I am held in the scene by strings,
strings caressing, cutting the city's screams,
screams of jubilation and screams of paranoia,
paranoia at the approaching deadline,
deadlines always on our minds,
mind if I stroll through the wall of hate,
hate from your grey eyes,
eyes framed with your bright blonde hair,
hair that once before was described by my pen.

I killed you in a ****-poor short story.
I gave you a symbolic death.
It was a generous offering of peace.

Redemption earned but already forgotten,
forgotten along with those nostalgic rhymes locked,
locked in tightly formed verses of love poetry,
poetry for a tethered future,
future? Even Zion was built on ruins.

I killed your lover, too.
I sent her up in flame.
It was hard to have a habitual evening.

our favorite melodies fall from your ceiling,
sink into your tired spine with the velocity of hot knives,
the miles are malicious,
and your distant relatives are borderline *******.

our only picture of us together is lit
on your laptop screen,
you trace my prematurely aging face,
you miss the energy of the night,
we loved each other to confessional pieces.

we have tripped the trap door,
my amber-eyed love.
we have tripped the trap door,
and we may be falling fiercely,
but the harmony of our joyous screaming
over our pulse's ground rhythm,
is the only sound I ever need.

spilled blood,
spilled milk,
not tears,
no repent,
"boy, get right!"

i will,
i will.

driftwood again,
flimsy tangles,
always on,
halfway gone,
"son, come home."

i will,
i will.

the wisdom weighs,
the sorrow gains,
i walk doomed,
you walk stupid,
"come into the fold."

i won't,
i won't.

salvation sells,
purpose buoys,
love is forever-
what a crock,
going for a long walk.

Per your wishes, I transfigured.
I became the door and everything
that ever walked through.
I became the telephone and all
those voices talking honey inside.
I became the beech, both felled
and otherwise, for the comfort required.
I became the floor and all the music
summoned by teenagers to pass the night.
I became daddy's car keys and the
opportunities afforded in that low-lit suburb.
I became the pale blue eyes reflecting you
back into yourself.
Per your wishes, I transfigured
into all the things you've had but
couldn't keep.

I inhale the rain-refreshed air.
Your eyes are grey,
and aren't willing to tell me.

I ruffle your red hair
as sunbeams bend to moon,
but it's "time to go", you've got "work to do".

The moss covers wall,
the squirrel grows fat,
we have kinks to combat.

The noise--tremendous,
I try to distract,
but you turned tail--straight for rabbit hole.

I lost
you
in the sheets.

No heat,
freeze, freeze, freeze--
the wind's grief.

You crawl, wounded dog,
I leap into night sky,
searchlight in love, in vain.

I am a fading, cynical ****,
that has no room to throw
any advice at anyone.

But just because I don't have room,
doesn't mean I'm not going to give it.

Don't love him completely.
At least don't ever let him see it.
Keep him guessing,
give with restraint,
don't tell him your favorite spots,
let him revel in discovery,
don't trust him,
he'll abuse it,
don't tell him about me,
it will only inspire rolling eyes.

Make him pins and needles,
make him feel frightened,
make him need you,
you deserve to be in control.

Above all love yourself.
That's when you are at your prettiest.

I pulled myself along
the freezing tile,
leaned over the shower,
My teeth went through
the grinder as my brain
was struggling to breathe.

I vomited and vomited.
I had no water to drink.
I had no one beside me.

In the other room they
were laughing,
they were laughing
           they were laughing,
and I had no water to drink.
No one beside me.

I began to quiver,
I began to call out,
but nobody heard me,
I'm so cold, I'm so cold, I'm so cold, I'm so cold, I'm so cold,
             I'm so cold, I'm so cold, I'M SO COLD, i'm so cold, i'msocold.

So,
I pretended I was talking to Mary.
I'm not sure what made me go to her,
I whispered her questions, and answered.

Mary asked what was going on with Lauren.
"We don't talk much.
She's trying to find her freedom.
She was a kindness, and now she looks at me with hate."

Mary asked if I was okay.
"Aside from just throwing up, I'm dandy."

Mary asked if I had another girl in mind.
I laughed detached,

"I drank so someone would take care of me,
and there's no one beside me,
and I'm freezing,
and they're laughing,
and Tyler is so far away,
and this tile is bitter,
and I'm SO COLD!" I roared,
hoping someone would come and aid me
to rest.

