his hands are gripped tightly around the mallet
ripped koozie foam under his white fingernails

crack-hiss
crack-hiss

he is pounding flat the knots in the tree
until his tender grain sighs bitter bubbles

crack-hiss
crack-hiss

*grow straight, **** it. stand tall.

(a rondeau)*

when it was new, this farm shone
with the tractor’s polished chrome
the barn’s crisp trim
the silo’s glinting rim
and the field’s glowing loam

it became a place for weeds to comb
through rotting cars as if sown;
these rusting crops never creased his skin
when it was new

now, the gate creaks with his bones
the fence posts lean and groan
with his warped, hobbling limb
familiarity cannot sate him
he never felt as alone
when it was new

' 1. I read the online account of a man who, after fifteen years of hitting gascid – nitrous oxide and acid in tandem – developed a B-vitamin deficiency. This may sound rather benign, but it made him begin to lose feeling in his fingertips. The numbness spread up his arms to his core, and he was soon paralyzed. After what he summarized as the better part of a year of ‘psychological horror,’ he emerged from the episode fully functional again, but with one caveat; he had fried his neurons so badly that every single incoming sensation from each nerve in his body was received by his brain as agonizing pain. He has spent the last fourteen years enduring this. He has tried to commit suicide several times, simply to end his constant physical suffering. He is still here today. His will is stronger than I can imagine; I was afraid while reading his story.

2. The guy who said ‘all women want in a man is confidence’ wasn’t ugly or poor.

3. Once, I chugged enough coffee and energy drinks on a long-empty stomach to experience a moderate overdose, to the tune of something between five hundred and seven hundred milligrams of caffeine. This may sound rather benign, but as I laid on the floor of my high school’s bathroom, convulsing, I had, up ‘til that point, never lived through a more unappealing chemical episode. The nausea was all-consuming. At two thousand milligrams, I would die outright. At the level I had ingested, my heart beat three times every second for five and a half hours. During the peak hours, I could have sworn I hit a steady two hundred-plus beats-per-minute. I hammered out a several-page text to my father with the same haste, cataloging my plight. My heart probably aged fourteen years, enduring that.

4. There was a time in my life when I stopped looking into mirrors. It took me seven years to develop a coping mechanism. Ten years after that, I found myself spending minutes with eyes locked in the mirror, examining that foreign face. Some call it confidence. That behavior scares me more than anything else in my life.

5. I stopped looking at your familiar face a couple years ago. I was afraid of your gaze begetting your touch, and those lightning bolts of pain shooting from each of your fingertips, through the front of my torso into my spine. I am afraid to tell you that you’re hardly on my mind as much as myself these days. I am not confident that I could tell you this, were I given the chance. My heart is facing its midlife crisis now, and I am still figuring out how to treat you like an adult would.

My family eats dinner underwater.
We bounce between the seats of our chairs
and the bottom of the table,
we pass the stuffing
as it floats off the plate,
and no one seems to blink.
My parents just talk about how safe
it is, here,
below the surface.
No gay fiances
or athiests
or postmodernists
or liberal Christians.
I am the only one with an oxygen tank.
“I have never owned a tent that kept the rain out.”

My family camps with gear from the 80s.
We cook in bare aluminum
and eat with volatile plastics,
a crusty dining cloth pinned
to the warped picnic bench.
My feet and head push
through the tent wall
and into the rain fly.
I always wake up wet.
“I have never owned a bed that was long enough.”

In house 1 and 2,
my feet hang off the end
of the bed, circulation halted
at the ankles
by the wooden frame.
In dorm 1 and 2,
I lie diagonally on the bed,
my shoulder hitting the wall.
In dorm 3,
My feet are pressed
flat against the wardrobe.
I fall asleep not knowing
who I wake up for.
“I have never loved anyone I didn't have to.”

at first
youre okay with it.
push off, men;
the grog swigs sweet.
swimming, seasick
sloshing from can
to canteen
                you should have stayed on shore
                not left it.

she saw your slurring
through white-tailed eyes.
her top popped off
with the crack and rush
you know.
you gulped it down.
our only resistance
residue from cans
coming in drops
                we
                should
                n­ot
                have
                done
                that­
leaving in puddles
soaking your socks
                you should have peeled off the wet
                not stand in it.

she saw your recanting
through chopped-onion eyes.
her thoughts popped off
with the snap and blush
you wish you didnt know
you swallowed a howl.
her only insistence
how could you
                you should have stopped her.

at last
youre only okay with it.
*******, man;
the sounds sting, screech.
fiending, seasoned
coughing up mistakes
and headaches
you should have eaten lunch
not imbibed it.

your laughter is interrupted
and the punch line crumbles onto your lap.

as you answer your phone
          the chair hardens
                    svelte
                    to skeletal.
          every corner in your bones
          grinds
          against every edge of wood.

as the earpiece exhales
          the grey seeps in from the dusty dome
          and a wheeze of cloudy cold
          floats, foggy, over the sill
          and freezes firm your loose lips
          before a smile can stretch them.

you rise
          and the door evaporates
          at your touch
                    a droplet
                    to your violent,
                    expanding
                    gasps.­
          the croaking in your ear
                    feeble
                    but ‘fine’
          traps your tongue
          under stacks of pennies.
          your heart
                    singular
                    sympatheti­c
          beats fast enough for two
          bodies.

you stand on frail, fractured leaves
          and try to cram crutches
          and buttresses
          through a receiver,
          but your fumbling fingers
          won’t speak.
          your neck buckles
          and bends
          under the heavy phone
          call.

back inside
teetering on your bony seat
you try to sit on your hands
          scoops of your scattered words
                    ‘my leaving
                    was the healthiest thing
                    that has ever happened to her–’
          foreign and
          hollow.

