rattle lips,
be the air conditioner's vent,
on the bent, the bent,
bet the insides of your sister's thighs
for this month's rent,
two-step, lip balm, and liquor,
turpentine, fashion gurus,
and abortion clinics,
everyone's afraid of fairy tales
and heart disease,
your mother's a nurse
for your fathers hedonistic purse,
i found the id,
follow me to the id,
i found the id,
it lies under sheet,
under sleeve,
under bleeding wrist,
and callused bride,
dig graves in the image of god,
die in the name of everlasting life?
vision trips amidst weary moons,
silver slivers
on past treasures sail on sinking ships,
and "i am the resurrection"
says the harlot,
and "i am the resurrection"
says the wind,
we ride 'em both and write home
of only the wind,
history books, history books,
paint me heroic,
history books, history books,
i've got hooks to sell,
children to condition,
and banners to wave,
god save america,
god save america,
god save the liar,
the creep,
my mother,
my *****,
and everyone of
my summer homes,
and each of my televisions,
and each crevice i can crawl into,
and each dream i can divide.

I entered as an accident,
and by accident I now leave.
With black sky above my head,
and black water beneath my feet,
I breathe deep, beerlit, shivering, and free of strings.
The salty sea's tides tease -- beckoning me.
Self-inflicted with age, far beyond
***** talk bedrooms, and burnt sage,
I travel deeper.

Deeper into the rocking cradle of the sea.
And any man staring into that black, wet eternity
would wonder about what he'll leave --
I've heard of leftover children, money, wives, lies, and lucky influence,
but I can't leave that to which I never cleaved.
I've got a suit and tie.
A pair of black shoes.
A pair of brown shoes.


My heart beats madly as the waves bash against my chest.
Whiteness laces the black water.
Immaculate white.
Whispering white.
A Great White Peace washes over me,
along with the seaweed and some wooden debris.
In this moment I say
-- I love you each
but under the sound of the sea,
my words, no more than flybuzz speech.

In this moment,
this Great White Peaceful moment
my existence does freeze,
as my body twists in the hands
of the black sea.

Torrential, lightning and a river on Decatur,
straightened tie, loaded gun, staggered
down to house 423, a big wet bottle in my hand,
a choir of angels in my head, I confessed to you
that I never much cared for Frost, possibly both
roads lead to an affair with me, time means little more
than air, cotton candy fever dreams, melting wedding bands,
a stain on your white dress, tender, torn up, seeing
Jesus on the cross at 3 am, it's Tuesday, borders, lines, barriers,
milk cartons, hamster wheels, the sun stayed away for fear
of witnessing this itchy massacre, plans? I find them trite,
quick to betray, overdrawn bank accounts, flat tires,
17-year-old quick *****, the wrinkles in the mirror,
the road back home, detour, detour, going down south
by way of 35, oceans of highways, shorelines of grief,
steady shots of grace in the passenger seat, where have
I smelled that before? Change your perfume, if I kiss you,
it needs to be strange, frightening, splitting the seams of
norm skull and disemboweling the sanctity of routine,
it's easy to put up the picket fence, easier yet to paint it black,
but behind the curtains of my .32 caliber grin,
lies a quivering child waiting for ma to get off work,
babysit me, hospital gowns, looking for lost blue crayons,
the bouquet rots on the windowsill, remember the first kiss?
Doped on caffeine, sleepless because Shorty partied too hard,
tile floor, porcelain, your strapless top undressed itself,
earthquake waltz, borderline insane, milk thistle,
both roads lead to an affair with me.

when you pulled my trigger,
did you smile, lioness?

ricochet, ricochet.

did i want you?
for security i suppose.

when you kiss him,
will you think of me?
i doubt it.

feed my self-loathing machine.
it's hungry.

all the nights
are all mine.

all the girls,
they got no time.

all the nights
will find you in his arms.

all the girls
will conspire against me, alright?

manufacture fine ******* feelings,
smile quazi-sincere,
i never, you never, i never meant anything.

i fell for you fast, lioness.

that is always a turn-off.
i should have been an *******.
that's your type.
*******.

i kissed you.
but it didn't matter.
your breath went heavy,
but it doesn't matter.
i ended a relationship for you,
but it doesn't matter.

it's a fashionable game,
i fronted as a washed up bukowski-type,
and when you found out i was nice
you disowned me,
understandable move.

copingstrategies.copingstrategies.copingstrategies.

bring­ on the vultures.
i'll make them songs,
coffee,
and friendly emotions.

pick me apart,
promise i can watch.

pick me apart,
promise i can watch.

let the beautiful boy tame you, lioness.
your hundreds of miles away, anyhow.

let me turn to vapor.
don't talk to me.
don't ask around about me.
answers will frighten.
answers will anger.

i am barely alive.
you were selfish.
i am barely alive.
you were selfish.

you never paid me a compliment
only talked of all the other lovers.
you never cared what i had to say
only talked of your own experience each day.

i thought you were different in your own way.
your different in the same way.
turn to grey.
**** him and your pain away.

i ended everything to begin again.
i ended everything and nothing started.
i ended and found myself in the abyss.

hellhole, hope you aren't happy.
i'm malaise.
i'm the wasp nest.
if you ask to rekindle.
i'll douse myself,
and set myself to flame before
you ever get near.

don't anybody touch the remnants of me.
i want to die this way.
i want to die everyday.
i miss the comfort of everything.

i don't have the energy to start again,
nor do i have the self-esteem to move my feet,
i was wrong,
no dancing at my end times,
just knives,
fevers, and cobwebs.

i laughed out of irony.
i laughed out of spite for me.
goodnight everything.