My phone lit up to my side,
a message,
Kyri said she is moving on,
that was the fourth woman
to tell me that in the last week.

There was a shift in the movement
in the next room,
I thought they remembered me,
but they were all leaving.

He spat acid,
left you defaced,
******,
misplaced.

I sold lovelessness
to myself, left sweethearts
in sorrow,
in madness,
in a fury to find good arms.

And here we are,
your cold, detached facade
starting to melt,
and I lap it up,
hoping you never
find it again.

You wrap your arms around mine,
as we cross seas of parking lots
in the middle of the night,
and I don't know where the hell
we're going, but it feels so fine.

Your laugh
is the song of angels,
your touch is soothing,
and all your mistakes,
and all the exs,
and all the gods,
led me to you,
whether we bloom and burst,
wilt,
or ride the wind forever,
I'm just thankful to have found you.

"are you feeling anything now?"

"nothing positive.
some guilt with a hint of nostalgia."

we thought we could touch.
touch that would enable us to exhale.
we thought we could touch.
but our touch don't mean all that much.

we thought we could make love.
love that would resurrect our rhyme.
we thought we could make love.
but we only looked perplexed when all we made was ***.

we broke each other up.
played pretend-patch-each-other-up.
now all we are is haunting shrapnel,
stuck in each other's side.

i thought i was going to play the good guy,
i didn't even get a line,
an extra,
mr. passerby #7,
only a glimpse and a goodbye.

we were tense as matchsticks-
                  my love and I,
                  tucked into the beat-up, secondhand sofa,
                  I whispered, "I want to distract you,"
                  and with each slow syllable her desperate grip
                  cut deeper into my thigh.
the sitcoms and the summer friends-
           well, they all tease
           the aching head rushes
                            and
           the itchy fingertips,
           "could I get you something to drink?"
           yesyesyes, 5-parts *****/one part tonic water/a pinch of lime.
the party died down-
    grabbed my hand rushed me to the bedroom,
    struck your body against
    hungry mine, and
                                       we were lit.
what was it Spencer said?
something like:
all fires must burn alive, to live.
it's safe to say,
he was right.

When my mother weeps at my books of poetry,
when my father denies ever having a claim on me --
that's when you'll know I was a black sheep.

The rooms -- grey, filter-feeding off my teetering sanity--
shrivel with my crippled ambition,
I've seen the backrooms, full of aching flesh;
I've seen the bathrooms, full of ***** and proud boys,
I've been the "self-proclaimed ******* of my generation";
I've driven women to the same ***,
but all my memories burn madly --
their lessons
turn to smoke,
kiss my nostrils--
leave me alone just long enough
for a therapeutic winter --
full of wine and an earnest-eyed love.

When my lioness needs to roam,
When my best friends turn runner-up --
that's when you'll tell me, "you've done this to yourself".

The fields -- flattened by snarling winds and preying beasts --
provide a place to lay my head,
I've wailed at the wall;
I've murdered the crying crow,
I've been Delilah'd;
I've driven to the dark corners -- hiding from illuminating eyes --
but time reoccurs like a small town parade --
the old men become cartoons in tiny cars,
the beauty queens never age,
the horses always **** the pavement,
and we ignorantly track in it --
bringing it to the heirloom rugs and beige carpet,
only to spend the rest of our lives cleaning.

The berries are poison berries, the boy said.

What kind of poison?

Bad kind.

How do you know?

Mom told me.

Dare me to eat one?

Yup.

It don't taste like poison.

What does poison taste like?

Worse than this.

I want some.

How poisonous is it?

Mom says it'll **** you.

Then why'd you eat one.

I want to go to heaven.

I thought they were a little poison, like make you **** funny poison.

I figure if I want to make it to heaven this is the only way.

I can't believe this. You didn't say anything—

Bible says all children go to heaven because they is innocent.

I'm going to throw up. You just put your finger on your tongue, right?

Further back. To the tonsil thingy.

It's not coming. I can't. I can't. This—I didn't feed the dogs.

Don't worry about the dogs. We're going to heaven.

Bible doesn't say that.

Preacher does.

Well.

Preacher said it's impossible for a rich man to go to heaven, pretty tough for a fat man—on account of the way being so narrow—and just plain hard for everyone else. The only one guaranteed is kids.

I haven't even kissed a girl.

You're not missing much.

I've only kissed Mom.

Yeah. She kisses okay.

What if the kids aren't innocent?

Kids are always innocent.

