we drove through snowbanks today;
one for the first time behind the wheel
-- one with his eyes fixed on the road
and me, just another passenger along
for the ride.
                   it was still lacing over the
world with white, like nature pulling
up her comforter and settling herself in
for the season -- heavy down muting even
the quietest quiets; we followed suit, put
on the smiths and sent our tumultuous
evening back to bed to curl up with a
blanket or two, swap stories with tucked-
in and tuckered out madam nature until
we realize we're still alive -- and at this
juncture (both figurative and literal)
during the supposed shift in energy,
spiritual awakening, consciousness, etc,
we embraced the contradictory side
of our cynical teenage bodies and
sent our thoughts back to sleep with
the current of his lilting voice and the
subsequent waterfall of grieving
piano notes, tinkling and sending
splinters of icy shivers down each
of our spines as we drove on through
the gently imposed quiet of a cold
down comforter.

i remember someone on this site a long time ago.
they would write unrelenting epic poems that
always made my fingertips tingle in that way
they do when you're surprised art made you
feel something again, you know?

i arrive back here tonight because i've been
doing a whole lotta feeling and far too little art
and i've stopped letting it surprise me.

i keep oversharing when people ask, "how are you?"

i keep wondering who i'm supposed to be at this point on this long path of becoming. i don't know, i've never liked the phrasing but it resounds so cleverly from forebrain to nervous system it's uncanny and unavoidable and ineffable. who am i am i am i am i am i ...

i want to make a map,
a cartography of memory,
charting the granite and
soil, marrow and moss,
river foam, abusers,
flower gardens, wild blackberries --
the purple dabbed away from those
soft parts that blackberries might stain

to wash deep berry blood off
in the public pool bathroom
where she first made you a novelty

to scrape darker
from under his fingernails
with bark from the tree she
made you hide behind

the same park you grew up in

a spot you always caught the sunset
a spot he caught you and the sun seemed always then to set

still haven't gone back

it's time to make a map

fingernails
through the slits
of borrowed garments
brilliance
leaks from sinkholes
riddling your forearms
earth touch
in your tendons
tarred feet to sync
with astral chords
and soil chains
-

porque usted nunca entendió
lo que quise decir cuando dije:
siempre estás en mis sueños;
como verano y limonada,
quemaste mi piel y eras
agrio en labios secos;
finalmente yo corto la pulsera
que me diste, y la corazon
de la musica se está desvaneciendo.

es marzo,
y le hice una promesa a mi mismo;
llovió la última vez que lloré por ti
y nevó cuando me olvidó;

ya no estás en mis sueños nunca mas.

balance is beholden to little,
just as the stars do not compel.

i roused with asphyxiation,
down suffocation, fever.

reverie so irreverent,
(removal proves impossible).

subcutaneous deposits of venom
perspiration is the poultice.

(but the brain was never meant
to drown in the skull)

i never would have dared
to dream that here upon
this rival's stoop i'd perch,
discussing the theoretical
forces that affect and create
and effectively create the
world surrounding us, and
never would i have guessed
it'd be you with whom i'd speak.
the red dragon symbolizes
man, you said, angular,
linear, power, strength;
the yellow dragon bears
the fruit of the feminine,
with spiritual compassion
for all and sanctuary.
and in the collisions between
the gentle and the forceful
by accident, or intention,
we find genesis.
you carried on to talk
about a belt of silent
asteroids from whence
we supposedly came,
our progenitors massive,
with trilobite heels, but
that theory was a little
too astral for me to grasp,
and that bothered you,
i could tell by the sighs
and frustration that
spilled from the leaky
faucet of your lips.
so i changed the subject
with a splash of tea,
and washed the remains
of last night away in the
soft waters of whimsical
conversation.

there are moments with
you, and moreover, tiny
moments within moments,
and so forth, when it feels
impossible to be any closer
to you than the cigarette
between index and rebuttal.
[it should be saying a lot(but it's not)]
like on those southern nights
when honey stained our lips
and lives and judgment;
they showed up in the back
of a police car, armed with
a deadly arsenal of threats
as empty as the bottle of
whiskey in the corner.
they left, and we delivered,
before the state could sweep ash
away into the dustpan of a foster
home and furthermore into the
wastebasket or dumpster of the
so-called effectively efficient system.
we caught some air mixed in with
the paper souls betwixt index and
profane, and discussed past lusts
and loves and losses and the insanity
of the preceeding few days while the
accompanying ebb of breath and flow
of fire beat gently on our consciences.

the new year; i never thought i'd
make it here, *and neither did you.

