what to do?
no god to listen to me,
just one who ***** on me.

what to say?
no lover who will stay true to me,
just brief windows of making misery.

where to go?
my brimstone parents' pattern,
is all i've ever known.

how long?
will Kyri keep my line of poetry
painted in red by her bedside window.

when will the realization hit?
the young girls chasing me,
see they are better off without me.

when will
the ones i want
succumb to the web of me.

what to do?
to pull the splinters from the pew,
to get god another Job.

how long will it last?
the states and kingdom ain't united,
all the old folks are begging for a tyrant.

will we ever find comfort?
being alone together,
staring at the maddening sky.

Packed in tight,
labored breathing to my front, behind, left,
and right.
There was sharp college affiliation division,
mostly clean shavens, greying womens,
a meager family of lost souls,
unified in their desire to levitate,
from the daily ties
and coffee grinds.

The airplane dragged its feet,
as we cousins stared through windows,
holding the remnants of home in our lungs,
as the plane began to recline,
the engines sang a maddening song,
our eyes widened in exhalation.

The city dissolved, landscapes dissolved,
in its stead, opaque white filled our viewing screen,
but in that sacred moment,
when we rose over the roughly hewn clouds,
when holy light, holy sky broke through,
we exhaled,
as the sun cascaded over each ridge and bluff,
the kindness of directionless was finally restored.

She's always walking through,
no claws ever get to sink into,
I'm sidelined, foaming, chomping at the bit,
buying bouquets and greeting grins,
there seem to always be too many others around,
we could sneak into the bathroom-discover what the fuss is about,
I remember you dressed all in black,
the second time we collided-- it was the funeral of my tact,
I hope to sweat the summertime to smithereens,
with you, my distant venom queen,
if it happens--what luck,
if not-what the ****?
We sway to stolen melodies in hazy suburban cities,
we fight tooth and nail for the upper hand of witty,
looting,
shooting,
moving in opposite directions in the name of discovery,
do you want to learn revelry?
I do, I do, I do.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
are children that hate them quite a lot.

your house won't save you.
your finely pressed slacks won't save you.
your tan, ageless wife won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
is hunger nonstop.

your bill of rights won't save you.
your republican party won't save you.
your daddy of great renown won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
is circular plot.

your ****** won't save you.
your tax deductible donation won't save you.
your patience in line won't save you.

some people think they got a lot,
when all they got,
are a few friends at a future funeral.

I could kiss you,
but what's the point?

I could never push his kiss
from claimed territory.

I could hold you,
but it would only remove me.

You would cry into my shoulder,
talk about what he "used to do",
I'd be furniture.

A proper fool,
Wiping his tears from your eyes.
Listening, as you re-asked all the whys.

I could tell you I loved you,
but you'd simply say:

"I gave my love to another,
I think of him every ******* day."

I could give you my time or blood,
all of it would equal none.

You are my poison,
and I picked you.

You are my poison,
but I refuse to kiss you.

gurgle, gurgle,
groundcurrent unsettled,
moon unseen like stars
fever dreamed,
dissonance for the melody maker,
dissonance for the retired risk-taker,
dissonance for the hips of homewreckers.

civil, civil,
no minutes can afford the divide,
aside, to the crystal buildings and
the sky's sputtering cries,
compliments to your forehead's ****,
compliments to your forefather's rash,
compliments to your aforementioned crash.

the current, the current
rides hot and merciless along thigh,
dribbles down chins and nightgowns,
dries--a permanent badge of scattered life,
electroshock seeps from self-made holes,
electroshock seeps from smoldering bowls,
electroshock seeps from typecast roles.

volcano, volcano,
grumble and moan.

volcano, volcano,
clear cord and stroke.

volcano, volcano,
grieve me in ash.

volcano, volcano,
I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad.

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.

Eve, may you leave the skeletons of snakes behind.
May 8 o'clock come before 9,
and despite a promise to yourself to wait,
start pouring the wine and write.
Write eloquent, hallucinogenic, and as the wine chimes in --
laugh as you catch the words growing larger on the page.