I feel funny.

Me too.

But what about kids that do bad stuff?

Like?

You know, fighting and cussing and stuff.

They don't know better. Free ticket to heaven.

Huh.

My tummy is making put-titter-put noises.

What if a kid slayed another kid? You know thou shalt not slay.

I didn't slay you.

I'm just asking.

I wouldn't slay.

You didn't tell me these berries would **** me. Seems the same as slaying me.

Throw up.

I tried.

Let me help you. I ain't losing my free ride.

Geez. You're hurting me.

Throw up.

I can't.

I'm going to punch you.

Don't punch me.

Throw up.

You punched me.

I'm going to do it again.

No.

Throw up.

You punched me again.

Let me try cramming my fingers down there again.

Ow.

If God chalks this up to slaying.

He will.

I'll find a way.

A way?

To heaven.

i stopped talking,
and my ancient friends
assumed i found another bed to lay.

i'd like to stitch them into silence,
take a trip perfectly hemingway.

cast myself in memories,
join the immortals,
those kids that drank of
formaldehyde before their time.

1

You will avoid overcomplimenting. Stick to phrases
eeked of desire—smart blouse, handsome family.

You will find a chair. Tilt your head until you've
found the ceiling. Let discomfort loom. Let her speak.

Don't respond right away. Make her second guess her words.
Let her try to ramble out of it on a macro level. Let her dwell
on the micro miscalculations in silence.

Give it some time. Respond.
But calibrate. Be indirect, detached. "I'm here, aren't I?"

2

Don't encourage sentimentality or nostalgia.

When she brings up the early days—and she'll bring up the early days—remind her of your many failures in kindness.

The time she called from the psych ward and you told her you were busy should work. Or when you made her walk home after
the big fight. Or when you introduced her as a friend.

3

Here, she'll take your hand and guide it along her soft features.

Oblige.

Focus on the way you take her in. Give her a jagged gaze.
Don't relent.

Undress yourself. Do this without intro or segue or ceremony.

Comment on her alkaline and citrus taste. Drift five feet above yourself and watch it happen.

4

Laying tangled in the aftermath of blankets and sheets, ask her
about her husband.

Ask her about her drinking.

Ask her about her son's new school.

Ask her about her prescriptions, the side effects.

5

Take the long way home. Grab the brown belt to go with the brown shoes. Drink water. Lots of water. Eggs, not cereal.

Show up early to work. Appear eager and sincere in your every
task.

Blend.

My frail form grows frailer,
   sounds of gunshots,
   these parties end on the grounds,
and when your gaze turns to shades of grey
   how many tears can I kiss away?

We blend,
   amidst friends, fantasy, and fiction,
   there never is proper disdain or diction
for our survival skills in the midst of storms,
   will your love abound as distance norms?

There are symphonies in fingertips,
   while bombs scatter the dust of human kindness,
   fetal screams trickle down
and jab the meaning of heartache,
   can you avoid faults and breaks?

I intend to give you majesty,
   though I'm not a man of wealth,
   I'm still a man of means,
turbulent maybe the times,
   but we agree on dying with the end rhyme.

I've seen a sheriff put a bullet in a deer's head in Colorado Springs,
I've lived a winter through in an unfinished basement,
I've made obligatory love to a dark-haired woman,
her red dress above her head.

I've stumbled to the karaoke bar
just to read out of a notebook of unfinished poetry,
and when the crowd complained I said,
"These are the last words I will speak."

I've thrown my wallet into my grandmother's open casket,
I've got a punch card behind the counter at the liquor store,
I've ended a job interview by throwing a fake apple through
a glass window.

I've seen the battlefield of Antietam.

I've watched the rearview mirror for hours expecting
her husband to find me.

I've hidden a gun under my shirt, and I've
got this song in my head I've been meaning to write down.

I've got a good intention and a couple theories and a
Southern affection for personal secrets.

Drag me under the car she said
and I said where are your keys?
Pour me a molotov cocktail she said
and I said Another one?
Make the left eye black to match the right she said
and I said Let me get my glove
I'm cold, get me more gasoline she said
and I said Will regular unleaded do?
Move over you're hogging the bed she said
and I said Yeah, Tim give us some room
Do you have anything to bring me down? she said
and I said There's always the fire escape
I still love you she said
and I said How much money do you need?