In Room 204 of the Lancaster Motel,
I ease myself into the bath.
Music plays. It's the kind
of pan flute and finger-picked
guitar tune you hear over fuzzed out speakers
in grocery stores. I don't know the source.
The place smells of mildew
and cheap coffee and self pleasure
and Febreeze. I'm tired.
More tired than I've ever been, I think.
Do I still have a job? Until I call in to check, I suppose.
And I suppose this pocket knife will have to do.
I never seem to have a corkscrew on hand when
my mood calls for wine. I stab and jimmy the cork
until I can pry it loose with my teeth. A few
bits of cork float on the surface of the wine.
This does not stop me, nor slow me.
Pollyanna and I stayed in 206,
a detail that calls attention to itself, a detail that
longs for a poetic phrase,
yet I feel little other than the
dull thud of coincidence.
I remember asking her
before that first time if
she thought of *** as
a form or erasure or
addition. She said
both sounded nice.
And something
in the way she said nice,
led me to believe
she landed on an unspoken
third option.  I no
longer had an appetite for *** that evening,
but we acted on it to satisfy expectation.
She turned down the air conditioner,
and we laid there shivering and saying little.
She told me not to leave her.
I said I wouldn't.
I'm in the tub now and the bottle is almost empty
and all of this is so selfish and stupid
and I'm just doing it for the sake of habit
and sad sack poetry and ultimately
an "I-Eat-*****" consolation fedora in heaven. And I'm
self aware but the trajectory spirals against my will.
And my life entire burns a little slapstick,
so I get outside of myself--watch, enjoy.

The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.

on edges of swing set of summer of child
I grow -- a rust abloom while ghosts
of women once called "mother" do push
a wind a creak a falling leaf feathering
downward, candied sentiment traveling
forward

for hope for empty swing to fill to turn
the chronometer back to *12 noon, March 6, 1972

"i just think it's weird people value the heart so much."

"why do you say that?"

"i mean what does it do? pump blood. big deal. i want a world where genitals are valued the same way the heart is now. think about it. they are the physical manifestation of love. that beats the crap out of pumping blood."

"good luck," they think it means.
brides, grooms, hell, even the kids in the club.
and the notion that the phrase comes with the
shattering of glass under a custom print napkin--
just wrong.
it's important to be mindful of what mazel tov means in
that moment, sure, but it's also
important to be mindful of what mazel tov
means in the everyday. the ritual.
see, mazel tov means "what good fortune."
and I know, I know, sounds pretty
**** close to "good luck."
but think about the glass.
all these tiny pieces to pick up
and you say, "good luck."
have fun picking up the shards.
don't cut your finger.
saying "good luck" in that moment
makes you an ***, but "what good fortune"
sounds like you got something up your sleeve.
and you should. in this life, always. always
a few tricks. you know when I was little,
my mother asked me what I wanted to be
when I grew up and I told her, I said,
"I want to be a magician."
her response, "you can't do both."
she's right. that's no profession for an adult,
but you can be an adult and a
magician on the side, as a hobby,
that's alright.

wait.

what was I talking about?
magicians, magicians, oh. tricks.
how else are you going to get by?
mazel tov is a mind trick.
see, we say "what good fortune"
when the glass breaks to reframe the
situation. what's your reaction
to that sound? your ears perk up--
if ears can actually do that, I don't know--
the hairs on your neck stand up.
I guess they can't really stand in the conventional
sense, but, well, you feel the space of a room.
and after that beautiful sound, and I mean beautiful,
you are forced to take everything else into account.
you don't want anything else to break. what matters most,
you know? that's why we say "what good fortune."
I'm delighted to know something as worthless
as glass has broken. because now I'm more
careful with what's valuable to me. right?
you spill soda on a cloth seat in your new car.
mazel tov.
now you don't have to be paranoid
every time your nephew climbs in with an Icee.
it's material crap. just crap. you're alive.
you've got a car. be thankful for what you have.
reframe, you know?
your girlfriend, your wife leaves you for a
former high school quarterback turned
owner of a lawn service company.
another casualty of the sweaty, lemonade-fueled fantasy.
once again, mazel tov.
you are so lucky you didn't spend the rest
of your life with her. the glass shattered.
it's a beautiful sound.

here we go again
i **** my head
and ready my
mouth to fire
back
rebuttals.

the smoke of
silence,
following
your verbal
onslaught
pours through
my pores
and pulls
my
trigger.

the anger-driven
bullets
fly fast and
pick apart
your metal
heart.

your eyes grow
heavy and shaky.

there's sorrow and
violence tucked behind
them.

part of me is
frightened.

part of me
is aching
for return
fire.

your volley is
scattered.
as if you are grasping
for straws.
desperate to wreck
me
for the
sheer
drama
of the event.

i drop my gun.
give peace a chance, i suppose.
i turn, decide
it's
time
to
go.

but before i retreat
you ask me,
"how many others have you said
i love you to?

this is you at your most masochistic.
the answer is an automatic grenade
to the heart.
you know that.
yet you ask that.

