In the forest near the
river, along the sides
of the bushes
towards the vastness
of nothing,
we walked on a
trail that marched
deep in to the tall grass
our feet were sore and
colored with earth mud
there was a wave of salt.
The ocean was nearby
we ran the rest of
the way
the tall grass split open
and in front of us was
a crippled house we could
hear it,  standing
on the hilltop
just before the crescent shore

I wish I
Knew how to
Build relationships out
Of construction paper
Instead of Styrofoam
Cups, something that
I could tape
Together when it’s
Ripped, something I
Could un-wrinkle when
It’s crumpled up
But Instead I
Have These Styrofoam
Cups they seem
Strong and sturdy
I don’t mean to
But when I
Step on them
They snap and
Break, their White
Beads come off
Flake by Flake
They are so
Easily blown Away
By breaths How
Do I Tape
Those flakes back
Together when I
Can’t even manage
To get all
The pieces

I hear you
Through
The gaps
In-between
The splitting oak

Whirlpools of dust
Lift from the steps
You ask me to
Leave
You ask me why
I’m here

I smell you
Deep in the avalanches
Of your mold
They had killed a child
In you
Asking me why I come
Three times now

Cavern of unheard voices
Your cries seep
Into my stomach
Fill it with ash
Enough to roll
A useless cigarette

I felt you
Aching and in pain
Those who touch
Your rust
Pour lemons
On your wounds

I heard laugher
In your wood
The scratches
Of tiny fingernails
And the screams
Of a boy




They told me you
Carried them
Said it wasn’t
Your fault
They have grown
Since the last
Time you saw them

No longer the children
You use to carry.

I’m sorry that I’m not okay enough to give you what you need
There’s a point when trying your best no longer matters unless
You actually succeed and I’m failing you; I’m not well; I wish
I was but all I want to do is feel something for once know how
It feels to grasp something and not let it run through your fingers
Like sand; I’m not dead inside; I’m very much alive, running
Savagely through my darkness away from what’s behind me;
I don’t know what’s behind; it looks like my childhood, like
My parent’s disappointment in me, the lack of everything; the
Problem isn’t because I’m scared. A building is set on fire inside
Me every day and every day I have to find a way to put it out
And save what remains of that building; charred black oak,
Crumbling walls, a roof torn wide open left on its tendons;
Photos outlined by carbon and touched by the flames leaving
Traces of embers and Polaroid ash; negatives were use as fuel
Every time it’s the same building, the same house; the house
That I grew up in; the house that’s still there; Why do I keep
Trying to put it out when I know what I really want
Is to watch that ******* burn;

I saw you a week ago
Your hands in the bread box
Fingers flipping through the slices
Like folders

You pick one
And pinch the barked color crust
You lift it from obscurity
And secured it in-between
Your rose petals

Crumb glazed fingertips
Dirt on your cheeks
You looked around
Made sure it was safe
And then disappear into winter

Coal covered flakes fell from the chimneys
And the snow needed cleaning
Furnaces burned all day like Hanukah oil
Rib cages grew out from their shyness
And your topaz eyes did well
To stand out from the sea of blue and white

If they tell you there are showers here
Don’t believe them
There’s a reason why it smells like skin
On Sundays

Those ******* with their black metal suits
Raising their hands towards the heavenly sky
In front of them
Making gold out of our bones
And lampshades out of our skin

Yesterday, I kissed you in front of the bread box
Felt the grime on your finger tips
And tasted the bread in your breath
I ran my fingers down your brittle
Spinal cord
Climbing and descending mountains
One finger at a time----

We dissolved into the winter

Made angels where no angels could be found
Danced in our skeletal forms

We both had seen death and his attempts
To lure us with hot showers, warm food
And an oversized fire place

He had made this hell on earth
And we chose to decorate it with bread
And angels

We were content with that




But today when you didn’t show up
I went outside

I saw him guiding you into that burning house
With a grin on his face

I ran as fast as my bony legs could
Trampling over the angels we made

And carelessly slipping on our frozen crumbs

All I could do was stare helplessly at the chimneys
Cement and vicious
Piercing in to the sky
Black smoke flooded the clouds like night

Grey and black crumbs rained

And somewhere in the distance
A train had stopped

I’m tired of these poems that talk
About dissolving in to the bed together
About spaceships on the ceiling
And dust on your forearms
I’m tired of these poems-
And tired of the crushing weight-
These poems that talk about love
As if it’s something we can taste
Or touch or smell or melt or dissolve
Or fly or crash or destroy ourselves into
I’m tired of these metaphors
The double entendres
The verses
The prose
The ulterior motive to sleep
With the girl next door

Stop talking about love likes it’s tangible
Like it’s something you can find
In the creases of your sheets
Or the pores on your skin
Like it’s something you can hear
In the tone of his voice
Or the pitch of her laugh

Stop looking outside
Stop telling her she’s an ocean
Stop comparing him to a rain storm
Stop howling your stanzas on rooftops
When they leave you
Stop expecting for the wind to be there
Love does not exist in the air
Or in your heart

Love exists when you learn how to-
When existing becomes the only thing you love
When you stop setting yourself on fire
To keep him warm at night
When you stop letting her freeze you
Just so she can keep you there

Enough of your Nerudas
Your moons
Your suns
Your mountains
Your stars
Your inhabitable forests
Your deserts
Your fires
Your oceans
Your seas
Your lakes
Your rivers
Your Niles
Your Paris
Your talk of good destruction

I have seen them throw their voices in to caves
Desperately wanting to hear an echo

Toss aside your shallow skin and knee deep words
So you can no longer hurt and no longer drown

There is a train filled with the thoughts of kissing the sea
It doesn’t stop at a station but at the toe of a boot
It shrieks its wheels to a halt near the cliffs of the Mediterranean
It gazes upon a violent shore
The waves pillage the roman sands
The flame descends
And with a whistle it collapses on the tracks
Healing its rust
Tasting the zephyrs with its skin
Yearning for the ocean
And then
With a thunder-
It rips its metal against the earth.
Coaling onward in a furnace

Never to leave these tracks
Never to kiss the sea