I took a detour on Decatur Street
for the rains washed away my worn trail.
Smoking skeletons in alley ways,
the visible breath of babies in sleet,
and a burnt out apartment complex dotted the trek.

I saw a ghost of you.
Short red hair, eyelashes like vines crawling up sideboards in fast motion,
the freckles on her face like islands floating in her milky skin.
I wanted to pull your twin close.
As if entwining with her, scraping off a pinch of her perfume,
would bring me a few miles closer to you.

I'd phone, but you'd just tell me about Paul.
So, I send whiskey prayers and cigarette smoke signals
to the heavens for your personal misery instead.
I daydream of the torturous night shortening the distance.
You offering up laughs of compromise,
and I offering empty love to make your bed less lonely.

I'd phone, but you'd just tell me about Paul.
He's your man.

I always loved her best,
with her sharp pupils,
irises of oil,
her crimson hair
and
contagious smile,
but that didn't stop
my callused mind
from commanding her, "cease to feel",

but what a gift she gave in return,
the girl I've always loved best,
the first ache in months,
the first spill from my lids,
in a few years,
when she simply returned fire with,
"give me some rest."

Now, I sit calmly, tearing at my hair,
trying to figure which of my so-called friends
can get me to outer space,
for the duration of the rest of my years,
making my gnashing eternity go
down with a little more ease.

The ******* took the beauty, and it wasn't
because he's handsomer, wealthier, or more caffeinated--
as you supposed, Christopher.

It was timing.

She was lonely.
He was there.

Chris, you were typing an email.

as opportunity knocked,
we danced to the beat,
never opening the door,
for fear the dance would
come to a terrible halt.

reckless
were
my words.

i expected
you to
cut me with yours.

you just cried.

you thought
i was
breaking your
heart.

i just wanted
you to tear
me apart.

the hate of June tans my hide,
fingers crucify in hope--
but the rains remove only the surface stain.

You took a picture of your left eye,
you wrote a poem about a "blank canvas",
you said I didn't have a keen enough mind.

I decided to get a studio apartment.

In an idyllic garden behind Hank's old apartment,
Grace stumbled in high heels toward my then sturdy arms.
I'd finally gotten her drunk enough to notice,
and I was finally sober enough to appreciate.



Grace left before I woke in the morning.
I haven't seen her since.

That was 300 miles ago,
and a decade away from here.

Do you remember, sister,
when mercy was a right?
I'm too tired to treat it
like a title to be earned.

Sister,
I have commited no crime,
short of high.
I have done no wrong,
that at one point I didn't see as right.

Do you remember, sister,
when love was a promise?
I'm too selfish to seek it
like a prize to be professed.

Sister,
I have seen no sunrise,
that didn't sink me.
I have told no lie,
to someone who wouldn't believe me.

Full moon, raw denim, and I'm back all. Google "Men's Hairstyle 2017" and oblige myself. Low faded. Enough on top. Something to grab onto. Pantomiming a stripper's routine on every other streetlight. This is me now. I've acquired an English accent. And I've become quite knowledgable in the ways of brandy. Three drinks in. Settle down. Slow burn. Whisper. I could carve up the fog, I could make this moment holy, I recognize her and could acknowledge it. Look into my eyes and wait for it. She says. She says my eyes are gray. I gently tell her gray isn't an eye color and we're off, shitkicking through this door chime city on a Wednesday, we're on and off the level. She goes white when I fall. I fall on Griffin Street. I scrape. I scrape my knee and the blood runs in rivulets and falls, spaced and reticent to the ground. There's this bar, I say, this bar goes empty around midnight. I want to take you there. She says, What are you looking for? I might be able to help you find it.

I'm looking for rain on a Saturday morning window. I'm looking for someone to paint wearing nothing but tall socks in my living room. Someone who insists on hyphenating her last name. Oils. She should be using oils. I'm looking to be hexed, to be chained. I've dulled, you know? I've become fat with routine. I've become fat with casual ***. I need to hand over—I don't know the best word for it—control, maybe?

We've tried that all before, she says.

I'm nostalgic for it. I get that way. Now and again.

Nostalgia, she says. You can't double back on time, can't control its ebb.

I don't need a takeaway. You asked what I was looking for. I answered.

It's out of your reach.

Say it again. Let me prove you wrong.

I'm not in the mood for this.

So much hangs on the word of a woman. I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for the right words to fall from your lips. Every interaction charged and then diffused when the actual words arrive. I would say anything to you, anything for you.