"four"
i lie.
the number is much higher.

"who were they?"

god,
you're just asking
for it.

i **** my head
and we go
to war.

i was a hermit,
and you dragged me into
the never-ending metropolis
of your lives.

i was content in isolation,
and you introduced me
to birds of prey and
astronauts.

i was an entertaining centerpiece
for a day.
i was an entertaining delay.
i was the perfect way to segue
him back to his place.

i was a hermit,
and you bled me
to see how much
was left of me.

i was glad to see,
you were dissatisfied
with the amount.

i was a writer, a liar,
i was a dreamer, a denier,
i was a scapegoat, and the angry judge at your throat.

i am a hermit
with no place or person
to go.
i am a hermit
with no individual
soul.

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.

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.

at ease, hideous you
with blood o'prey
dribbling down
your well-crafted
dimples.

eager ears surround,
live to make meaning
off your rehashed
sentiment you *****
from some recent-dead
and righteous boy.

and i admire you.

yes, yes, yes i do.

oh, enemy
playing us all for fools,
eating us all alive,
we townsfolk don't
give you the torch or pitchfork,
just our unending applause.

don't speak, even if spoken to
2. don't listen or attempt to empathize
3. don't comb your hair
4. don't shave
5. don't give your time to past lovers
6. turn off your computer and phone
7. tell your mother you aren't coming home
8. blow up your bridges
9. forget your name and friends as they were as synthetic as television sets.
10. and never ever smile

the weepies and worrieds will tell you there is a bible.
there is comfort in god.
and all you think is,
yeah, i already tried that scene.

the relatives and the rationals will tell you life is only as good as you make it.
perhaps when you fake it.

the lustful and the clinging ex-lovers will tell you they have seen beauty in you,
remind them of damage done.

go on solo strolls.
read poetry that
deals solely with
fire and brimstone.
and never ever smile.

and you will be just as satisfied with your plight,
as this vapor,
who already took his flight.

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.

In haste,
I took the first woman like a whiskey shot--
every ounce of her scarred my throat
kept me silent, kept me staggering under the weight.
When the bottom shelf love went beyond full bloom,
I vomited her up, leaving me with a headache.

In good conscious,
I took the second woman like an aspirin pill--
every milligram of her alleviated the pain
kept me similar to content, kept me tame.
When the effects wore off and I pined for another drink,
I put her in the cabinet, leaving me rambling nomadic.

In guilt,
I turned myself into the third woman like a penitent criminal--
every liter of her blood solidified
kept me wrapped behind her bars, kept me seeking her good graces.
When the prison sentence drew to a close,
I left her behind, walking with an unwashable history.

The fourth found me frightening,
the fifth just ignored,
the sixth designated me the "other man",
and the elusive seventh only said, "You could do better."

In my mind,
the pills, prisons, and liquor melded --
the days cut short,
the nights grew long,
but I could do better
I could do better
I could do better.

I sold the pills, I poured the whiskey down the sink,
I left prison to the prisoners,
and in the mirror I became a religious practitioner.

To the Church of Better I subscribed.
Sober, lone, and free my cry.
To the darkness I whispered:
I am the resurrection,
I cannot be killed,
I am the resurrection,
the Buddha,
the Jesus,
the Krishna,
the Allah.
I am the resurrection,
born again and again and again.

I brought her one flower
from the cemetery I borrowed
love leads to death
but it can work the other way
so the blackbird on the telephone wire say
I brought her one flower
a bouquet -- wasteful, sour
too many kisses cheapen
how else to pay by the hour
so the meadowlark's **** showers
I brought her one flower
in a corduroy suit, sunglassed tower
a corkscrew and 12 apostles
too far from shore, too young to cry
so the stupid penguin tries to fly
I brought her one flower
in some water, a tired bower
"I didn't try my hardest."
"I know." Wish my *** to the moon
So the robin lets out a morose croon

It was the December of '91,
and Larry asked me to come with
him and some ladies he knew
from Cameron Christian to
some **** yogurt shop on
Dead Dog Ave.

Three brunettes and a blonde;
at the time
I didn't care much for brunettes,
but god, god, god,
the blonde
with the crystal grey eyes,
the wrinkled floral print dress,
an optimistic ***,
and shaky feet
every single time
I made the eyes.

Sarah and Jennifer (two of the brunettes)
smelled of Glade-Feces-Blanket-Spray,
the third was far too young
to undress,
and I nearly strangled my beautiful blonde
when she mouthed, "Eliza."

I kept talking up the
fact my dad had just kicked me out.
I told Eliza I had the most magnificent
apartment
a bachelor could buy,
she kept averting her eyes,
shifting subjects like
playing cards,
my hands kept clinching,
clasping,
aching,
"Be right back, purty ladies."
I headed for the bathroom
leaving Larry to ******
Jennifer Glade.

I looked in the mirror,
I remember giving myself
a pep talk,
but I can't for the life of me
remember anything I said.

I remember pulling a dwindling
bottle of Black Label from my jacket.
I had taken it from my ******* dad,
the night he yelled, yelled, yelled,
until I was in some low-income complex
with a bunch of lowlife, ******
fuckups.