Eve, may the wind crawl in, rustling the blinds.
May the paint on your latest oil dry,
and when the relevant kids ask you what it means,
tell them you're just happy to be here,
and daydream of being carried by the cradling wind into the amethyst sky.

Eve, may your memory serve to keep the delicate moments stored.
May you recite the holy luck and beauty of each calendar page,
as a 4-year-old recites an entire storybook
her gentle mother has read and re-read to her.
May you sleep like that child in the comfort of fervent love.

Eve, may you dream beyond the cosmos, beyond God's heaven.
May you find rest in your own empyrean visions.
Let the beasts of the field and the birds of the air take on new names --
the monikers you choose -- let the the writhing oaks and the monuments of man
bow in a celebration of your quiet grace.

And Eve, when you wake, may you wake like a giant.
May you be 60-feet tall and still in awe of all you see,
incapable of escaping the grandeur -- indulgent only in empathy.
May the sons and daughters of this sphere raise hymns.
May the sons and daughters of this sphere find only solace in your shadow.

Eve, may you take another notice of me.
May you tell me apart from Adam, Alan, or Allah.
The rib you returned -- I never wanted back.
So, when the calendar runs out of pages, I pray the past is past.
In an act of divine forgiveness, I exit counting you as a friend.

we bought a flag when you enlisted.
we were so proud.
we prayed for the war to end
when you journeyed out across the sand.
when you lost your life,
we didn't care how long the war had to go on,
you could not die in vain.

Still hexed, unemployed, another daylong bout between too much silence and too much noise, I turn on the TV and watch our show. Season 4, Episode 13, "Whitecaps."

And it's the scene after the Russian mistress has called, and Carmella—played to long suffering perfection by Edie Falco—kicks Tony out of the house. The scene sticks with me, the way Carmella's body shakes, the deep grooves of her wrinkled face when she says she can't stand to be embarrassed anymore. And I'm caught off guard by two things, one simple, the other not so much. I think about how you must of related to Edie Falco out of the gate, on a surface level. You both share a prominent nose, one you were always self conscious about, but a nose you found beautiful on her face. I always wanted to ask you about it, but I never found a gentle enough phrasing. And the other thing, the complex thing, is how the whole scene runs parallel to our second break up, the bad one, the early morning fight. I remember you striking my chest over and over. I remember grabbing your wrists, trying to restrain you, and you wriggled out of my grasp only to strike your head on a cabinet. I tried to comfort you, and you wouldn't let me drive you home.

You walked. I couldn't find you. By the time I got dressed, you'd found some path unknown to me.

Gentle enough phrasing. That's why it ended one, two, three times, isn't it? My inability to be straight with you, to say how I truly felt without massaging the words to safeguard against any conflict.

I wish I could watch the show with you again. I wish it was 9:00 p.m. I wish we both had work in the morning. I wish we'd watch one episode too many with the dogs snuggling in our laps. I wish we could listen to them paw at the bedroom door as we undressed.

But we've jettisoned ourselves, haven't we? It's irreparable. I think of something you said about depression. You told me that when it was bad, really bad, you could never feel clean. I don't feel clean, no matter how much I wash. I don't feel clean, no matter the quality of deed, the grace of the statement, the preciousness of a future good memory unfolding in real time.

we weaklings
were weapons of warmth,
lulling, sanctifying,
losing ourselves in orbit,
in constellations of opticals,
and oh, how the voices would
rise from below us,
and my, how the fires would
fall all around us,
but it was always you and me,
wrapping ourselves in freedom,
speaking naught of love,
only acceptance in hopelessness,
and gratefulness at each others'
words and actualized souls.

we are here.
barricaded in a smokey room.
lying in sheets seven days *****.
we are here.
cut from falling in line with laugh tracks,
no more oooohs and ahhhs at digitized images.
we are here.
we've stopped pretending to like the symphonic pieces.
you'll listen to your ****** femme rock,
and I'll listen to Dan Bejar fake his english accent.
we are here.
the journey doesn't make sense.
but we found our place, and I've got one request.
we are here.
so, please don't take me for who I am.
who I am is ****.
force me into the colors,
make me drink the fevers,
cast me in all your favorite plays,
read me Hank's poetry,
make me a new holy.
we are here.
no need to waste the opportunity.