-
for the first time
since i could sort the cutlery
on my own, you've cast me
as the bent or dented spoon,
the chipped ceramic bowl;
let the dog eat out of it,
toss it in the trash --
-
and there are too many little dashes
perforating the circumferences of clocks,
and no one to cut around the edges --
with little dull scissors and colorful handles;
the kind you used to piece me out of your
scrapbook.
-
i'm sorry this is so passive-aggressive
but i just don't know of any other way
to cope with the fact
that you just don't have time in your life
to be there for me anymore,
that there isn't room for another episode,
that i need to keep control --
-
like it's as easy as deciding
to have tea, or at least not coffee,
but regardless of my order
you're not the ******* barista in this analogy,
so kindly get the hell out from behind the register.
-

i see everything now
through the eyes
of double vowels.

there
           is
                more
                            power
       ­                                  in
                                               nothing.

each line

i skip

holds meaning.

prim and proper

no.

P
O
M
P
O
U
S

little i's are the way to go
who am i to be capitalized?
no, i'm not so important.

i have been.
i am.
i will be.

carpal tunnel
born of first-serve lets
and second-serve ace
comebacks --
from
sloughing off
winter coats
to share between
twelve --

my wrists are
less than echoes
and may have
been little more
to begin --

suspended
by gossamer,
brass-covered
lichen
and ticking fungi,
like man, (with his
whirling gears
and mad metals)
replaced
nature's course
with an automated
system --

i would rust
just to crack
but they keep
me too clean --
my sunspots
have fled to
warmer pastures,
i am milk-buckets
on overcast farm
dawnings, but surely
even they have seen
the light of day --

splashed my face
with wine
and rooibos
to see if i
would stain
like the canvas
metaphor
my generation
ascribes to --

maroon dispersion
in terra cotta wash,
twining around
a spiral course --
the folly of it
went ignored
'til my lost and
floating freckles
gathered at the
drain and clogged
the sink to overflow.

upstairs and downstairs, like a frazzled owl character in my third-grade reader
in the doorway of my 200-level on sub-Sahara where we talk only of Nigeria
holding the elevator for my superior in the lobby of a too-tall edifice to man

a college student.
an ABD.
intern.

backstage at your high school graduation ceremony, your mortarboard won't stay on your head
in a food court where your mother doesn't get it when you say you can't wear pants anymore, or get your bimonthly haircut
when you're skirting the poverty line after your family business was sued but your FAFSA says parent #1 earns six figures

initiate.
neophyte.
not-quite-other.

the female body as a threshold between worlds, channel betwixt boundaries
Schrodinger's cat simultaneously in separation and marginal phases according to van Gennep
divorce papers signed but not sent, enclosed in manila at the bottom of a cherrywood desk

continuum.
spectrum.
a line without points.

i found your
habits tonight,
the ones you kept
tucked up your sleeve
like aces in a hold ‘em match,

unwelcome, unwanted.
tells, twitch, or tell truths
to me, while broken
records and dated playlists
keep me company;
the soundtrack
to this life i can't
seem to find the verve
to live anymore.

this train will go on to see
brighter things, however,
with or without my muffled
murmurs and quieted complaints,
it's not up to me.

mannequin, your sacred self is secret,
you save and squander on
your precious aces;
those hidden cheats, cheap tricks
to while away the time.

there's nothing left for me
at the end of the night when
i stumble in and fall.
nothing at all.

it bothers me that
arpeggiated piano
still incites in me
[saudade(for you)] on
these empty evenings;
and it bothers me that
this silly irish girl
feels the same way
i do, and that your
sister shares a name
rooted in gaelic, just
like her; and now i
might be grasping
at straws, but never
have i told a bigger
truth than when i
say i find the most
arbitrary ways to
remind myself of
you, or accurately,
the lacking thereof.

and it bothers me that
the only seeming cure
is to purge (myself) of
you with [ballads sung
by sobbing ivory keys],
like [baking soda] to a
(bee sting), drawing
out the venom drops
of your last acidic kisses,
and neutralizing them
in the stark alkalinity
of these spare words,
little more than dimes
dropped into the tin
cup or upturned hat
of the beggar i have
become.

