first light is cavernous,
ochre vivification for
the ruffled goose-down
sage squares

'neath which i seek
refuge in feign dreams,
pores peeled, wakeful,
like a deep-roving shark,

sedate half the brain
and keep vigil, open
every thirty minutes

to secure myself --
perpendicular,
swaddled,
taut.

there are fundamental rituals
with which we are inculcated
in the households of our heralds,  
our inheritance -- idiosyncrasies.

"the day begins when the bed is made."

i devoted nine nights
to avoiding nuestro cama.
i spent six siestas
preferring the loch ness futon

and three on the threshold
to the bathroom
because i couldn't always
bring myself back to face it.

now, just like mother says,
i make the bed upon first light
and la cama rests in a tight corner
on a frame piled high with pillows

like i'm filling up space

i keep my books cushioned
and my homework has become
a permanent fixture, sprawling,
embedded

i've remade my queen's cot
207 times in the last
18 days and regardless,
can't say i've started my day.

like when we told
ourselves we'd be
there for each other;
i'll clean up your
splattered brains
if you take out the
trash and do
the dishes.
wine-stained eyes
and sweaters wet
from the rain outside--
flecks of possibilities hitting
the tin panels or shingles,
                            or glass.
but
pages don't turn themselves,
and kindling isn't suicidal
or into pyrophilia.
planets don't just
           fall
into line like soldiers
or silly wire hangers,
it takes time.
and i'm scared,
       (terrified)
that in my
waking hours
mortal minutes
squandered seconds
and so forth,
i'll miss it.

yeah i'm angsty,
angst-ridden,
angst-infested,
angst-infected,
weren't you
(i leave the question marks off rhetoricals because it's only honest)
no no no no no more metaphor. i'm crashing headlong into this one:
i am a person. i write. i am a writer-person or maybe just a too-clever-person.
my parents are in debt, and my parents' parents went back to work at eighty.
my friends' parents are debtless and their parents' parents never stopped working.
there may only be a year of water left in California, but i need water, i run hot and my skin is uneven from cracking.
i'm tired from only resting one eye when i lie in bed, i sleep a solid eight hours each night. (just how sturdy is time)?

a
little more
than 160 proof,
little less than
you.

-
an old friend
came back to town
only to hit a patch of sand
and be forced to meet the curb
again, whereupon i learned
the value of almost being shot
in the back for the first time
in my life, and by the
end, i hope i'll know
how to take a bullet
to the chest
-

morning: 2,
future: 0,
reasons
to smoke
cigarettes:
just one.

i wrote you
letters last January
so many, i
had to pull the sterling rings
you gave me
from my cramping fingers
just to keep
putting bone against black
and ease you
out of me gently

*** was never as good
with the dishes done
or the laundry folded
and we never
held time
for chores
once we
were finished

remember to never let a ****** change you
without permission

iwillnotindulgeinbreakuppoetry
*nomatterhowgooditfeels