We put the dark light in,
turn the stereo on,
we've kicked out all the chairs,
and I'm complimenting the suit Tyler wears.

The summer sun, the breeze,
all your trees,
that stuff is for the bees.

Here it's intensely personal conversations,
with brown-eyed girls we've never seen before.
Here it's slow dancing to early Tom Waits,
and leaving bread crumbs of shameless hints.

The freedom is found
when we under-sleep
and over-drink,
when we fall on the carpet
and laugh because it
shouldn't bring us this delight.

Tyler will make up mixed drinks,
and if he destroys himself tonight,
well, I'll be in the front row,
with a pillow and a joke.

The worried eyes are limits.
An unbridled gravity
keeping everyone down,
and tonight they aren't invited.

Our minds will spiral up,
as our bodies cling to the couch,
we'll talk of old friends and
dying relatives,
we'll swear forgiveness,
and be surprised if the
sun decides to rise,
we only live for the night.

I can still hear you saying,
"This too shall seem trivial,"
everytime this city gets me down.

I keep a picture of you in my wallet,
hell, I've got pictures of you all over
the apartment, and even
a collection of your hairpins,
under the middle cushion of the couch.

It's hard not to waste hours writing
about the summer I spent
all my money on semi-precious stones,
and you blew yours on hotel beds.

When that Mike-Something weatherman
comes on the television,
I still remember your remarks
about his multitude of chins,
and I get sentimental for the sound of my laughter.
It was much finer then.

I've watched wonderful loves
throw bracelets I bought for them,
I've watched quaking bodies
beg to rekindle the flame,
but with you I expected something more.

I hope whichever Carolina
you settled in treats you well.

my father's name,
down the drain.

my mother's heart,
picked apart.

my old friend,
lost,
no chance to mend.

we cowards
commit our crimes
in circles.

we cowards
are blind, deaf,
yet loud.

his father, his mother,
once second parents
to me,
left sleepless and
ashamed to know
me.

a redheaded girl,
who i never had
a chance to know
let her tears go.

her mother burning,
anger at my
abuse,
deserving.

my old friend confused,
asking himself,
"was it distance that
divided us?"

we cowards,
so used to the
constant grind of our
lives,
never seek to make anew.

we cowards
let it build.
let it fall.
let the remains rust.
let our pride run wild.
let our eyes shut.
let our ears close.
let our hearts go cold.

if i thought i was dead
before,
i'm about to learn what
it really means to disappear.

i feel the judges whispering
condemnation.

i feel the pointing fingers,
the claims of high treason.

this coward is sorry.
but no apology will ever justify,
no eulogy will ever satisfy
your view of the guilty.

this coward is willing.
willing to listen,
willing to feel your pain,
willing to die,
die tonight,
if just one of you saw it
as gain.

the movements
      well-rehearsed,
                the dialogue
                                      forced,
the breath heavier than necessary,
but the sheets were still sweaty, your fingernails still digging,
                       the movements
                   felt alright,
       exhale love,
inhale war.
our eyes sewn shut, as we'd vision trip for some foreign bed,
we'd bite our lips at each new venue, deeper, faster, finishing,
crash at each others' side, look at each other for the first time
                                                            ­                                             since we began
                                                                                                                            the night.

spitting merlot felt like wealth
boxed or no
what matter, she thought
as she watched the violet
run the rill of his back
rain on a saturday morning window

kissing teeth felt like youth
awkward sure
but nostalgic, he thought
as he watched her transfigure
17 in striped T in torn denim
Daddy's keys in a low-lit suburb

rainbow grocery,
a couple bait shops,
novelty trap parlors,
all dotted south fork.
everything was made in
old-timey, wooden cabin
fashion,
and the town knew no symmetry.


we pulled into the grocery store parking lot.
the store’s awning welcomed customers by
sagging without mercy.
we crossed the threshold,
entered into another time, space, culture.


the first sense to be stung was smell.
it smelled like cancer.
the kind that eats our grandparents
everyday in their stale, locked homes.
the woman at the register was ancient.
too old for retail.
she was clearly bitter, but
well polished in rustic hospitality.


and if i wasn’t already uncomfortable enough,
there were basketballs above the jellies on
aisle 8.
who does that?

