you,
breaking open hollow fragments
of the truths I trusted you with.
I can hear the plinking
of broken glass and promises,
pattering as if the rain
has become some sort of
fractured heartbeat.
they are small,
but they crack me upon impact
and you laugh when each echo
shatters my insides.

how can you not see
that I am trying to hide my face
for a *reason?
I do not want to admit that these
are tears,
and I do not want to pretend
that they aren't.
I just want you to notice,
to stop destroying everything
I gave to you
just long enough for me to breathe.
I need to breathe.

I need air, even if I don't want it.

I don't know when
it got this bad.
Or why I ever let it.
It came without asking.
But I am really worried.
I don't know what to do anymore.
Today I wondered what it
would be like if I just lost
my fingers.
Relief, probably.


I bit down on my fingers
the whole drive home,
and wouldn't let them free.
I don't trust them.

You are my
favorite,

the first

I could pick out,

among far off lights
in chaos.

You shone to me
in Strawn, Texas
when I was a child
with my grandfather
on his deer lease.

You were the last
I saw before bed,

You were still there
when we woke
in the early morning.

You are a hunter too,
your bow pointed forth,
and sword
hung low,
like the gods
used the stars
to sketch something
inappropriate,
like the sky was their science
journal from
middle school.

You followed me
like the bear.

I saw you
on Fall nights
in college,
on my back
in my backyard
with burnt ash
on my T-shirt,
through an
unfocused
tequila telescope.

But now, in this city,
I don't see you
as often, or maybe
I've seen you the wrong
way all along.

Maybe like we see the world
from the floor down,
we see you hunting the bear
when in mirrored reality, you run
from the beast

and I can't blame you
because we all
do,

or maybe
you're not even there
anymore,
we just don't know it
yet, because as fast as things
change, like
youth,
seasons,
perceptions,

Maybe you've burnt out,

Maybe the bear caught you
swallowed you whole
into his black-

stomach.

Maybe I should
start running
so he doesn't
catch me too.

last Easter I wrote a poem for you
with rhyming words and beautifully constructed stanzas
about the way your hair looks and the way I wanted you and the way things were changing but -
April came back around all too fast this year and I don't write poems like I used to.
this isn't poetry.
this is October nights with glazed eyes,  burning throats and so much trauma, so much trauma, so much ******* trau-
this is November afternoons smoking my lungs black and tears that i drowned in for every day of that month.
this is December mornings when I spent all my money on Christmas decorations because I thought it would be my last.
this is New Years Eve, clutching her back and sobbing into her shoulders because I couldn't believe I made it - how the hell did I make it?  this is me thanking her, and her, and her too for stitching me back together. this is champagne and the grace of God.
this is February when you came back to me  and as much as i wanted to throw dirt back in your face, I held onto it in hopes of planting something new.
this is March when it wouldn't stop snowing.
this isn't poetry.
this is April,
this is me taking the dirt and burying the idea of us six feet under.
this isn't poetry,
this is Spring and this is the last time you will be mentioned with it.

Traditionally
Haikus examine nature
and it's mysteries.

I will bring you concord grapes,  
for you like the color of them, and I the way
your cheeks move when your mouth
is full of them  

I will cut the meat for you,
in thin slices, as razor narrow as the knife
will allow

the nurses tell me
to let you feed yourself
to gain your strength
back

but we, just you and I,
know your arms will become more flaccid
with each passing night, and no amount
of measured movement, will make
that right

I will make the soft cloth wet, warm  
and caress the dirt away, for they scrub you
like palette or canvas, painted all wrong

I will brush your hair,
a hundred strokes each eve,  
as you did, before your amber waves
turned wistful white, and your limbs
went limp

I will read you stories
of children at play, lads and lasses
who never grow gray

I will bring apples
for your wooden bowl  
but we don't dare slice them
for they are there for us to watch
to help us remember red, round things,
beginnings, in a world before this room
of endless ending

Girls just want to have fun
And I'm the hopeless romantic
I wanna dance with somebody who loves me
Sure, she's a
Maneater
And she's still
Holding out for a hero
I don't care
Sweet dreams are made of this
I won't hold back now
I'm so excited
I release the epic
Eye of the tiger
I'll make you scream and
Jump for my love
This truly is
The final countdown
I'll make sure you
Give it up
Just promise me that you'll
Wake me up before you go-go.
Because baby,
Our 80's playlists will have such beautiful children.

You know poetry is your life
when you initially wake
and you're already in a conditioned mind state
reciting lines in your head

You know poetry is your life
when you go to bed
and rhymes are drifting you
away into a sleeping state

You know poetry is your life
when you are driving along
and you suddenly pull over
just to scribble down some narrative thoughts

You know poetry is your life
when you are at work
and you refrain from doing your job
just so you can jot down some formal expression

You know poetry is your life
when you are reading the mail
and even names and numbers
inspire a distinctive phrase

You know poetry is your life
when thy words of choice
become rapid fluency
and part of the Shakespearean language

You know poetry is your life
when random collections seamlessly take over
and are scattered everywhere
from journals, to loose papers, hard drives, & accumulating memory

You know poetry is your life
when you begin to realize
and everyday you must traditionally release
the spoken word writes to its divine legacy

You know poetry is your life
when you are typing away
and all of a sudden,
you lose your precious work
yet you can still retrieve the files
from one's own mental database

Poetry is your life
Life is your poetry
Whether you live a good one
Whether you live a bad one
Poetry is real
Poetry is fake
What is it really?
What is it not?

Poetry is your life
A therapeutical salvation
Cycle through the emotional manifestation
Peddle away from the soul's padlock
A spiraling staircase that leads you to freedom
The universal process of exhibiting experience
It's a divine intervention
Revelations of truth and discovery
Creating artful expression of one's existence
You know poetry is your life