The white noise burst of a microphone dropped
As the last tear left, befalls
The audience stunned, silence, deafened
By the echoes within those walls.
With heart in hand and hand in heart
One feigns a mourning air
While bleakly scream, do we inside,
"None were ever there".

What's in your bottle, boy?
It's not what it should be.
Who's in your head, boy?
It's not who it could be.

With you it's so easy
to dance in the middle
of an empty road
with a song on repeat

it's simple with you
to lay on the couch
with my hair in your lap
and feel complete.

I am home in the embrace
of a home that misses me
returning from long days
among the cold rejections
of the great, dark outside.

Oh
how it hurts
to trust
so completely.

Steeper hill
and darker valley,
descending to climb
new disaster after another,
ricocheting from high to low
the tunnels whisper you are a fighter
as you’re up for air, grinning with a migraine.

                                    Echoes of the shouts of down
                                           fade as you crest a tidal wave,
                                           and in these weightless moments
                                                        y­ou built a home, a whole life,
                                                           ­   you fell in love over and over
                                                           and carved strength from the iron
                                                             that allowed you down once again.

                                Rational heartbeat of the never-ending
                   keeps your will steel and your eyes hot,
           but when tunnels whisper I see an end  
          it is easier to smile at comforts
      and it is okay to be scared
  on a rickety roller coaster
with an expiration date.

That is the easiest thing to break
something that is hardest to build*

you took your time with your words
since there was little time to say

what you had to, you drew out
each syllable, a razor blade

long and thin like your fingers
soon your sentence would leave

with it everything you wished for
and you will arrive with nothing.

I wish my pen to be a dancer,
graceful, strong and wild.
I wish my words to fill with wonder,
curious as a child.
I wish my tongue to shed its silver,
to slow its warm descent,
and to act against the worst of enemies
whose words I can't prevent.

If the moon
can embrace
the whole
of the sun,

you **** well
can be kind
to the earth.

Today I got to be a hero.
I stood up to that man on the train
Who yelled "go home, you *******"
To the man without blue eyes.

I stood up, and I said with voice strong,
"You will show a little respect!
We are all different colours here,
And if you think you are any better,
You will step off this train now."

And he shot back insults -
Deflected with ease.
The man straightened up,
The man without blue eyes,
And he said, "Sir, the boy is right,
It's time for you to get off."

The people with me on the train stood now
No longer happily ignorant
And the man stepped off in defeat
As the train doors sighed.

I wish this was the case,
But I sat and closed my eyelids tight.
I am no hero
To the man without blue eyes.

I saw
my reflection
in grandfather's
   old whiskey glass

                            when I
                                was not
                                     looking.

After minutes
it's as if
I've known
you forever.

I laughed quietly,
showing my grin through a smile,
looking up at her
as I lay my head in her lap.
Her stomach rose and fell against my ear,
and I felt her voice in my neck and shoulders
whenever she spoke.
It was dark outside
and not much lighter where we were,
a consignment store lamp
illuminating the tired couch
I somehow brought up the ****** tiny stairwell
in the back of the building
I know I can't really afford to live in.

You can just have me
take whatever is left.

They felt
like raindrops

a fall night's cool dark air
gently pushing me backward

the unexpected satin drip
down my cheeks and
the side of my nose

blink

and one
before the other
they burst on my shoes

one, two
three

four

marks on
black leather
as I walk home
in October wind.

Dear man in the moon,

There are awful things on the ground,
and we can't escape the sun.
It's far worse here than when I was found,
but my days with you are done.

I would tell you
                    that time is money,
                              if I had any of either.

                    I do not, and neither do you,
           so please understand,

                              your time
                                        is your life.

Today
but you

I left
will

a rose
never

for you
see it.