a blushing van rolls to a stop.
he steps out onto the school parking lot
walks around the embarrassed bumpers
            clad in duct tape and inaccurate repaintings
brazenly
so sure he has it all.
she slides off the hood of a manicured foreign tank
hulking and onyx.

they embrace
too long
something is up
he is wary.
arms at her sides
she reaches for his lips
he does not look down
            he is wary
she leads him to the grass
his suspicion turns the green from vibrant
to synthetic
            he is wary.
they sit
across from each other
no table to negotiate over.
she is sure of the future
unsure of the way through the present
searching for words.
he prods
she speaks
she reaches for his hands
he tries to sit back on them
she catches his fingertips
            he knows.
sitting
she leaves him.
sitting
he calmly waves goodbye
and heads in another direction.
still on the grass
he
so it goes, eh?
she
hah, vonnegut.

days
weeks
months
years
jubilantly lilt by.
he is becoming a whole
looking to pair up
instead of a half
scrabbling for completion.
she takes trips
draining coffers on other continents.
in between vacations
another party
another one-word encounter
become but tallies
on a scoreboard no one reads
until
she finds him squeezed onto a full couch
tripping.
she slurs
pre-*****
hurt and frustration.
he looks at her
            he is weary.
            he was free.
            in this moment
            he is trapped
            on loop.
she stuck a fork in him
chest bleeding
it was not enough.
she honed his lust
against his pride
until
the fork
hummed a tune
only for her.
the vibrations cease
            he stops singing.
            he is hoarse.
it is over
this is overdue
he
finished with belting out
softly speaks.
she
            you just don’t say that
he
            why not?

On my way to the attic,
each step creaks
protesting.
            I’ve worn this path smooth.
I reach the landing
and turn.
You sit there
on top of a stack of boxes
            easy-access
composed, legs swinging
insouciantly
I brush off the light
layer of dust,
open you up to the dark room
and take out a golden trophy.
After reminiscing, I return it.
You put your clothes back on;
I fold you shut and walk away.
You don’t bother taping your seams
you never did.

What we do isn’t pretty.
We aren’t two starlings
in our own murmuration;
we are a ****** of crows.
Our dance is getting away with felonies.
            Take it from a jail bird
                        a trophy is no occupation.
You watched as I was polished and shelved,
captive after a year
of looking for a champion.
She had me cast
at the start of that long year
well before she clinched her title.
I was touted around, then passed on.
She never dusts me off, dear.
That is why I smudge your sheen
I have no shimmer left myself.
That is why you stay
you seek the heft
of my cast-iron company,
the weight we have borne
six years without touch
sixty ****** crime dramas
six hundred batches of half-baked cookies
six thousand nights in.
You are my memorabilia.
I just don’t want your dust to settle as mine has.
I want you to dance, gilded, on the sky.

On my way to the basement,
each step squeaks
inviting.
            I’ve worn this path smooth.
I reach the foot.
Brothers greet, glasses clink,
plumes build, couches sink.
The ceiling dances with golden trophies
all with your composure
gleaming
legs swinging.

poets often write about running
     carefree
     through prairies
as if it is romantic.

they don’t know the itch
     the ***** of thick grass
     the **** of goldenrod
     the sting of thistle.
they haven’t hoisted one moist rubber-clad leg
     waist-high
over the other
again and
again and
again
waterproof yet sweating
     just to move ten feet.
they haven’t picked seeds from sticky skin
as the fields give way to marsh
     grass to cattails
     reeds to rushes.
they haven’t bobbed
and balanced
     up and
     down and
     up
on floating mats
of dead, sewn stalks
     walking on water
     a minefield of bog slime.

i haven’t stopped watching my steps
since i got that job
and i think i’m due for a misstep.
i’m looking to stop scratching
to stop picking
to stop bobbing.
i’m looking for a darling weak spot
     strong enough to swallow me
in this swamp.
i would bushwhack to her
     through the pricking
     the prodding
     and the stinging
put the wrong foot forward
plunge through the mat
and let her pour over the tops of my waders
and sink me
     deeper and
     deeper and
too deep.
i would drown in her.

he leans in towards you
you wonder
            is the chair creaking
            or is he?
he peers into your mind
you wonder
            is he looking for his
            or has he forgotten to?
“Ah. She got to you, too.”
he leans back
something creaks.
you
            pausing
let him explain
“The woman”
            she laid him down
brought a slender brush to his eye
and painted his pupils
            blacker than forgetting
“She got me, too.
Look,”
lean
creak
peer
it has been years since he has seen the eye doctor
you thought he was over that story
but you lean into his confusion
            again.
you swear
            you can see
                        between the cataracts
                        through the glaze
            the neurons shorting out
                        one by one
                        little stars dying
                        swallowed by the black dots of paint.
a fist rises in your throat
scrabbling to choke the painter
to blot her eyes
black as catharsis
but instead
it chokes you
he nods
affirmed
you sit
stifled
both scatterbrained.

constantly wavering
staggering back and forth
pure grey wisps
lilting over liver spots
on a glinting crown.
after days spent vegetating
sedro woolley has let him go
under family escort.

the first seed
he ever sifted through his fingers
has led him here.
every acre planted
every berry blossomed
every cow cured
every milk pail filled.

now
he
constantly wavering
in the breeze
pure grey wisps
lilting over ferns and moss
under great cedars.
the first seeds
he ever sifted through his fingers
led us here.
he has grown acres of us.
now we stand tall against the wind
as he sifts through our fingers.

(trioletish)*

she is lithe and serene
as the staid air melts, frantic.
as she befriends a sable fiend
she is lithe and opaline.
for completion, they convene
and together study the bleak, pedantic.
she is lithe and agleam
as the staid air melts, prismatic.