they packed a patchy satchel
with enough snacks
to feed a child army
of two,
trekked though
green-blue forest
spackled with firefly flecks
and second hand moss.

came to a resting spot
on the shores of Mirror Lake
the one place
picnic tables were not

and they ate

in the jagged reflection
of solemn pine trees
he mumbled 12 years of secrets
through a confession booth
of nougat
spat out the seeds
winced at black jelly beans
and she
rested on his knobby knees
sighing with the breeze
face upturned to catch
downward droplets of moonbeam

he was a half-formed pinecone
dangling in the quiet dark
she was some kind of meadow lark
whistling the dawn

no one forgot love after that
no one could remember
what lonely tasted like
anymore.

this is my impossibility:

that I may still smell you
from the crevice of my curve
while the moon laughs at my folly
     that I may still catch your laugh
     through cracks in the pavement

         this is the love of a patient
         who knows not his disease
         only the teething

this
is the difficulty
of breathing alone.

I’ve spent thousands of
smiling hours
cupping the soft pit
of intellect in my hands
preening with its glow,
casting the shadow of lecture
on my greedy eyes.

when my feet sank
beneath her earthly soil
weeks slipped quiet
(like notes shaken from leather spines)
with no discussion of Plato.

the hardened sphere was
drained of all prestige
footnote and reference.

sometimes, before sleep,
I sharpen my doubts
and carve it out.

it sleeps by me,
a guilty golden mistress.
I am afraid
she will hear the warmth
through my phone.

This is the 21st century.
you can have everything you want
if you work hard enough

you can have Christmas lights
in february
an indie girlfriend,
folk music,
and ***** clutter
in an urban apartment.

you can have cookies
whenever you want

but still,
you’ll want to blow up parking garages
sometimes.

Tonight, we will sink

take 8 deep breaths
place a hand on your head
pray that you never know pain

I hope
(for your sake)
there is never a locomotive
in your pristine living room
or bloodstains on your flawless carpet

I hope
your mirrors never shatter
                  into a thousand
downward kamikazes
glinting with deadly glory

I hope these things
because I know
the dark side of stage-curtains

I have seen the wizard.

and if you can keep up the myth
of bleached-out living
    then maybe someone
             can finally rest in peace

halfway home from
that concrete-bowl arena
teeming (heaving) with
stinky-sweat-soaked rednecks
layered in sawdust and grease

      a messy blackface mob
      spreading spit tobacco
      over their naked bones,
      they sneak around
      through the drafty back hallways
      casually scattering
      dad’s old shotgun shells
      fresh cigarette ash
      mamma’s whiskey labels
      and let-this-be-broken pregnancy tests.

      rusty dogtags clink together
      sliding between camouflaged denim
      mocking quick African rhythms

      circular saws scream over
      the echoing footfalls of
      steel-toed boots padded with
      suspicious glances

and my lonely power lines
are laying lazy across the
sweet, forgiven sky

honeysuckle weep
as they hug the barbed-wire  

the sunset smells something like grace