I ****** off the remnants.
Combed, recombed my greasy hair,
went back in,
just in time to hear
Jennifer Glade spout her stupid mouth,
"Larry, I told you I have a boyfriend."
"He's a ******* idiot."
She started to whimper,
said something like he was a regular sweetheart.
The regulars are so boring.

Larry stood up,
accused her of leading him on,
the acne cashier asked us to "pipe down",
I directed my stare into his acne-framed
irises.

I walked quietly toward him,
I could feel Larry and the girls
tracing my every feature.
"Just leave him alone,"
said my blonde little sweetie,
I turned back to her briefly.
Her skin looked like milk,
I wondered if it tasted like milk,
I kept my feet on track,
redirected the gaze,
back to my heavy-breathing cashier.

I got eight inches away from his face,
he fumbled some words,
that left a bad taste.
I could see my reflection in his retinas.
I looked clumsy and circular.
My milky, blonde Eliza would
never go for a circular **** like me.
This conclusion
coursed through my veins with
irrational speed.

I shot the acne cashier.
Right in his stupid, acne-framed iris.
The gun had been my grandfather's.
He had killed a black boy in the '30s with it.
Got to love legacies.

The brunettes were screaming.
I think Larry was trying to reason with me,
or maybe he was throwing up-
somebody threw up,
anyways,
I shot the young one first.
She had annoyed me most.

Then Sarah Glade.
Then Jennifer Glade.
Eliza began to run.

I jogged after her,
she frantically searched for a phone,
and my milky blonde
found one.

I stopped at the doorway,
rested my head on the frame,
listened to her cry into the handset,
begging for the police.
I opened my lids,
silently strolled up behind her,
with my left hand
I grabbed her optimistic ***,
with my right hand
I pulled the trigger.
She splattered onto me.
I felt successful.

I walked outside.
A silent,
still Austin night,
not even a dog on the street.
Larry was crying.
I told him to shut up.
They were *******.
Asked him for his lighter.
He opened his car door,
dug in his center console,
buried under 6-feet of cigarettes
was a lighter,
he popped the trunk,
I grabbed the gas can.

I erased Friday's mistakes,
and found Larry had driven off without me.
I walked to my low-income home.
I had a lazy Saturday.
Read an interesting story in the Guardian on Sunday.
By noon on Monday,
they were pointing cameras at me.

I buy a shirt, a blue shirt, a button down.
I drink a glass of wine, a red, a Malbec.
And I watch.
I stand still in the midst
of the St. Cloud Market.
The crowd—that singular being—
jostles and jockeys and talks
in broken English.
I chew gum, cinnamon gum, Nicorette.
I feel my habit inverting, bending, becoming mechanical.
And I must flirt and be moral
with the shopkeeper who looks a little
like me.
And I must revert to an irrational, emotional,
childlike state as I buy three pirated DVDs.

The crowd forms a circle instinctually.
Three women dance slowly in the center.
Paper falls from the sky, newsprint, a day old.

Gunfire, the sound of it, its slowing of time.
No one says a thing
and no one's feet make a sound and
every child is perfectly behaved
for one relentless moment.

Some people feel like places. And these people are vacations. These places are people. Freckled wall paper. Foyer tunes whispered. They are supermarket candles. Wavering flames by way of unsealed windows. They are blinds, these places. And you see through. And you hope through, these people. Pulling back curtains of brunette hair, applause deserved. Delicate, delicate. The slightest noise could alarm clock and send you back to work. Silent, silent. It's rest. Try hard to relax. She's a mole between *******. She's scar tissue on an ankle. And this place, this place smells of honey; tastes like almond milk. "In a perfect world what would you do tonight?" Sleep in this place. Wake inside this person. Simple. Clean. In a perfect world, morning sewed with lavender clouds, tall grass, and a watercolor sun unseen before. And this place likes eggs over easy. And this person warmly invites like white lenin.

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.

In the waking, in the wrong,
I stumble -- spitting synonyms for love
daring the scattershot night to take control
to steer me into the early morning bedroom
of anyone other than my own,
and over the phone breaking, over with biting
the mimicking face of former promise ring holders
and front pew sitters I ask the sun to emerge gently,
to kiss my forehead, scramble up eggs--
wearing my oversized t-shirt, cotton underwear, and
an apron left behind by the sun's mother,
but as night turns and walks away,
no bright sun replaces--
instead it is that grey, it is that gaunt
overcast haze that never shows teeth,
only hisses, "How's the routine going?"

In the waking, in the wrong,
hands pull denim and throat itches for shouting rebuttal,
but a man never won against the eternity of the sky,
so I lower my eyes, spin madly into why why whys,
a beautiful woman between pavement and sky jogs past
and I see myself drinking coffee with her and grinning
at what our elderly parents don't know,
but before the words fall from lips,
her feet, legs, and hips wisp
into the early morning mist,
the overcast sky whispers to the meadowlark
above my head,
I open the door to my home as the meadowlark begins to laugh.

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.

In that black dress,
you look like a million bucks,
and soon within my hands,
I will hold every dime of you.

I'm a rich man,
and elated that
this wealth corrupts.

I kissed someone's wife today.
It felt better than I wanted it to.

In my tiny bedroom,
the walls looked more beige than usual.
Martha laid beside me -- her idea.

Frames.
I didn't have frames on a couple posters.
Martha rested her head on my shoulder -- her idea.