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.

Rachel Ray is speaking.

The room in which he lays, passed out, continues on without his permission. Dead moths feather down from the less-than-steady window unit. A cockroach delights in the cabinet. The peanut butter the man swore he wouldn't touch, on account of his lack of self-discipline, self-denial, self-awareness--maybe just self--is not sealed, the lid at an acute angle, the cockroach rubbing its antennae together.

Gluten-free fish fry with a modern, chic potato salad, Rachel Ray says.
Easy to make on a work night or after the kids get out of soccer practice.
I like easy. Do you like easy? What about fast? That's what I thought.

The power flickers as the power always does when someone on the first floor of the apartment building starts a load of laundry. The man does not stir; he dreams.

But more than that, more weighty a subject than one two three lovers or falling from heaven, the muck of common dreams, submerges the dreamer.

The scene is this: The man is a boy again, three years younger than his waking self. He is in military file with boys his age. It is raining; it is night, the sky a starless miasma of electric blue.

There are men, old men, flat-topped and heavy-browed, walking the rows, handing out hammers. The dreamer receives his.

Now, a man the dreamer knows--just knows--to be the general says, lift up your hammers. On the count of three you will strike the boy in front of you. If you should survive, congratulations. You're now a man. If you shouldn't, we say thank you and goodbye.

One, the general says.

The dreamer does not lift his hammer. Won't lift his hammer.

Two, the general says.

In anticipation of three, boys start striking, skulls fracture, an odd harmony rides the air, hundreds of arms bringing down hundreds of hammers, hundreds of minds punctured, spilling hundreds of future glories and failures.

The dreamer still stands, hammer to his side. His peers groan at his feet. He is alone.

The general, taking long, purposeful strides, approaches the dreamer. He, the general, lifts the hammer in his hand, and with a singular word, three, strikes the dreamer in the forehead.


And it's just as simple as that, Rachel Ray says, presenting the boiled potatoes, baptized in mustard and vinegar, topped beautifully with celery and finely chopped shallots. Now back to our fish.

Here in the west borough, down three or four blocks from the epicenter, the shocks come to you in tides — little, electric, delightful in some alien way. Even the sounds of instant decay ring pleasant. The concrete, the bricks, the mortar, the Corinthian columns, the suspended ceiling tiles, the florescent bulbs, the coffee cups, the desktops, the family portraits all fall from their stations, screaming toward the cool pavement. It’s a temperate Thursday in January and the weathermen continue to talk in stunted disbelief. A car catches fire on Malcom X Boulevard, and weather is the wrong word, you think, for this phenomenon. It’s rage. It’s bitter. The violence of the sun-catching glass smacks of vengeance and this whole thing is man-made or, at the very least, god-made but not anything so indiscriminate as weather.

There’s still the pleasure of it though. The collapse of the old world. And there’s nothing but rubble on the corner of 9th and Dominican, and for the life of you, you can’t remember what stood there before. In your evergreen bones you know one thing: whatever anodyne brick institution reigned will be replaced by that glorious glass and that glorious steel, 100 towers impaling the sky. The future is now. A tremor. A cloud of dust.

For about ten seconds the windshield is worthless yet you speed up, hurling yourself through the fog of destruction into a **** world, feeling essential and brilliant and and and.

There'll be a crowd encircling you, I'm sure.
They'll nod at your every word, imperfectly mimicking
what people look like when they actually listen.
I'm sure the crowd will be people we know.
Old high school friends with real estate ventures
and gyms and multi-level marketing schemes.
Most of them will be doughier, their cheeks permanently
stained red from a decade of drinking.
Most of them will have photos of their kids on their phones,
and they'll tell you they're "sure you don't want to see them"
as they pull out their phones and show you photos of their kids.

I imagine I'll approach, stop just short of the circle, pretend to bid on an Alaskan cruise.

As you talk about redoing your floor in a faux tile that looks just like the real thing for like half the price, you'll see me.

I hope you'll think of that kiss five years ago, outside of a bar in Norman, when the world entire bent for us, when all traffic silenced for us, when all people vanished for us.

