i pull my passion apart
until all my selves
are looking at each other bewildered
woozy in love with one another
and no energy to fight

i set each
up in a room to wait
together they get anxious

apart I grow anxious
in so many pieces
can’t each survive?

i walk into each room with a revolver
and only one bullet
i hand the gun to god
he puts it back in my hands and says
‘i am the bullet’

A swinging hammock puts this feeling in your gut of something like a falling glass

A bite blossoms on the top of your foot and like a blotchy swollen fruit itches to picked

Today tackle a wave with your entire weight at the curl and remember what’s its like to be thrown over a table

Here you are so tan and you want to be alone together with the sun

The shuttle comes tomorrow through the sand packed with the slow hurry back to Antigua

while she tied the bag Henry scooped a fly out of the drum of well water.
a muddy tear stuck to Yolanda’s cheek and the fly kicked it’s wings dry and flew off.

the puppy hadn’t eaten, laid on the steps, trembling so hard his legs kicked softly in the sun.
dressed in mud and a red sweater as we
stepped over him he looked past us through the shade.

Yolanda sat on an upturned bucket with him in her lap after picking him off the step. the other dogs pushed the room around with their noses in the air or around the floor and Henry kept them moving.

she tied the wrist of a rubber glove around his arm. i kicked a bowl of water to get out of her light. my veins started to swell and i wasn’t quite sure what was happening.

while Yolanda worked she moved fast Henry had left the room and i usually don’t look but this time i watched. she moved so slow now as she put the needle in.

she waited and plunged with a small motion and my legs stopped twitching i became drowsy and comfortable against her arm. i only realized what had happened when i saw a tear roll down her cheek and i moved back into the light because she didn’t need it anymore.

as i drop my foot
on the head
of an unsuspecting insect,
i think about the time
a hulking finger came
out of the sky
and crushed my thorax,
guts spilling from my ruptured
exoskeleton.
i looked around at my legs
with a snapped antennae

tell me what you know
you mad Irish wall!
evoke the Liffey!
art runs through the streets,
the river lilts its writers unsteady,
with every pint more voluble.
quick to bleed!
quick to show wit in that blood!
you are sheep and shepherd in one!

a nymph emerging from the wooded floor
the xylem feast eaten square to its fill
in years of waiting to emerge the more
insouciant, wings unfold about its will

it’s molted youth, decoy exuviae
makes room for muscles to contract, express
its newest longing, in a song conveyed
which every tree and heat itself buttress

the electric hum of love that can’t help
but sound, attracts the searching quiet ***
it’s finals moons of life in heedless self
echoes the aching heart of the tettix

in every summers throws with ceaseless breath
that love so boundless persists til death

the limes in the trees are downloading
and pallid anthuriums are stiff over their pallets
i scroll pine needles over her face
tickling her ears with the sharp staccato
of their ends. her leg swings through
the dead headed clout of trim below the bench
as her head rolls in my lap trying to escape.
she puts on the colors of the wind
and makes her voice into a convincing profile
of the mountain. inspired i reach down
to pause and put the part in my lips
against hers. touching together
her eyelashes, she ignores a vibrating  
under our hands for my nose on her cheek,
until a pine cone, a message,
plunges from the tree,
planting itself beside us in the bench.
when i shook she didn’t pitch, but answered.
what was it?

looking perchance to see out beyond the wing,
another plane as it sped through turbulence across the Eastern European sky.
and considering the distance we traveled, how close we came to touching over the clouds.
as if reaching out we may brush finger tips or absentmindedly we might collide shuffling off the awkwardness of fire and death to realize how lucky we were to be in the same bit of air.
and though seeing you pass at hundreds of miles per hour leaves the question of our destruction longing in each other's hearts, the fields of Europe are safe from our falling wreckage.
crops not spoiled by debris and bodies.
yet how lovely the sky would have looked for that moment
and how the smoke would have stood out among the clouds and the memories
of those on the ground who watched, made calls, and gasped.

this mystery is like filling
a glass of water in the dark
holding a finger on the rim
listening to the pitch of empty space
disappearing and the cup growing heavy
waiting for the right moment to let go
and drink

it’s looking up between the clothes lines
through a tunnel of walls at one bit of sky
the roof replaced with stars
infinitely upwards into darkness that’s
still only a glimpse
framed by the inside
in the real direction of the night

it’s a heavy face fighting sleep
stretching night thin because the bed
feels bigger than it should
a yawn swallowing each quarter hour
time in turn swallowing each yawn
arms creep around the pillow
and sleep creeps over the arms

let go
of that little blister on her foot  
and sitting next to her
on the bus that jostles
her head on your shoulder

on the roof her
somnambulant hand
is tucked into your shirt
let go the concrete
floor that holds you up
whose sharp grip
cut her knees

let go the bruises
on your own knees
that dug deep into the tile
of the bathroom floor

let go
like the beach letting go of a wave
clouds of sand tumbling in sea foam

tin roof of a thousand songs,
play at once for thunder.
like fingers along her back
the rain spills over the roofs shoulders.
every song is confused as it comes
falling out of the sky,
pushing for the earth,
tapping along buildings before the arrival.
play on this room forever.
may she believe in thunder like hope
that music is searching for her
to land chaotic love songs
against her skin.
and suddenly like waves the storm
syncs into harmony.
and each drop knows only one note but
together they hope she hears,
in their timing,
how they love to find her,
to be heard.