Instead of putting up my clean laundry,
an **** of boxers, button-downs, and jeans took place on the floor.
Martha told me she liked her hair played with -- I didn't ask.

I left my cigarettes in plain sight
on top of a face down picture frame.
She slid my arm under her neck -- I couldn't be rude.

While she spoke of her husband watching cartoons,
I noticed **** (used during last week's *** with an ex) lying behind a couple beer bottles.
I put my right leg between her legs -- I can't help it if I'm a curious man.

When Martha pulled the blanket over our heads,
I hoped she couldn't smell my ex's perfume.
She let me run my fingers along her waistline -- she didn't tell me to stop until the fourth kiss.

Tributaries of mascara ran down her face.
Rivers of regret rushed out of her mouth.
I played out what would have happened -- had I not grabbed her, pressed my lips harder on the fourth.

"I'm not this kind of girl."
I told her things would be better with her husband.
Handing her a clean rag off the floor, she said -- "My life wasn't supposed to turn out this way."

I broke up the **** of clothes, grabbed an armful; made a beeline for the closet.
With a beautiful sound, a beer bottle broke as I passed by.
Martha's teary eyes saw the **** -- "What the hell were you planning to do?"

She slammed the door.
One of my unframed posters peeled itself off the wall and feathered to the ground.
Most of me felt cloudy, but I knew one thing -- she's got a good 50 years of marriage to go to spite me.

I exit the beige bedroom with no blood on my chin,
Jesus sensations through fallout cigarette,
God grows old - ashes and finds cradle within wind,
Holy Ghost of perpetual memory chains wrist,
winks from across the corridor on tram # 11,
circuital -

if you come searching, my thorn-eyed love,
I'm where I always was.

I cobweb like Christ on a mobile cross,
I've seen that old library, that gated community penitentiary,
even that blackbird over and over and over again -

heaven.

In heaven, my thorn-eyed girl, arrived.

There's nowhere to go from here.

Rain on tin
the pang and elasticity of
time and the time it
takes nature to sway
from right to left
from outer to inner
to notice the girl
on the edge of the room
with a drink in her hand
and then there's that
old lightning, self-proclaiming
its importance to the
gymnasium with grumbling
thunder then we're all
tossing dice and teaching
each other dance moves,
saying the ******* the edge
needs a pair of new shoes
and someone responds:
Isn't that the woman who kills?

And I go home with her
rain on tin and a summer
wade through Cottonwood Creek
we're in a shed
and it's musty, dangerous,
and possible
a killer takes certain care
of your body with her
cautious hands.

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 ****.

And they cast the man as the one
who gets brought down by dogs.
When he met the director,
the man said, "I'm the son of a veterinarian."

"I guess we should give you a speaking part."

So in the snow, behind the pines, with three
cameras on him, the man was brought down
by dogs, and instead of falling silently,
he was allowed to shout "no."

Despite the open air, his call was shrill.
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice pinged
as if encased in metal.

The director, unnerved, instructed
the man to do the scene again.
"Try shouting 'why.' "

The man's cap was off.
Snow flew from the strands
of his hair. A dog chewed
on his forearm.
And he said, "Why."

Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice fell flat, muffled--
not by limb, not by nature, but as if covered by a blanket of wool,
like a child playing ghost in a winter living room.

The director took the man aside.
"What's wrong?"

The man had never seen a person die.
He'd never even seen a dog die, although
he'd seen plenty arranged in violence shortly
thereafter.

"Nothing," the man said.

"Die naturally this time."

"Alright."

On the third take, one of the dogs tore
into his cheek. The puncture was quick, clean.

"I want to die," the man said, "but not like this."

"Louder," the director said.

"I want to die but not like this."

"What was that?"

"I want to die but not like this."

The dogs lapped at his blood.
One of the camera men came in close.
The man went limp, hoping it would end
the take.

Dawn coughs its way to noon,
the sun bears down
blistering my skin,
asking questions,
highlighting each flaw--
I take one last drag
from one last cigarette,
put out the flaming tip
on an ant hill--
Joshua J. Hutton, the Destroyer--
a sizzle,
a scramble,
where do we go from here?

I call my redheaded love,
ask her to spend the afternoon
listening to me read old books
full of filthy poetry,
and as she sighs,
I slit her throat to see what's inside--
a candy apple coated fever dream
of future her and me,
a hatred of my mane,
and a longing for the far corner of everything--
I stitch her milky neck,
kiss her ear,
rub her shoulders with my
rotting hands,
and tell her
purgatory just got easier,
knowing we piece
with blood
and beauty,
holy men rejoice,
****** get jubilant,
this smoldering mess
connects.

I told you, I don't want that kind of girl.
The way she bent the strobe- and the moonlight,
the way she kept telling me to shut up,
the way her heels acted like asterisks --
Marie, she ain't my kind of girl.

I told you, I'm just waiting for my head to clear.
I need fall to end the crow and vulture's flight.
I need to get unkempt and shut-in.
I need the pills to pull hat tricks --
Marie, I need a few more weeks.

I told you, my body's not ready.
I'd love to defend the howl and hiss of night.
I'd love split rent and shudder skin.
I'd love the pushups and matchsticks --
In the spring.

I promise, Marie.