it's one of those nights again,
when the messy equilibrium
of feeling rears its head and
demands compensation for
the goodness i had so recently.

i guess i could discard
the convenient attachment
and simply blame my limbic
system for subjecting me to it,
but that's dis(honest) to my nature.

it's the worst kind: contemplative;
not grief, or [lone]liness, or any
other illness of the amygdala,        
(the heart pumps blood, and
blood is not a medium of feeling).

some mornings
even my hair
seems to behave,
when i don't need
it to -- like weather
or feelings.
                         after
today, i was content.
i finally got my bed
just the way i like it,
settled in, surrounded
by cush, and plush and
(dead insects)
                            despite
    a growing discomfort
in my belly, i'm still fine;
saltine remedy, mint tea
                              potion.
a lovely girl asked                
me to catch dreams for her.
of course i will, in jars like
fireflies, natural lanterns
to light up your
imagination.
                             but the
          aching in my belly
    seems intent on staying
until addressed appropriately--
sneakily
                creeping up on me
like adolescent shenanigans--
acknowledgement is
reminiscence, the kind you
don't fancy at 1:00 am.
so i mulled it over,
going home; like
a kick in the shins,
it made me realize
that the little place
in me, maybe a vein
or vesicle, is still
missing.
               it used to
be an *****, a limb;
in months it shrank to
an extremity, a digit,
finally infinitesimal--
but still
missing.
     (now) i'm having trouble
                making my peace
with the fact that you'll have
that artery, or capillary,
or soul atom for awhile
or forever, maybe.
but i think, i posit
in fact, perhaps
by march, a few
months more,
i'll forget and
be able to say
*"it's yours."

i didn't really know until
i took that polaroid of you;
you had your hand over
a candle flame and the
shadows dancing between
your fingers illuminated
the spare patches of snow
remaining on the playground.
there was no mistaking
the draining of my swimming
pool of ego as i witnessed
you staring out from each
ice crystal reflection in awe:
your smile tumbled down
the slide and spilled into laughter
while
your voice lilted up the rock wall
and sang in triumph at the top --
and this is when i knew i would
write another poem about you.

i forgot to mention  i've been
drinking my coffee black --
and sometimes, for the hell of it,
i write love and hate in sharpie
on my knuckles because i can't
get it tattooed. every now and then
i even try to carve your name into
the knots and whorls of my spine,
just so i can make believe
i am the man in that one song
you always seem to be singing.

heretofore i had
let slip from my
conscious mind
your grace, and
how jolting the
reminder was,
like north and
south attracting
again, slamming
into each other
in a fit of [profane]
polarity.
                 until now,
  the little quirks and
quips we shared were
not evident, or i didn't
let them be, anyways.
still, the intensity with
which you sing to me
and i to you again can't
be stolen by an audience,
or outmatched by instrumentation,
because the wisdom of
the greatest libraries
pales in comparison to the
  volumes still in the telling
by those pools conveniently
placed in your skull for the
world to admire.

whenever there's a need,
a gap to fill, imbalance,
you find a way to help,
to pull up in your old
white toyota that we
always know is yours
by the flashy lei hung
around the rear-view --
to say "*******" to
whatever scales we
seem to be required
to conform to, and
fix everything with
your jagged defiance
(or ruin it, but that's
how it is when you're
dealing with scales).

i can't express the joy
(and relief) that hit
me harder than you
hit the brakes, when
you pulled up today;
you were all dolled up,
just enough makeup
to bring out your blues
with the single gold streak
in the left you share with
another, and to accentuate
the soft angles of humble
cheekbones, followed by
black cashmere and jeans
that kept their blue only
by the notes in navy ink
scribbled onto them like
a hundred school children
had used them as paper bits
but forgotten to pass them on.

it was a clear sky cutting
through the trees kind of day,
and we consumed it with all
the relish we could muster
in light of recent events, which
i've always thought is a funny
phrase considering the events
transpiring recently were the
very essence of dark times;
but we chose to navigate
away from such topics, even
though they were all plaguing
our minds -- like
the fact that reality has driven
mercilessly into you like an
industrial-grade nail gun;
your ash, your little light
was stolen away from you,
and even though it's probably
for the best, no one ever said
you had to be ready for that.
or like the nifty new pills
you've been taking to ****
your emotions like bacteria
and let their unicellular corpses
drip away in the shower drain;
better them than crimson from
the canyons carved into you
by the raging rivers of this life.