Maybe you'll think of the time we ****** in a twin-sized bed, beside a wall decorated with newspaper clippings, which I thought made me look worldly and learned. I admit now the look was less academic, more serial killer.

And maybe you'll think of the manchild fit I threw when I found out you had moved on after I moved away.

And maybe you'll be totally present. Good to see you, you'll say. You will ask about my family. We will discuss the cooler weather. We will talk about your business, your kids. We will side hug and say goodbye. We will take the same route to the same exit. There will be children coloring the sidewalk with chalk. We'll each borrow a piece. I'll outline you; you'll outline me.

i won't hurt you
unless
it's in self-defense.

he lies bloodied.
his idiot legs standing *****.
he's roadkill on cruel pavement.
and the rest of the world straddles
what's left,
between their perpetual tires.

The rains came. The road called.
And the cities we coursed through on the way to Ulysses,
to Broken Bow, didn't they always seem to be waiting on a change, longing for us, as if time moved only at the sway of our arms?

The rains came. The road called.
And there was a sanctuary of our own, a quiet place to lay our heads and listen, always listen, to nature's nightsong. How many mornings did we awake to find a new sweet creature in need of a home?  

The rains came. The road called.
And we stopped counting the number of wheat fields we had walked, the caves we had explored, the antique stores we had perused, the cups of coffee we had poured.

The rains came. The road called.
And there were hospital visits, both of joy and joy's opposite.
Time did what time does best, shaping and reshaping the people
we love—and that's what we know best, isn't it? Love.

The rains can come and the roads can call,
and we delight in what we know of love.
Look, love is not a flower with a single season.
Love conjures prehistoric time.
We love not as two,
but as all the men and women who have gone before.
Fathers rest in our bones like mountain ruins.
Mothers carry our blood like river beds.
And the moments that brought us here,
could we even discern the major from the minor?
Why would we diffuse love of its wild alchemy?
Love rivers through us, guided by every path and climate a fate improbable, beautiful, holy, endless, intrepid, guarding, forgiving.

Anna,
the young lions won't want you
forever.

Eventually you are going to
get tired
of keeping it tight,
of batting your eyes,
of applying the gloss just right.

Anna,
what will you do when the invitation beds
come to an end?

Eventually the lions will settle,
while you gather cobweb and callus,
while you smoke cancer and wallow in cellulite.

Anna,
find a boy who makes you feel like the sun.

Ultimately,
he's the only one who can save your soul
from all the crimes you've done.

It's a cool Monday, October, and I want to send you a *****
little text for old times' sake;
summon you with a spring of the finger,
an autumn of the tongue.
Shake me, will you? Center me back. Flay me on the table.
The life domestic's got me blue again.
Where there's a will, there's a hotel room;
where there's a hex, there's an incantation.
Spill, fantasy. Melt the collar. Drift the tide.
This fix is temporary; this fix is inadequate;
this fix isn't much as far as fixes go.
Cuff me anyways. We'll figure the
rest in the morning.

Make me bleed,
dig in,
shards of ancient revenge,
words of Christmas mints,
eyes of cellophane.

If I scream,
tell me I'm the last of my kind.
Sympathy is a joke,
the fire is stoked,
my misery is going for broke.

Make me believe,
the love in your eyes is earnest,
stamp it out with your apocalyptic brows,
tell the four seasons
have not been cruel enough to me.

If I bite back,
muzzle me, baby.
Tell me I'm a silent movie lost in the era of talkies.
I'm in your woods, traveling with a broken walkie.
I'm the prey your hungry mind has been stalking.

If you don't destroy me,
how will I ever create?

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.

I shed everything but
the pencil skirt and stockings.
I suffocate and sundry and
drift into my boy's case of
suede leather, where he
trusts me to miscalculate
his competence and its
Saturday, the morning,
and he says, I love you
in the morning, Sarah.
There's stroke and nip,
at every turn of the trail
an adoration for what
he calls my soul, and
he asks for the routine
obliteration. A violence
always whispered.
I'm velvet everything.
Velvet tongued.
Velvet *****'d.
Each portal and contour
a soft place for him to
land, to dispose of his
fear of death,
but what am I supposed to
do with it, the fear of death?
But this is my burden
with the light skipping
through the blinds. Simpler
times, there were, I think.
And a last name he means
to hang on me, always soon
and very soon. Dishes in the sink.
Eternal moonbeams and sun rays.
This is it, I'm afraid.