When I laugh like a 65-year-old smoker,
when I fill in the lines of her face with my fingertips,
when my thoughts crash,
when I don't return my mother's calls,
when I apologize for stepping on your new shoes,
when I read Wolfe instead of socialize with the priests,
when I stare into open caskets,
when I microwave popcorn for all my friends,
when I throw nickels at Vietnam veterans' feet,
when I drink almond milk,
when I swear celibacy,
when I break oaths,
when I decide to write an epic poem that rips off "Howl",
when I browbeat idiot roommates,
when I buy books I never read,
when I hit on summer girls through text messaging,
when I wake up beside myself,
when I sleep on the tile by the toilet,
when I ******* the neighbors
when I hear someone say New Journalism died,
when I say they lied,
when I break my fourth finger against a wall,
when I listen to The Silver Jews during a heinous fog,
when I get to the table on time,
when I talk to Shorty about Waits,
                        to Zach about Springsteen and Ryan Adams,
when I'm surprised my friends actually listen to me,
when I straddle roadkill,
when I rock the proverbial boat,
when I lie with good intentions,
when I hook,
when I line,
when I sinker,
when I shift,
when I falter,
when I fix,
when I fake,
when I take the bait---
                                it's involuntary.

"Siri, I love you."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"Would you like me to search the web for 'wine dot'?"

She tells him this better be the last one--
the last first love poem he'll write.
The title, she says, needs to be brief,
something any lover can relate to.
Do you want me to leave the room
while you write it?

No.

With one step she's no longer in the
living room, she's in the middle of the
apartment kitchen. There are two bowls,
two spoons in the sink. The bellowing heater
acts as background, smoothing the space
with its hum. She squeezes a drop of soap
into each bowl. Fills both with hot water.

Any lover needs to be able to relate, she says,
but make sure you set it somewhere romantic--
not Paris, Rome, or anything like that--but
next to a body of water. There should be
birds. Clouds and rain. Not sunshine. Don't
you think?

He thinks.

She works the bowls over with a dishrag.
Dinner, breakfast--whatever you want to call it--was good, she says.

Good.

She dries the bowls, places them in the cabinet.
Have you written a line yet?

Yes.

Can I read it?

Not yet.

When I wake up?

When you wake up.

With a hand to each side of his face,
she denotes the spots he missed shaving
with her index fingers. Here, she says.
Here. Here.

The lines run from the corners of his eyes
as he smiles. Now she marks these.
She kisses him; she doesn't say, I love you.
Not yet.

Wake me up before you go to work, okay?

Okay.

With one step she's in the bedroom.
The bed's a couch.
She pulls the quilt up to her chin.
Her body curls.
She says, Hang out with me in
my dreams.

Wouldn't miss it.

Good morning.

Good morning.

A few minutes later her breath
goes steady, falling in line with
the heater.

The sun starts seeping in through
the blinds. The loose strands of
her hair become gold. He draws
the curtains so the light does not
wake her. She, he types.

In an apartment where once was one--
one toothbrush, one set of sneakers
by the door--now there are two.
Everything paired off and content in
its pairing.

Is a woman, he types. He hits the delete key once.
Then he types N again.

Her makeup bag is on the dining table.
Islands of stray powder dot the bag.
Her brush is on the coffee table
next to the couch. Countless
numbers of hairpins are embedded in the carpet.

I can't make it in today, he says into the receiver.
Yeah, not feeling too good. Thank you, sir. Will do.
Alright. Yeah, you too.


When he presses in beside her, she says, I've been awake
the whole time.

Have not.

Have too. Did you finish it?

Yes.

Can I read it?

After you actually get some sleep.

What'd you call it?

Is a Woman.

I like that.

Living in the gaudy, arrogant buckle of the bible belt
is a constant crucifixion for the unconventional thinker.

every time we fall in love,
they call it trite,
a false fairy tale.

love is weak.
and weak ain't trending no more.

every time we speak our mind,
they tell us to shut up,
too young to have an opinion.

the youth is unreliable,
too many fresh hormones.

every time we stand up straight,
they cross us,
crucify us.

acquiescing is appropriate,
they gift certificates in frames for that.

every time we subscribe to a higher code of ethics,
they call us radical,
salivate, and spectate as we are torn asunder by lions.

love should never transcend national pride,
here it's guns, god, no homosexuals or mexicans all the time.

if i make a stand, and you make a stand,
and the dominoes begin to fall,

if i inspire a dozen, and you inspire a thousand,
the gears will grind, the tide will turn,

the lions will all be too full,
and
they surely will run out of nails,
before they've crossed every single one of us.

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.

Just below the ridge line, east of Tinnamon's Creek, that's where we found Lily's dachshund.
The brown, island patch of fur beneath its snout was caked with blood -- throat turn, chewed.
No coat remained on its front legs. Framework mostly. Some dangling, loose tissue.
White fibers I didn't recognize dotted the shriveled body. How many days had it been?
Three? Four?

"What'd you expect to find?" Harvey said, lifting the tag. "Brannagh. 5321 Starlite Drive."

"I know, I know. Lily's still going to break. Doesn't matter what I expected."

Harvey ran his palm along the dog's belly. Whispered something I didn't catch. The sun began to sink behind the mountains -- everything turned a variance of purple. And the wind came in, unannounced, as wind tends to do. What's the protocol on a dead dog? Bury at the scene of the crime? A pile of rocks left behind for hikers on the passing by to say, "I wonder what happened there." Or did we bag the unfortunate beast? Ring the doorbell. Ask Lily if she's got a shovel. Our fathers made no mention of times like that.