famous for being suddenly conscious
                         in the middle of the night
dehydrated

lucidity in the midsts of the absurd pries
                         fingers grasping ego, the fist
empty

different as the prayer palms together
                         are from the air of mind it enters makes unity
meaningless

ignorance is faithless, in the test of man
                         denying the reflection of heaven is denying
God

describing it only in words you may understand
                          for knowledge of God may be denial too
drink!

the cardinal flew
into the peach tree
and became a fruit

my pride in humanity is critical
in the pond there are
big fish who stroll around on legs
but never leave the water

the pigeon tries to stand and his right leg buckles.
he falls on his side, flapping at the ground with his wing.  
he keeps his head tucked and his feathers separated
to dry while the rain freezes to the sidewalks.
like a homeless man under the tall window he crouches  
quietly cooing they way the homeless coo
about whatever pigeons know of mortality.
fellow birds bob through the rain shimmering
like umbrellas as the water slides off their backs.
his every feather stands on end
resting his head against the brick he doesn't shiver
but watches, one eye on himself
in the reflection of the window the other on me.
i stand next to him as if hunching my shoulders could hold back the rain,
as if writing this poem could hold in his pain.

masculinity is a performance
of peacock tears swelling
over the lacrimal caruncle
only to be held from falling
onto the cheek

the bone dry-eyed grimace looks on
with its thousand peacock eyes
sashaying like a polaroid **** pic
shakes to color
this may never be removed

nor femininity; that accessible labyrinth
of deception is worn.
played out in so many lights, with
sleight of hand, tongue in cheek, acrobatics,
and soliloquies - a brilliant show
though hardly scripted

or scripted well - laughing as she cries
and hiccups, putting on every outfit
from her closet in layers then
stripping out of them.

take it off
the play of self and identity
that divides and conflicts

you smelled fire in the suicide lane
the broken yellow line separated you from
you, street baking your carcass and filling passing cars
with that dank aroma of death

driving home i’m called to the void
by an oncoming truck
and i almost answer until it’s shaken loose
by the wind

the moment fades fast as it’s headlights
i never slow down
the broken yellow line like a dial tone
humming by

...

i dedicate my lucky streak to the cigarette;
one flipped in 20, saved for last
fed, in the seven minutes of fortune
to desire, but that moment is gone forever

love never goes unpunished;
so inspired in tobacco the stomach
aches and turns over, delivering
the fire of its contents out its back door

we both see exiting as a return
to one place or another, one state or the next,
the smoke and i; turning energy to waste,
are ****** through the plumbing or the open window

and though, shivering in the wind of the car,
i endure, pushing my seven minutes of luck
as long as it will stretch
i try to remember how to breathe because so often i forget

i'm am in every bar drinking
and watching, dancing naked; every eye
looking inward
at her dancing,
shedding clothes, drinking, watching,
flexing like a garbage bag full of me.


i laugh swinging like a garbage bag, dancing,
drowning in the overwhelming sound;
brought back suddenly by hundreds of cigarettes
and the clicking of a bike tire spinning free from the ground.
the way i spin clicks like a bike tire. we spin clicking.


you spin clicking.
you are the smell in the air of marijuana, the smell of a sneeze.
you board the train like slamming a beer
after a cool 5 hr shift and you watch


her crying on the max, chapped lips chewing her jacket,
rubbing her eyes. i rub my eyes and chew her with earbuds in.


with dark circles i catch him staring
but he doesn't mind, he's writing a poem on his phone.
so i don't mind, looking out over the river from the bridge.

you’re planting in the night
sleepwalking into my fields sowing
with little unconscious moans
handfuls of seeds tossed like your legs
over mine into the mounds of sheets
i’m tangled in you
and the cycles of our sleeping
are in full swing together so that
when i start talking
you talk back in your sleep
waking me up in the dark to look
over our green stalks that are
peeking through the pillows
now growing so quickly
that i know by morning the fruit
will be swollen
ripe and heavy and with my hands
i’ll push back your hair
to pull a kiss from the vine
then you’ll roll over taking the covers with you
like clouds pulled over the sunrise