i met you in a bookstore,
you ordered coffee,
and we talked about the beauty of literature,
but mostly about comic books.

you said that we were superheroes,
under the glasses, the frizzy hair,
that we were something special,
and i started to believe you.

you told me that the first rule of being a superhero,
was that we were not to use capes.
so i thought, okay, no capes,
and we were one with the tapestry of the sky.

then like all superhero tragedies, you left,
your mask along with the crimson rose,
your stone still there,
a painful reminder of what was not there.

now i work alone,
teaching others how to bring hope in the secular age,
by teaching them the first rule: no capes.

I stood in the February snow
the freezing sleet
no boots
no coat
Steam wafting off my fury

My father read the lie
two hundred yards away
and walking toward me

So I owned it
told it
With a snarl
Without a flinch
Both knowing

I held my ground before him
and wore the red of his hand
on my face for a week

Our shadows, all gyrating in slow motion,
It tasted like gin. That night spent raging at
the penny arcade - juniper and pine and Ago.
Friday night, East Crawford Avenue, warm.
We were Christ-like figures wearing velvet,
and you spent your night in a chicken coup.

We can live together on
the hardwood floors of
my parents’ house, stay
up late, eating apples, and
sifting through pomegranate
sludge. Your beard will be
sticky, and my fingertips will
be cinnamon sugared, like
some candied catharsis,
and you can lick them clean.

Little infant Icarus, I will
turn you into constellations.
Rip you apart, spread you
across the sky, and pray hard
for clear nights.
Oh! the terrible things.
I make no apologies for
laughter in churches.
I am the forrest floor, and
I am a burning hill, and

I will not die for you.