and even still, you retain such
goodness in you, such wisdom,
but the sandpaper hardships
have worn down your caution
and sometimes it seems like
you're ready to say "**** it"
once again and throw
the whole plank into the fire
to keep the rest of us warm.

writing is my ******* bane.

jeweled paws of inspiration
dangle that carrot to keep me running.

wring out the baby with the gray matter,
spool it like spaghetti, slowly get fatter.

i was under the distinct impression
that this habit was too large a vent

until i left it somewhere in July
between the Yuba and a car ride

and never quite calmed down

it's my solace, my oak-tree,
haven in the hellishness,
clarity to ugliness,
Gilead balm,
panacea.

why
should it
take such tolls--
to push too hard
is to turn a deaf ear

my ear ain't so sharp
and my brunt is still strong

l
  i
    n
g
    e
r
i
  n  
   g

i've never anchored another,
nor been so catapulted
as to sense without sensory
those high-reaching and
boundless realms where
loving you is littler than
thought and twisted
feel into infinitum.

yet my affections cease not to dwindle
you remain my (mis)guiding light
my lighthouse in the heavens,
wrecking me on earth.

i am not nearly a victim
but mourning is appropriate
for futures focused naively.

los vacíos en uñas
como pozos de alquitrán
roban el foco
de dedos delgados
hechos para tocar el piano

codos como el mío,
     como gotas de rocío,
      y como pulpa redonda —
    no conoces la pared ni la espada,
pero esas en hombros herniados.

y las alas, alas
como el día
que aletea
nubes mostazas
a través de un campo

envuelveme
en plumas
así que yo conozca
solaz soleado
siempre

permanece vigilia
encaramado arriba
en tormentas
transformadas y
contenidas dentro de
las cavernas vivas
del espectro.

obdurate, ******,
he fastened twine
tied to tarsals
around my
ventricles,
closed off
the vena cava

i am blue
in the breastbone

empty blood
can't reach
the lungs

but
i am equipped
with the tools
to deal with this

animal instinct
to fight off
infection
or to let it in
and cradle
me every
night at
2
when you
wake to
make sure
you haven't
missed

the tug at your toes
or
the platelets & plasma
or
a warm wavelength --
a chance to record a dream
you lost in rising

i did a funny thing today:
i went right up to my shower
head, you know, one of those
reflective kinds where you can
see your face warping into the
funniest shapes (i didn't laugh),
i went right up to it and watched
as my mouth filled up with warm
water over and over again; and
spilled out over and over again too,
like pools and waterfalls or blood
and drowning (morbidity isn't
really my style, but i went with it),
for an hour, at least.
afterwards, i brushed my teeth
and noticed the hoodlum shadows
underneath my bright blues that
used to be so beloved by my
scatterbrained spanish teacher
and the sweet lady who helped
to surgically extract four pieces
of usurping bone from the corners
of my mouth.

i think one existential crisis is quite
enough for one day, thank you.

******* i forgot to shave.

if a woman were to wile
     and beguile me
it would be she--
she is ebola, burning hot and fast
                 replicating majesty
       without space or energy--
she is spirit in a short circuit
voltage and current--
       she aptly replaces
                 the schematics
copied down in physics.
            a girl of the Ganges--
               distance distracts
          and remembers little
       yet often still i pray to
    insulate her sparks, to
absorb each ionic mote
  of excess she discharges,
     wrap them in neutrino ribbons
        and save them under my vest
          for the birthdays still to come.

gentle, like the
                         dips, and
                                         grooves,
and soft protrusions of a skeleton,
but more alive, like muscle tissue
over my skull; woolen proteins
fortifying my ears against chill,
keeping my hair stretched taut
against my scalp and finishing
with a flourish of purled texture
cascading abruptly to my neck.

i liked it because it matched
       the lining of my jacket,
       it tied my reds together,

i liked it because it made me
      stick out like a sore thumb
      looking to catch a ride to
      San Francisco or detention,

i liked it because it caught me up
      in the eight legs of disapproval,
      (even though they respected me
      in the utmost, they still tripped
      me something fierce)

i liked it because it taught me selflessly
      never to wear it again.

