like a galaxy that eats itself slowly,
one star at a time.

his face sounds like a cresent moon
without the soft hum of adventure.
slowly dripping from his eyes was the fluid from his lungs
and he cried his death away.

my lips smell like anxiety
it's a familiar smell
but lingering faintly is the loss of sugar plum fairies and candy cane wishes.

hey!
you lookin’ at me?
like you would if I wasn’t here
is it my stewed stench you fear?
you lookin’ at me?
you wonder at all where I been?
or if I committed the original sin?
you lookin at me?
like I’m some bug you gotta crush
or some load you forgot to flush?
you lookin at me?
how ‘bout I sit beside you in your holy hall?
would you then know you too could fall?
you lookin’ at me?
**** no
I ain’t even here

clearly, we are dead
the white noise
painting our eardrums
creates no pictures
the light show in front of us
doesn’t ask our eyes any more questions
no obit is written
no grave dug
ashes are strewn
across a lake of fire, but
they are not really ours
only remnants of some genesis
we never saw--it gave us
a flash of light
that lasted a few billion years
letting us groan and grow
yawn and yearn
for forever and more
of that which never really was
clearly we are dead

From the other room
I listen as you explain the many, many, many
reasons, things, times, and appointments
that necessarily mean
the end
of us

The otherness and incidentals
of the often forgotten
details and to-dos
of lives
better
and happier lived

From the other room
I listen as you describe your life in words of
painful regret, missed opportunities and hopeless futures
that don’t exist
so very much
for me

The pain and ingratitude
of a poor life
disrespect and disregard
becoming the
ante
of daily living

From the other room
I listen as you check emails and vmails and texts
of agreement, refreshment, and immediate joy
that shower down
from new confidantes
not me

The pleasure of escaping
from the marital mundane
dancing and drinking
re-becoming
the woman
admired

From the other room
I remember the choices we made
when agreement was agreeable and available
that made lives
worth
living well

The simpleness of a look
the knowing confidence
day in and day out
when someone,
You,
cared.

         10.iii.10

Wondering where it came from, this obsession with threes and trinities,
And there you were,
My third deity,
My third sainted portrait,
The halo around your hips:
A new Orion’s Belt of dark blue current that spills from this night
This night that looks so much warmer than it feels
And feels so much closer than it looks

I remember that the grass was damp
And besides that I’d kicked off my borrowed shoes.
And there were hands on my waist,
Hands in my hair,
And the smell of summer idiocy on my fingers and lips.
This bright red coal in the night
Against you, dressed all in black.
I can still see my breath ringed out
Around the dome of the church
As I held my wasted money between *******
And wound two more through your belt loop

I remember the two of us laughing
At the emotional lives of our friends,
But even as I’m modestly filling out
My libertine’s title,
We have to admit that we have our own problems,
Even if we refuse to name them.

Sometimes I think all my problems are etymological.

And whatever there is in the attack,
I can’t help but miss it in the retreat;
Maybe it’s the way we refuse to let go.