It tastes of tired days
and warm, bitter privilege.
Toaster waffles from the freezer,
table syrup from the drug store
down the road from the fire escape.
Blueberries I shouldn't have bought
from a sleepy market near work.
I don't have a toaster
or even a microwave,
but I took my best shot
on the little electric griddle.
It wasn't a very good one,
the shot I took, and the griddle.
The moon would be somewhere
overhead through the smog,
if it weren't for this dull, cracked and beautiful ceiling,
and the floors of blissful ignorance
between me and the sky.
It was very little,
but I could eat,
I could work,
I could live.

There will come dry spells
And you shall miss the smell of rain.
While growing still,
You know you will
Sprout branches that leave you in pain.

There will come cold winds
And your leaves will curl and turn blue.
The soil will be sweet,
But you'll never meet
The words from which you grew.

There will come many axes
And you shall inevitably crash to the ground
But you were watered well
And all your fruits fell
So your seeds may someday be found.

I wish
I didn't
know why
not one of us
is okay anymore.

You know,
for you have slept:
dreaming
takes a long time.

Was
it
really
that
easy
to
leave,

or
are
you
just
as
hurt
as
me?

I was told it would happen
and I dismissed it as imagination

but now I know I was wrong then:
I see you in places you'll never be again.

How strange it is
that I don't write poems
when I'm with you.

I tried to **** myself again
you said into the subway window

clickety-clack* said the train
in December said your reflection

I know I said but I didn't really
I didn't really know anything

you should probably stop
trying that I mean I stammered

I know

I had nothing else to say
you had nothing else to do

we sat in broken silence
until the train found my stop

clickety-clack
it whispered to me.

Your grandfather’s cold cup of coffee.

Breeze on your toes from a hole in the door.

Dust and cobwebs on glass Geisha figurines.

A staircase the creaks twice every second step.

Beads.

Mildew and paper holding hands.

Milk crates with records in them, three.

Sinatra and Woody Guthrie.

Lavender.

Dense wooden chests of cloth, linen frayed.

Threadbare towels.

Woodrose pink.

White duster’s gloves.

Floorboards that whisper epics.

Bookcases that smell of mahogany dreams.

Cardamom.

Brown sugar.

A television older than you and your mother.

Playing cards, missing the six of hearts, neatly labelled.

Another cold cup of coffee.

Lace, white.

Winter sunlight and swirling dust.

China in a locked cupboard.

Skeleton key tied to the handle by a faded ribbon.

Paper, folded, an incomplete crossword in blue pen, lazy scrawl.

An armchair, plaid, brown, yellow, comfortable.

Hand-knitted blanket, stained in the top right corner.

Wine glass.

Sleepy.

Quiet.

You and I
we are better
at being strangers.

Soundless and dainty,
pencil conserves her careful posterity
while paper pines for it
with everything it ensnares.
Paper blushes black
at the slightest seduction
of graphite gratification,
too innocent for ink
and too addicted to artistry
to just be a paper plane.

I'm leaving the city forever
though here, forever, I'll stay
I'm turning blue and me and you
have nowhere new to play.
There are no rivers in the city of blue
and tears do not see colour,
the sky is turning everything dull
and we don't breathe the sea.

On the 1:28 a.m. train
all that have left to ride west
are the night shifts
high on coffee and hope
the lonely rock climbers
with caves under their eyes
and the young lovers
too late to stay out
too early to say goodbye.

Quiet

stretch
headphones in
touch

play

Tom Petty
the heartbreakers
are silent

free
free falling, falling

lights
off, dim
light through
basement
apartment window

too late
to sleep
too early
to wake

and I'm free
falling, falling

touch
pause

headphones
out

get some rest
goodnight Tom.

I see
a flag,
shredded
by much more
than just the wind.

I wish I understood
why I've lost the ability
to fully understand.

You will catch me up on things
I hadn't even caught to begin with
a rain of pieces of puzzles and prose
with gaps wide enough to fit your hand

and partially understand what you would
have been holding, had your hand held it

we will chase trains and hop thoughts
tongues exhausting themselves untiring
lengthy discussions on whether or not
we would find ourselves bored of one another

we never were.

Careful boy,
with love that shows
you're still unsteady
but passion grows
you've been disarmed
and now she knows
you're careful boy,
but that love shows.