red-breasted and sandy curls,
her power lies in her name,
as does the validity of this veil
softened in soaps and silk
in the washroom tucked
away beneath my molars
so as to never say
the unacceptable(all of it)

i started writing this with a lot to say
and now all i can imagine saying (facetoface)
is that i'm so terribly sorry the only way
you chose to deal with your progression
was to progressively think for yourself
the more others thought for you,
and good tidings on rivertides
will be the last things to draw
you back in discovery of them
and how they have figured out you fill the quota to the brim
on your own,
without fail

i killed a spider
a few hours ago.
its body is still on
the wall next to where
i sleep.

all day was dark,
lying in bed
like a corpse.
gastroenteritis;
the stomach flu.

revival and rounds,
the kitchen, saltines.
"those items that are
no longer useful must
be exhumed."

refrigerator grave
cannot help but
remind me of my
sickness and how
you could have rephrased.

sometimes i wish
i could understand
you better than i do.
but then i realize it's
what makes our relationship.

your body is orange plastic,
the shade of wilted jack-o-lanterns,
l'ame is a disposable razor,
and your hair is my hair, severed,
i cannot place the bishop
on the opposing diagonal any more
than place you in or out of an awful dream:
each time you touch me, callous caress,
is a slit to pruned fingers,
the nightmare in water
sluicing through soggy skin
to balloon in my palms
clown's animals,
wrapped in drowning matter,
and burst.

i sometimes wish upon whatever **** rock'll listen
that my voice could stay the swells,
but most days i swell myself,
and stay to sing you storms,
precipitation is my forte
but you could always smell
the rain on its way.

i found a
foreign film
to pass time
this time.
it was french,
and about ***.
shocker.
wait, no, i'm trying
to stop doing that.

i always do that.

because young men are never good to their bodies.

i can see where we stood,
slanted tin sheets on the second story,
commercial street lit up with excitement
brought about only by the prospect
of another friday night.
the moon wasn't out then,
but if you laid back just right,
the metal and the cold and the stars
made it better than the moon,
and that's what i would call it
if anyone ever asked.

(now) i can see where we stand,
like marble giants skipping disci,
or stones by the lakeside,
where august on the shore
can't throw enough
to change the season,
and as much as i'd like to blame the kid,
it's not his fault summer isn't here yet.

and there's some weird comfort
in being around you;
maybe it's the crazy talking,
or whatever was in that bottle,
or maybe it's because you smoke
the same cigarettes as i do,
or because you ditch money
faster than the interest rates.

*******, it's empathy.

you've been sad like i've been sad,
and that's what it boils down to.

take one

gotta make sure the lighting is just right
that silken glow perfect for when the other
first graders take off your dress for you
because dress-up is one thing, but this, another

take two

adjust the camera angle, you wouldn't want
to show your tummy. **** that gut, boy!
no streetwear allowed in the public pool;
you can't keep your hoodie on forever

take three

i cast coal and cherry juice over myself because i'm scared
scared to show it all for what it is on camera but the truth is,
i was clueless, she was strong, and what's the harm in a little
******* when she'll bruise and asphyxiate you otherwise

take four

i knew this time, but i liked that way her teeth raked over
my bottom lip, it satisfied that near-catholic compulsion
i had to atone, to hurt myself to better myself, it was sweet
the sweetest bloodwine my adolescent pre-**** self would ever have

take five

my god i deserved you. we deserved each other. until, of course,
the stones you used to give me -- agate, citrine -- landed on my
dusted cheekbones, in the middle of love, sometimes because your nose was stuffy and you felt you couldn't breathe and it was cathartic to take out your frustration on objects (hello, hi, i am not one)

take six

and the truth is, i'm too tired to write a take six, and i've long abandoned this metaphor, and take six will be a poem of its own, in ways, take six is my teenage finale, my rite of passage, my understanding of myself as a vessel of men's aggression
and far too few sunsets have passed for me to write it, anyways, and far too few footsteps over the land below the car where i was *****, and far too little writing on how this has affected me, my psyche, my masculinity, any sense or semblance of self outside of victim, and ******* i'm not ready i'm just not ready so don't push me with this take six, business, alright?