That's why so little hangs on the word of a man.

Putting up the red heels,
washing off the blush,
Anna sits,
grabs her phone,
calls me,
"I'm hanging up the gloves."

"What?"

Anna hangs up,
her cellular words
whispering on the wind.

She's going all in,
ambition ******,
picket fence planned.

I fester at the side of the shower,
while laugh tracks burst in the room
through my barricade door.

My world shrinks,
the fever girls find wedding bands
and turn to vapor,
while I wrinkle,
gather dust in the far corners,
and dose nostalgia until
I no longer care to breathe.

I kissed her.
A blackness drained into,
settled within.
Now,
I shuffle
draped in
candlesticks and coffee
needing to purge--
and knowing
too well--
grace voids
my servant creator.

Have you been to the mountain?
No no no. But
I've been under the bridge, Mr. Jones.
I've washed my feet in Cottonwood Creek.
I've named the meadowlarks after ex-girlfriends.
Suzanne. Isis. Mel-oh-dee.
Some mornings I woke up in places I'd never
been and on those mornings,
oh I woulda killed for a pen.
The fog and the
steady gasp of diesels
surrounded me and sang sang sang.
Tall grass along the interstate
and god, he didn't talk to me,
but I pretended to be god and talked
to myself, saying This way. This way.
This way to the promised land.
On what I thought to be
the Fourth of July, mud dried
around my knees in the Quapaw,
and I stood up for four days straight before
the rains came.
And finally, in the golden dawn,
I arrived at my childhood home.
Ivy on the chimney. Rusted trike in the overgrown lawn.
My father sat in his chair. Static on the TV.
He said, "Haven't done yourself in yet?"
My mother, in cobwebs and rags said, "He's got
one classic in him, one heartbreaking work
of genius before he goes."
And I asked her for a title.
She only pointed.
I turned and that's when I saw her,
the Girl at the Gate.

dance along their tombs with me,
dance along
the season strums free,
with death on our tongues
and snaking amidst our feet,
we can see we really need
no other,
make a sacrifice to me,
you're a wooden doll,
and I, a chipper boy
swollen with danger--
the black birds
confetti fall and veil
our skeletal frames--
the smoking guns,
the sour milk,
and the obese worms
call out to us--
dance along their tombs with me,
dance along
the vibrance hallucinates
a crucifix,
a caricature,
a christmas,
your bony fingers
feel fine
against the sockets
of my crimes--
I'm hardly alive
and
that's so encouraging--
the end
perpetually nigh,
the future stumbles blind,
you're a wooden doll,
I'm your match--
let's stoke the night
burn and beacon
until the flies
blare the buzz.

"i just feel so numb in the relationship.
nothing seems to mean anything."

"i know exactly what you mean."

"do you?"

"yep."

"how did you and scott get over it?"

"um, well to be honest i still feel that way
sometimes. i guess i just think of all the
good times."

a living relationship in honor of a dead past.
sweetheart, i don't think clinging to old
history is going to distract me
from the absolute fact
that everything
has gone
to ****.

blanket my flaw.
make me easy
to consume.

lights out.

we can pretend
i am one you want.
i am pretty.

lights out.

i am less alive,
but that's hard to tell
with the

lights out.

The rains came.
No matter.
The Irish kids with Hebrew names
still took to the lot behind the redbrick
apartments to play a close-quarters
game of baseball.
From home plate to first base
the distance was ten yards.
From first to second, fifteen.
Runners placed one hand
on a rusted iron pole, once
used as one half of a clothesline,
a makeshift third.
Their frequency of play
rendered the space between
bases grassless.
And in the rain on that September
day, the lines became sludge.
The muck claimed shoes
of earnest feet, badged the
legs of the best hitters.
Hey batta. Hey batta.
Thunder overhead and
all around.
A lean, blonde-haired
boy, all legs and arms,
got a piece of the ball
on his first pitch.
Upward into the clouds,
upward into the invisible.
He took first, started for
second.
The others kept waiting
for the ball to come back
down.

i saw the flowers fall in a flash.
winter's wind came with a bellowing crash.

i saw the stems bend and buckle,
turning into a heap of grey.

i felt my shoes become so soaked.
wading through wet concrete cracks.

i felt my heart beat so slow,
reminding me "it's time to go."

i heard the children laugh somewhat soft,
amidst the crying trees and their dying leaves.

i heard panic in the parent's voice,
unable to understand there is no choice.

in a moment,
in a blink,
the scene slipped
as though nothing
more than a dream.

when i awoke,
the sounds were all gone.

i sat in silence.
i sat in the rain.
the rain danced and skidded
along the contours of my frame.

now, there is nothing new to know,
this season had it's show.

i saw how lovely, lonely
nature could be.