A pair of imperfect bodies
is all we outwardly are,
but there is a warmth,
a rich, devoted touch,
an understanding
and a strength
that reassures
both of our
imperfect
hearts
that we
are already
more than we
thought we were.

I like to call you
when I'm not really awake.
I only leave you messages, of course.
For I only let myself call
(I only allow myself
that poisonous release)
when I'm alone on the subway,
which happens very rarely.
So whatever I say gets lost
between forty-three thousand tonnes
of the strongest, sturdiest concrete
and the sky.

There have been

seventy six million
nine hundred forty two thousand
three hundred and fifty one poems

about falling asleep
next to someone you love

that was a lie, of course
but by God is it ever wonderful.

Seventy six million
nine hundred forty two thousand
three hundred and fifty two.

Tell me
is there fog
in Vienna?

Oh you
feel more
like home
than home.

Dear man in the moon,

all I wish for
is that when it ends,
you might tell me
I fought bravely.

The ghost of your hand
held mine as I walked home tonight
I saw you smile on the street twice
but it was just streetlights
through car windows

the humid air tasted like your exhale
and every person I passed
must be using the same
detergent you used

the way home
was sad.

Careful boy,
she'll see inside
your act is thinning
her eyes are wide
you know you're sinning
so save your hide
be careful boy,
she'll see inside.

When I was fifteen years old
I was a pacifist and I knew everything

a boy I knew from school
caught my ear with a right cross

hey ****** he said
it was all he said

it hit me as we were walking
to the baseball diamond half past four

it spun me around
and I recognized him from class

quiet panic froze my feet
facing him in stunned confusion

a ringing bounced through my skull
my chest tightened my eyes wide

I felt another before it fell
as wordlessly he swung his hand again

this time it hit my stomach
my bottom rib to the left

I tried to stop his hands again again
but it never works like the movies

and it hurt
when ringing in my right ear cut out

this I didn't know
I thought I knew everything

it hurt
when he hit my nose

there was immediately blood
on my good blue sweater

it was muffled frenzied silence
I wanted him to say something

say something say anything
tell me why you're hurting me

tears burned in my eyes
but he couldn't see them

maybe he would have stopped
but they were easily missed in the red

on the ground now I covered my face
stop it I finally said please I said

if he heard me
he made no mention of it

and then there was fire in my side
his foot pulled back again

I turned away from the hurting
then fire in my back above my hip

then nothing
footsteps toward my eyes shut tight

another kick and I heard it coming
and I was ready for it to hit my face

but instead a barrage of little rocks
the gravel I lay in now in my hair

then the footsteps left
silent as they arrived

I lay there three or four eternities
aching and still so so confused

I didn't go to baseball
I hid under bleachers in the other field

man up my dad said that evening
as I wept in the passenger seat

I was a pacifist and I knew nothing
and it hurt.

That night we fell asleep
to the sound of soft thunder
and the crash of quiet droplets
on the sheet metal porch

sheets wrapped us up in each other
and blankets held me to you
over the rain I breathed in your hair
over your breathing I held in my heart

you smelled the colour of your toothpaste
your laundry detergent and soap
dissolved me, slipping through my senses
as we stumbled between now and dreams

my arm laced gently through your t-shirt
the grey one you always wore to bed
while your fingers traced a silent code
in the ringlets above my ear

we should grow old together
you spoke with half words through the pillow
let's I mumbled or was certain I'd said
and I'd have smiled if my lips were awake

it's the night I tell you about
every time you ask me to detail
a night I distinctly remember

I don't have the heart to tell you
it's a night I'm beginning to forget

let's I mumbled with a sleepy grin
and you whispered oh, we did.

We used to dream
in my father's old car

a dusty 1974 Camaro
red as a candy apple

we talked about driving to Chicago
with stratocasters in the back seat

but we each escaped the town alone
and the car never left the garage.

Like well-worn denim
we got so comfortable

then were taken by surprise
when we ripped at the seams.