"I've never understood why people have pets," Harvey said. "Do you just want to be miserable? Your cat Socks, Millie, whatever, is gonna die. Your turtle Larry is gonna die. The charismatic hamster in the classroom, running the wheel, knows every step with its stupid paws could be its last. 22 fourth graders taught expiration dates. Teachers sign up for that. Brannagh was gonna die. Lily knew she'd outlive the dog."

Four deer looked on down by the creek. Still, yet comfortable in their stillness. I could have touched them if I wanted to. I hated that. Deer in Colorado made me feel powerless. They assumed, automatically, that I carried no firearm, only a camera and a bit of Chex Mix. Pallid threads continued to float down from the sky.

"What is this stuff?" I asked.

"What stuff?"

"Falling. In her fur, right there. On your shirt. In your hair. The white stuff."

After a quick scan of his chest, Harvey pinched one of the white fibers between his index finger and thumb. Hardly gave it a thought before giving it a flick.

"They're just coming off the cottonwoods. Happens toward the end of spring," Harvey said, reaching in his back pocket and pulling out a garbage bag.

"Is that what we are going to do?"

"I'm not burying the dog out here. Lily needs closure. If she 'breaks,' she breaks."

Harvey opened the black bag. Stepped on the bottom of it. So it would hold against the wind.

"Put the dog in here," he said.

"I'm not doing that."

"Well, you have to."

"Why?"

"I'm holding the trash bag."

The dog's eyes weren't there. Whatever mysterious factor that leads people to buy dachshunds, whether concentrated dose of cuteness or unmerited friendliness, it had bled out. I walked around to the other side of the dog. Stuck my hands under its spine -- cleanest spot. Stiff from rigor mortis, sure, but stiffer than rigor mortis alone. I knew the stiffness of death from my childhood collection of unfortunate pets. The sun had baked him, made the matted tufts sharp. I dropped Brannagh in the bag. Harvey lifted up quickly, as to not let the corpse hit the ground.

With the deer still watching, we began to climb up the rockface, taking us back to the trail. My eyes fixated on my feet to avoid a misstep. Harvey took the lead, looking only forward. When he began to speak, he did not turn around.

"You know what's funny about the cottonwoods? I hadn't thought about this in a long time -- both my mom and dad had a theory about what you so eloquently called 'white stuff.' Mom, sticking by her poverty- and church-induced eternal optimism, said that the white strands falling from the sky, came off the clouds. 'Heaven's confetti,' she said. It was God reminding us that his grace reaches all of us."

"What did your dad think?"

"Well, Dad worked hard for what money we had, and going to church wasn't exactly his idea. Believed God owed him a little more. He didn't even sit with us. Back pew kinda guy. Mom would lead prayers focused solely on him moving up a few benches. Anyway, I say all that to say, being poor and going to church created optimism's opposite in my father. It wasn't long after I graduated high school, before I moved to Fort Collins, that Dad gave me his theory."

Harvey reached the top of the ridge. Gave me a hand. Dog's corpse slung over his shoulder. He looked at me.

"My dad said that the white strands from heaven weren't signs of encouragement. He said they were tears of those who'd gone before. People looking down, weeping at -- not only what violence brother does to brother -- but also at how we **** away every breath. 'Trading dreams for dollars.' "

"Which do you think is true."

Turning away from me, Harvey switched the garbage bag from his right shoulder to his left.

"Neither is an option. And to remind you, neither is the correct option. For the sake of humoring you?"

"Yes, for the sake of humoring me."

"I think my mother's would be more accurate."

"Why is that?"

"The cottonwoods shed one time a year. Seems to me that white stuff would be falling all the time if it was the disappointment and sorrow of those who've passed. One time a year. I can see God giving us a little something one time a year."

i didn't buy enough alcohol to get drunk.
purgatory. purgatory. purgatory.
but there are summer girls in skirts outside,
bugs that bite,
and a roommate whose ****** grammar is
appealing to my humor.
purgatory. purgatory. purgatory.

i didn't buy enough alcohol.
purgatory. purgatory. purgatory.
i can't touch the summer girls, 'cause i got a love 50 miles away.
i can't **** the bugs, because i don't have the appropriate spray.
i can't fix my roommate's grammar because he's a little bit touched.
purgatory. purgatory. purgatory.

the culture cut into our wrists.
feeling all or nothing was the trick.
kurt and elliot were dead,
pretty prescriptions we all wed.

we talked vicious and vague.
it kept our parents afraid.
only bought music if it was recorded in omaha.
quoted lyrics to the traditionals, oh my god.

the corners of every corridor were crammed.
glazed eyes making meaningless, drifting forlorn.
"i feel sad"
"gee, that's awful bad."

if they weren't depressed,
they were called liars.
if they were on anti-depressants,
they were kings.
if they attempted suicide,
they were a pope.

projections we were.
of all the dead words we heard.

All smiles
you were,
"humanity
was always
a lost kitten
in a city of dogs."

I wasn't sure what
you meant,
"the flies will always
be buzzing,
keeping us paranoid."

You eyed the bug,
rolled your eyes
at the buzz,
crushed him with
one blow,
"you have to take
control. The idle
man always gets
****** in the ***."