CUT

when i spit the CO2
from me, gasping
rabid and rampantly,
i at least (at last)
will know how
to reconcile myself
with its parting

i'm sure you've
already noticed
the lonely little
mole right above
your lip on the
left, or right
for you, i guess;
i just wanted to say
that i like it.

of all the people
in all the towns,
in all the countries
in the world, and
you are the one
to steal away
my focus --
this time i wish
sam wouldn't
play the ****
song.

another olive-skinned,
i should have known --
they always inspire
me to paint myself,
cover the pale canvas
of identity with colors
of character and depth;
but always someone
else's character, or
depth.

we danced
before, but stopped
when ridiculed and
classically reprimanded
by an old drunk --
(we used to forget
at his house, now
all i can do is reflect)

smoke signals
aren't your
strength,
regardless
of (or not)
how many
death sticks
and musky,
evanescent
incense scents
you insist on
letting burn.

we kissed before,
more for silly displays
or efficiency than
anything else; but
why am i so ******,
or toasted, or fried,
to think that maybe
it would happen a
second time?

my grace is cherubic,
seraphic, angelic,
she is a temple built
upon skepticism.

my boy wears a sloth-suit
and is swept away by even
the weakest rapids after
dipping only his pinky toe.

my grace is a hefty FAFSA award,
and she is report card dinners,
a new-blue honda, a heartbreak,
she is coming home to  do laundry.

my boy is a defect, anomalous,
he cannot bide his time and so
rushes. i chase him to the city
limits and hope he'll get it right.

my grace is building strength,
compartmentalizing, sequencing,
she is careening into career
and coping/moping with loss.

my boy is behind, he's lazy.
he shirks, avoids, evades,
any escape, any port, no storm,
he has to bring something else,

he only sits with us when he
wants something. he spends
time with us when it serves
his agenda, his procrastination,

he likes men; he's abnormal,
he has to bring something
extra to the table or else
it will reflect badly on me.

i never went to college.
i rarely did my homework,
so my daughter, son, my wife,
they bear the brunt of my avoidance.

my grace breaks down while
student-teaching. i love her.
my boy aces econ test after
physics quiz. i tolerate him.

the way my mind
interprets you makes
me want to, just for
the way you tell your
stories, or crack jokes.

you keep creeping into
the synapses firing like
an execution squadron
all around my brain, and
i can't shake these musings.

(a) maybe i want to prove
something to myself,
(if you find out what, let
me know) or (b) myself
to something, or not.

or maybe (c)
i'm just sad and alone,
and maybe i wish you'(d)
read this, and mayb(e) i
know you will.

trick question, option (f),
maybe i just want to know
what it would be like to
wake you from existence
with the slap to the face
or bucket of glacial water
my lips have always
been.

around my seventh year
of forked lightning,
i remember a storm,
an opening of cumulus
floodgates
                    extending
longer than my forearm.
the drowning levels rose,
bloomed,
                 and our pond out back spilled over,
     like so much noble grey from china pots,
        by the long barn, below naranjo peak,
                  with its namesake
a luminary of psychedelic
psychiatry and the gestalt,
                                               i played myself
to exhaustion in a marsh of gods and survival
the meadow pulsed;
no grass in zephyr-dance,
or ambient movement,
but for the desperate
flopping of fish,
silver on silver,
ruthless flood
displacement,
refugees in hostile land.
each moment i stayed staring
i lost another fish, i knew,
and the rain was thinning
and i was six, and a gallon
bucket was just the right size,
and for that afternoon, i grew
scales, and gills, fins,
                                     i couldn't
let them die, or keep suffering,
i scooped them up, bucket filled
up to my small arms' capacity,
and returned them to the pond,
making sure the transition
was comfortable for them.
i only remember now that
the others began eating
their dead once they could
swim and dart past one
another.
               i sloshed and splashed
all day to save my kindred fish
from a dry slaughter, en masse,
only to find them flowing out
once more when the rain picked up
from its reprieve

-
if i wrote a poem for every time
i felt like checking out indefinitely
i'd have six collections published
and the means to build myself
a cabin in a river valley,
tucked away between
two peaks of the andes
that are as lonely
as the singing/screaming
dual facets of the inner mind.
-
and ironically, i'd use the space
to fill the necessity i ran from
anyways, but --
-