5 years or more it's been
and life has been a haze
time both relative and irrelevant.
I'm sure it no longer matters
but somehow, it is still the vantage point
from which I have to live.
There is no direction,
no upward, onward,
only away.
Ever away.

my ear is ringing
the road is singing
the light is filtering in
the cat is curled
and words unfurled
and silent in the din.

I sit in corners
eyes flashing
up and around, looking
for a face
to alight on
and suddenly there are many
too many
and they all alight
on me

                                                      eggs, eggs for
                                                         breakfast
                                                   penises for lunch
                                                 crafts in December--
                                   I think I may know
                                   what hides in
                                   the wrapping
                                   under silver bow--
                                                I think I have a hunch.

Two years
and she was gone.
We're still going.
Clapping my hands
I tried for months at a time
to catch the air she left behind.
She left us with
her scraps, her scrawl
jagged, stabbing upward
I still run my fingers over their shards
and spires
wishing I could
bleed.

Door handle
     spin.
paint splashes onward, marching to oblivion
or false understanding
     and tweets are crawling
          nestling in elbows
                 making hinges creak
           and the net can't stop the rust
                  of its human counterpart
                                   mind.

I lost my voice
when I forgot
the secret of the craft.
What secret, love, is that?
The written word
not born of mouth,
no mother, none at all,
not even you
Not I?
It’s true,
Yet, can’t escape the draw;
composing with my maw—
So choking on the weight
of all that I have written;
hands are bound behind me
with all that I’ve forgot—
Oh, words that I’ve forgot!
*(It’s only writer’s block.)

The precipice
The fall, un-fell...
                      To cliffs, successful cling.
                       I see the sea,
                       its foaming maw,
                       wide open, just for me.

                       To step or not to step,
but there cannot be a question.*
                       Face is pale and rope is frail,
                       "REPEL!" The crowd does jeer.
                       But I can't expel the fear;

                       For if I succeed--cling till I die--
                       or tie my noose right here,
                       the end result is clear.

                       Must cliffs be so sheer?

hole, hollow, cup
chest, breast, *****
drain, stain, empty
void, jagged, ragged.
Filled, still, treading
thick, dense, dreading
foreign, matter, matters?
broken, blood, letting.

             The world is ripe with words
                         void of understanding.

share all feelings i can’t say
through gritted, numbing teeth.
call my bluff
pull my words
out of my throat
until your hands are tough
calloused with my
eventual, sober
regret.