I lost myself in
a barrage of cryptic
one-liners,
and to be frank,
I'm not sure how
much of it you said,
and how much time
has made up from
within my lying head.

And now as I envision
you knitting in a small
house covered in cat ****,
I thank you for teaching
me self-preservation.
Social Darwinism.
I destroy you,
before you get the
chance to leave me.

Jackie read from my grey iris prompter.
With dew covered eyes, she explained
the suffocating moss of her past life.

Jackie told me she was ***** at thirteen
by her brother.

"I didn't know you had a brother."

Jackie then said, "I have a half-brother."

Jackie told me she cut her wrists to feel alive.

"I thought you said you had never handled a knife."

Jackie then said, "I handled shaving razors."

Jackie told me her father was a drunk.

"I thought he was a minister."

Jackie then said "My father is a drunk minister".

Jackie told me she had an abortion.

"I thought you were abstaining."

Jackie then said, "I've had *** and those times didn't count".

Jackie told me she loved me.

"I thought you moved on."

Jackie then said, "I'm allowed a past and present."

i'll admit i found him humorous upon first sighting.
he was
obese,
with one leg,
in a motorized wheel chair,
wearing large sunglasses,
a volunteer firefighter cap,
and awkward headphones, circa '79.

"hello there, sir!"
he shouted as his wheel chair and body
shifted, slanted, bounced with each crack in the pavement.

"hey, how's it goin'?"
i called back, with a warm and hospitable tone.
i've been trying to be more social.

"i am blessed, but sir, would you be so kind
as to help me get some food?"

"yeah sure. where's the food?"
good deed for the day.

"i don't know, i guess around this here corner. i'm lookin' for that pizza place."

"oh okay, i think it's just over here past the bookstore."

"alright. what's your name, boy?

"josh. and yours, sir?"

"james. josh it is a pleasure to meet you. and i thank you.
you see i'm homeless, mr. josh. and you wouldn't believe
how often people turn away from me, josh."

"that's awful."

"yes it is. but i pray for them.
they need it.
may the lord forgive them. may the lord forgive me."

"here's that pizza place."

"excellent. would you go in and get me some food?"

oh. i'm buying him food.
that's what "help me get some food" means.

"of course. what would you like?"

i returned ten minutes later with a gyro, a pepsi, and some chips.

"thank you mr. josh," he said with a bright smile, "this will be a fine meal.
now, josh, you have done a good thing. look at my eyes."
he removed his sunglasses.
his eyes seemed normal enough.
"i ain't no druggy or dope fiend. i'm just james w. green. mr. green.
i was a bass player that just fell on some bad luck. now josh, i'm asking
you as a friend to just give me a little more, so i can eat tonight."

this made me uncomfortable.
i hate to admit it, but i began to suspect this uni-legged, bass player, of ripping me off.

i gave him a 5-dollar bill. that's a weeks worth of suppers at taco bell.

he said a prayer for me.

then he asked me on behalf of jesus,
"can you look into your heart and give generously? just one big donation and who knows what could happen!?"

i gave him another ten.

"thank you mr. josh. i appreciate it. remember me? and do me a favor?"

"sure."

"tell the world about mr.green!"

you're welcome, james.

he's closing in on 18.
i met him a year ago.
he talked to me for 10
minutes about his cancerous grandma,
she had misplaced her right leg
from the knee cap, down.

running into him again
was not planned.

"yeah i'm the junior baptist minister
now."

"cool."

"i had a rough year."

"why do you say that, man?"

this conversation lasted twelve minutes, twenty-six seconds.
he had fallen in love.
a real religious lady.
they went to church.
ate after church dinner.
8 months of together.
then out the blue,
they had a heavy silent car ride.

she didn't let him in the front door,
when he got her home.
she said,
"jeremiah, i'm pregnant."

it wasn't his.

I ****** on the tips of your fingers,
you pinned me hard,
upon my chest you bit me,
"Keep it like a memory."

I will, I will,
I hold you up,
my divinity,
my epitome,
my tv screen,
my future enemy.

I undressed you in blitzkrieg,
you made it even with one blink,
upon my back you scratched deep,
"Keep it a secret."

I will, I will,
curtains always,
my prescription,
my cancer,
my ****,
my favorite season.

I find myself in a coverless Italian summer.
Grass browned. Skin freckled.
I find myself impatient,
no longer willing to entertain
the destinies of the salt and sea.
I edit video of you in a cobbled basement.
There's a knowing look that lasts four seconds.
I split it into six fragments and set it in reverse,
an unknowing, a deletion.
The crook of your neck
and shoulder blade. The red of your hair.
Some nights I hang from the rails. Five minutes.
Ten. And pull myself up.
Tented and mad by August,
stabbing ice with a little
black cocktail straw.
How can I change my
How can I love my
How can I erase my
body?
The rains wet me.
The wind wrings me.
This city we used to walk
under streetlights.
Now I bike through,
pedaling, furious and blind,
toward a place I don't know until
I arrive, and I kiss a young woman
who looks a lot like me. I ask her
to say my name over and over.
I want to fully occupy the moment,
the space, this time. Her lips
remain closed and her
hands linger on my shoulders
and no music plays and
there are voices, loud and
happy, speaking a language
that's completely new.

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.

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.