There was a time—and this wasn't all that long ago—where I wanted to be seen, loved, admonished. I wanted to be some novelist casanova, women, movie deals, et cetera. And one day it changed. I wish there was some monumental event tied to it, some clear catalyst, but to be honest this opposite idea, this idea of erasure, came to me in a supermarket. In the checkout line the cashier didn't greet me, didn't ask the usual did-you-find-everything type questions. The transaction was wholly procedural, nothing human to it. The total showed up on a screen. I swiped a card.

And it reminded me of that part in DeLillo's—I know, it's always DeLillo—in his book Zero K where he talks about the origin of "alone," and what the word really connotes. The word is a rather simple portmanteau of the Middle English phrase "all one." And when you think of the word like this, all one, it gives you a different idea. It does for me anyway. All one suggests freedom from any tie or association. It's who you are minus geography, minus desire, minus friends, minus family, minus lovers. Many people would say there is no self if you were to eliminate essentially the entire context of your life, but I disagree.

I say all of this to say, I'm hitting the red button. I'm eliminating all my friendships to regain a semblance of an inner life. I think they've become responsible for a projected version of myself, an expected version rife with inconsistencies that I wish to no longer adhere to. I know what you're thinking. I'm going to be some half-assed buddhist of the plains, but this small world I've played a small part in shaping has become suffocating, and the only way for me to exist in this space is as a vapor.

Your arms cannot hoist me from the well,
your hope echoes, cheapening the sentiment,
the moon may be full,
but it's dark down here alone.

All these self-inflicted rules
are ripping off your existence,
making you a box, chained up,
in some rusting cage.

Anna, I know people aren't all that pretty.
I won't forget when we sketched mankind.
He was too fat to move, too drunk to talk,
and too proud to back down.

But do you really think you need the rules,
to keep yourself superfucking cool?
I've ****** on your fingers,
I've listened to your secrets,
I promised I wouldn't fall in love with you,
but of late, I decided that was a dumb rule.

Anna, we were made for straight lines.
The circles will only sink us into the ground.
Progression, constant evolution,
patterns and conditioning are for the typicals.
I want halycon evenings,
just talking peaceably under the blanket,
and if we recieve an invitation,
no matter where it's to,
there we'll go.

A collective soul isn't impossible.
It is only reserved for the least
frightened amongst us.

Unchain yourself,
Anna.

billows abound,
cloud, caress her figure.
i kissed the top of her head,
hit the lights,
slowly shut the door,
turned on some music,
and left my mind to wander.

did she hear her favorite sonata?
did she hear me fumbling my keys?
did she hear me step outside?

sirens exalted the moon,
christmas decorations fell,
there were only two lit apartments,
i came back inside after retrieving my studies,
i poured another cup, lit my pipe and
let the smoke lull over the bulb.

has she fallen asleep?
does she wait for me?
can she hear each keystroke?

the night moves glacially,
beautifully,
and with just enough ache
to keep me awake and entirely in love.

fancy-smancy,
monkeys hobbling with
their rye,
and i stare clean through
stain glass eyes,
and i stare mean when
they don't get confessional.

secrets in turn,
secrets for the sacrifice
of my time,
no sympathy,
that ain't going to
help you one bit.

shards of glass,
shards of memory,
slitting wrists
and broken kiss,
through the fall
of sanity in sheets,
in monkey fevers,
in worship or
whatever.

i'm dressed up in
a fish bowl of time,
you look from the
outside,
and you laugh,
tap on the glass,
and i act like i'm
going to show you,
and i act like i'm
going somewhere
but you will pull
me out when i
go belly up and
that's that.

that's all there ever was.

Count your fingers.
There's still ten.
But you don't get on to me
for counting them again.

Find the muck, I do;
pull my shoes off, I do.
I feel it, the muck,
tethering and I feel
competition pulsating.
Competition against what?
Against the water that surrounds,
I guess;
Against the mud between my toes,
I guess.
I missile off it, the ocean floor,
careening upward, and I missile
the bright fishes in my wake.
My wake?
I attended it, you could say;
I got over it, you could say.
And I could stop here, the surface,
floating face down.
But what of the alternative?
An appetite for oxygen, I have;
a heavenly itch, I have.
A skyward geyser, I could be;
a bolt of lightning in reverse, stand back, see.

