blunt tips of bent cigarettes
were incisive as razors -
sliced wrists weeping
bright red sentences,
spattered unborn to blank paper
and turned into statues
so the dead would always remember
what they did,
never safe in the graves
in which they'd took refuge

but blue on blue
was ever her color;
blue on blues
seeping from old sins,
deep, hidden within spidery veins
that traced pale, soft *******,
finally filling mute lips as she slept,
subsumed in oceans of color,
blues that gave stories, as waves to shore
subsided, reclaiming their pain,
and cleansed sand once more

What end to life!
a collection of furies like stone turtles
arranged on the mantle -
just a few dozen last words
tucked among ads for
Old Spice and Polident tabs
unread, used to line
litter boxes in Cambridge
or wrap fresh fish at Hay Market;

then, someone pausing to wave at the sky
missed saving the drowning woman
by years, if he'd tried,
finding questions in every answer;
child curled in hard lap of his mother,
her cold affections of words
blew from dead lips like old wishes
without tender touch or wet kisses;
but that life continued,
if lived only blue on blue

He was lean,
a hungry coyote,
tattoo'd, cynical,
probably coming down
from smoking a bowl.

"I dig your tattoos."

"Thanks man. I got a few,
I'd like a few more,
but that **** costs a lot of money."

His hair was shaggy,
reaching for his shoulders,
he hadn't shaved in a couple
weeks.

"What does that Asian script
on the back of your neck mean?"

"Oh,
it means Black.
Ya know?
Like my last name.
It's like a ******' football jersey.
Just in case I forget my name."

We walked down
darkened corridors,
he made me nervous.
Not like I'm going to
**** my britches nervous,
but that this guy is older,
wiser, not afraid to say
whatever the hell he wants,
and probably doesn't want
to waste his time, kinda way.

"Nah, dude.
Burch threw me a bone on this one.
I picked up most of my writing from
taking a course on Creative Writing
with Professor Jamison.
The dude was ******* legit.
He went to Yale or some ****.
Two Ivy Leagues anyway.
You would'uh loved him.
He made bank too.
90 grand,
more than anybody else I
know on this campus."

He talked satire,
he talked poetry,
he seemed ready to devour
any unsightly barrier in his way.

"It was nice to meetcha'"

"Hell yeah, you take care of yourself."

Why do I have a feeling that Mr. Black is going to drastically
alter
my life?

The spring sea rising
and falling, rising
    and falling all day.

j
       u
         s
          t
        a
     l
      i
       tt
          l
            e
                b
                     l
                       u
                     e
                s
          i
     l
   v
    e                        
         r              
              w  
                    h                    
                        i           p
                             s           e
                                            r
                                           f
                                            u
                                                l
                                            o
                                       f
                               s    
                   m
        o
           k
   e
      blew
          from
              your lips
                     to wisp
                           right by my nose

and though it put the candle out
          it drew
                my lips
                      to yours

The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together,
bending all,
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine—
like no leaf that ever was—
edge the bare garden.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.