With every kiss I cast,
I hope I hold you right,
my little wishing well.

You told me my sad eyes,
cut you like hot knives,
I buried my head below your whys,
did that make it alright?

My pretty one, of you, I'm terrified,
my monstrous actions you pacify,
sweet words fall from your sweet heart
and warm whatever purity is left in me.

All our barriers broken,
the secrets gently spoken,
all alone in my room,
I took some time
to resurrect with you.

The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****,
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.

Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.

Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.

Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.

She said I was her second favorite.
Not that she'd met a better man,
but that way she left room for

improvement.

She wanted to believe in fidelity
like someone wants to believe
in Jesus or pure justice.

She asked my complex thoughts--
the wordless ones. I asked for an explanation.
She only stared, and I realized I
couldn't tell if her eyes were
green or blue.

She stabbed her ice with a straw
and told me to stop calling it love--
what we were making. That was
fine. I had a few other terms in mind.

She said nightlife and fanfare were
for homosexuals. So, we spent
most evenings eating Chinese takeout
in a rented room.

She vomited on the Fourth of July,
while fireworks erupted. I sat in
a lawn chair, and tried to remember
how she looked in that black A-line dress.

She needed to know my plans for our future.
I said there were endless open doors in front of us.
She said she only heard the sound of a door
closing behind.

She was a free spirit. And I "put it on trial."

She said she needed me

to change the channel.

She said when we ended -- and we would end --
I'd learn a valuable lesson:
a woman is the only creature
that doesn't have to die to haunt you.

Irreversible -- the decision --
yet there Harvey goes on halcyon stroll,
thinking there's a hue that's 1 part Anna's blue blood
and
1 part his simmering red that would be appeasing to
third-party perspective.

Their blood has mixed before;
instead of rich violet, the colors
oiled and watered -- staggered --
too proud to blend, and
yet there Harvey goes into the park,
listening to the children laugh
and he thinks how a violet child
would suit him and Anna well.

Worse -- the hope -- than any wear
either person has suffered,
hope has a funny way of keeping
one suspended in the air,
and a funnier way of
chaining two together that hope
in the same vain.

You know how the Lorax spoke for the trees? I feel the need to speak for my four-year-old niece. Not because she can't speak -- she can and rarely stops once she starts -- but because there are certain concepts time has yet to grant her. So until time does, I got you covered, Lucy.*

Mommy,
you call it the "poetry" of a child's sleep,
ohh 'n ahh, she's so, so sweet,
I call it child's "pose." Not the yoga neither.
I'm posing and rolling and cooing
biding time until you're tripping on the
Ambien retreating to a dream.
You're only reprieve.
'Cause when your *** is asleep,
I be mixing up the Play-doh,
red and yellow, black and white,
'till it's 50 shades of brown, alright?
Dirt pies from the backyard,
put 'em by the brownies
in the morning world-weary in your pajamys
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

Over my shoulder, drinking from a thermos --
stumble in your step mean you gettin' nervous--
hand me piece of paper and two crayons
macaroni orange and swamp water liaisons
these coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
These coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
"Color outside the lines, eh Lucy?
don't play by the rules," my Mommy say,
but I been around long enough to know dat
'dese rules pay. Outside the lines?  Is just uh sloppy.
Been outside the club in front of the line
with my fellow shawties.
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

Chicken and fries three meals-a-day.
Chocolate milk three meals-a-day.
Tricycle boys three wheels away.
Hands on your hips can't make me stay.

Lego blocks lodged in your skull.
I've hid the Advil. The Dayquil. Drank the Nyquil though.
Alright, alright, time to get confessional.
All my ***** accidents are intentional.
I melt my own Barbies to feel alive.
Snort glue sticks just to get hella high.

Mommy, you've got a messy ketchup face.
Mommy, you've got spiders in your hair.
Mommy, you've got ***-*** on your pants.
Ha. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Bi-otch.

Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?

My face distorted,
my mouth twisted and
shrieked under the broken remnants
of night.

I shook, shook, shook.
I finally wasn't numb.

Be thankful you didn't see her.
her face did shatter,
her fragile frame quaked,
in her driver's seat immobile,
directionless once again.

We talked outside of coffee shop,
she was cute,
I looked like hell.
"No, no you can't."
She said in reference to my eye's honesty.
"I was supposed to be strong."
She quivered,
Her mouth locked open,
she was more real than I had ever seen her,
through her cracking voice
she spoke with absolute wisdom,
and it magnified my misery.

The previous night found us
on the stairs outside my apartment.
We smoked,
she started a heavy talk,
I was relaxed,
introspective,
ready to release the last
bit of cancer she swore
she could eat.

Two moments cut deeper than
anyone has ever cut me.

The first was when she released
a melancholy howl,
and spit, "You're my best friend"
through the tears and the runoff
from her nose.

The second is when she threw the bracelet.
The reminder would be too much,
then she somehow slipped the "Be the change" ring
into my back pocket.

I didn't want them as reminders either.

I put them next to the mosaic she made me.
The one I never bought a frame for,
the one that pleaded our favorite Beatles track,
"Don't Let Me Down".

I built her up
to let her fall.

A Tower of Babel to wreck through
                                                         ­               secrets,
                                         ­                               nomadic revelry,
                                                        ­                and speaking in barricades.

my yellow eyes roll
as salt slides from the sides
of yours.
these sobs,
these sobs are familar
to me.
clearly etched into my memory.
it was the same with She,
that red-headed *******,
it was the same with Nature's Criminal,
and every pore of her persian skin.
my yellow eyes return,
and my stomach turns,
and my muscles tighten,
and my smile lightens,
and my burden builds,
all the while,
your limbs twitch,
your lips stitch,
and your eyes run scared.
all the while,
my cancerous tongue lay still.
as your accusations
ricochet and fall flimsily all
around me.
i sharpen my teeth on the notches
of your spine.
remind you,
you were once wholly mine.
silence the cries.
tell you everything is fine.
your blood begins to flow.
the worst of me you get to know.
i'm a monster.
i'm a ******.
i'm a plaster cast
of your prince charming.

let the yellow eyes roll.

and you flow perpetually.
forsaken and lonely,
longing for a match.

a match to ignite,
a match to absolve,
a match to make you shine,
all pretty,
all light.

When the fat ***** spat in my face
and called me a hippie,
I wasn't sure if it was
better or worse
than being called a hipster poser
in the city.

The fat ******,
the ****** poets,
the lesbians,
and the saliva
are all the same.

Pointless plot twists in
a headache of trite storytelling.

And you can ask Plato if his
"is-ness" really meant all that much,
and you can ask Bukowski if he
found the celestial kissing the *******,
and you can ask the drunken Catholic dukers
if the clover has a **** thing to do with it,
and you can ask the caterpillars that
don't want to be butterflies,
and they'll all bark the same interwoven tune:

nobody is right,
God is a coward,
my boss owes me reparations ,
and any dumb dog spouting off superiority
needs a steel muzzle and a molecular transfusion.

is a governing *******.
is lamer than Carrot Top cracking ***** jokes.
has a secret blog called "Pro4Life4Guns4God".
mentions the sexiness of my beard every time we hang out.
spills coffee on his crotch every time we brew a batch.
paints his **** for sporting events.
won't drink alcohol.
***** himself daily to clear his head.
prays for forgiveness every day after ******* himself.
is a box in a cage.
is beige, nursing home wallpaper.
is a real barrier,
to really living.

soft yellow lamp light,
dark blue sweat stains--
a snarl,
a birdsong,
Nadia's accusation finger,
my obituary daydream--
the tension nooses my neck,
gimme more.

Nadia ***** her eyes--
fires a machine gun's worth,
I die a thousand times,
with a smile and an unopened pack
of cigarettes--
Nadia keeps blackmailing me--
******* send the message,
I've never been more bored
of the unravel--
I've never been more sold
on arrival.