There's always this time limit, isn't there?
You have to notice the moment, listen for it.
And if this isn't the moment—you in white jeans,
you in your new bra, this fashion show—
I don't care to gamble on another.
And you say his name for the first time outright.
And you talk about your son, your feet on
the coffee table. Me, I'm in the kitchen mixing
drinks.
I can't just stand here, ******* staring at
two ****** marys, cut lemons, cut celery, forever.
I'm fifteen feet from you. I know this for certain.
I measured the distance before you arrived.
And your son is saying "bird" now. Is this still
the moment? Or has it evaporated? My feet move,
no need of my permission. I set the drinks down.
You've been drinking too much lately, you say.
And I'm beside you on a couch that still smells of smoke.
Did I tell you about my apartment fire in March?
Your toenails are painted blue white red.
There's a sound you make when you're truly
contented, when you smile for real. Does he notice it?
Can I tell you about a miracle? I ask.
You don't say a word; you don't make the sound.
I used to fantasize about you, about you in various
states of undress, in a myriad of positions.
You'd breathe such profane words into me,
and that got me through, got me through a couple
of years. And you're here now. It's actionable—to
use a word I hate. And I'm looking at your toes, your legs,
these unbelievably cruel jeans. And this is selfish,
but all I can think about is what if I die? What happens
to this side of you, this side I've created? Object of desire,
plaything, et cetera, I know.
I struggle to find the right words.
I've made you into this beacon, the person I want to be with, the place I want to be, but if I'm removed from the equation by death or distance, will you still be centered? Will you still
be adored? I don't know. You should say something, take a drink, anything.

time is a starving dog from hell,
and we spend the days
carving ourselves into steaks,
tossing ourselves away,
only to sit and watch all our favorite parts
get devoured.

future us,
is future dust.

future us,
will be sifted
through fingercracks
of future friends
that never
got to remember us.

I haven't shaved in 7-
I guess 8 days,
so it's the perfect time
to put on a pair of jeans
I've worn 4, maybe 5 times
without a proper wash,
I head out for a stroll
into the morning light,
I cross busy city streets
for kicks,
there's an army of running girls,
tan legs,
welcome mat *****,
any other day,
but today,
Keep the feet in steady motion,
a symphony of distant yelps
and funeral sirens,
me in ***** jeans,
gas station,
think about lighting myself on fire,
start to laugh,
keep moving,
a pretty girl and a lion,
let my eyes roll,
as they crawl into hobble
to color themselves
******,
and I walk until
morning gives way to afternoon,
until sidewalk gives way to forest,
my god these noises are tasteful
and frightening,
I think about the faces of pretty girls,
I think about hell,
then promise myself to never
fall in love with anyone
who will ever love me back,
too boring,
I come across cemetery,
find a unique name carved in stone,
the epitaph indicated upstanding character,
"loved with all her might",
all I can say is,
I hope it's contagious, Anna,
I dug a trench by her sleeping place,
I hope it's cool with your man, Anna,
I let my ***** jeans,
I let my wrinkled shirt,
I let my smokey scent,
I let it all sink to soil,
The stars are beautiful, Anna,
I don't know that I've ever seen them
before,
and I don't think I ever want to
see them again.

i would have given it by now.

i would have loved you, and we wouldn't be here now.

you can keep sighing.
you can keep running into me on accident.
you can keep dressing more minimally.

but i won't love you, and we wouldn't have made it no how.

it seems cold,
when i look at it from
your point of view.

me discarding your emotions.
casting them aside like dirtied sheets,
to sleep in makeshift innocence.

let me just feel my own pain.

take in my own mistakes.
the weight of yours
coupled with mine,
would only crush
my already
curved
spine.

your eyes when they seek
broader meaning in me,
simply, repeatedly **** me.

your words shouldn't be kind.
a smile is something you shouldn't be
capable of accomplishing.

when you grasp words like,
"i'll be anything you want me to be"
you cling to them, as you would weeds
on the bank of some tumultuous river,
"just give me a chance,
i will show you how perfect i can be."

but you trying to keep your head above
the water
is only drowning me.

god gave me a gift,
then god gave it away.
blue eyes turned grey.

why should i stay?