god made man to re-caulk the bottom of the bath tub for his daughters to splash in,
man made god to send his stillborns someplace nice.

people don't take enough showers in the dark.
those that do- or have know that
one of two things will happen,
either you feel yourself fill up the space like some gaseous soul
or you shrink as the void consumes you.
it differs from time to time.

when i stepped on a dead mouse- or a crushed leaf- or something
and the milkweed was long gone
and my hands were wet. and fingers cold.
i stammered onto the edge of the opposite curb.

we all have a box of cigarettes stashed away somewhere
whether that's a metaphor or not.

but i was walking to the reservoir on another one of my nocturnal visits.
and i wish i could remember all the things that i've learned about the night sky
or at least see it better by the spotlights on the side of the d.p.w. building.  

and i forgive you like i forgive the mothers washing the last of the dishes in their kitchen windows
and i forgive the low, traffic-lit branches on the way back that cause me to crouch to the side
for fathers must scold their children.

and in 1955 there were black and white movies about madness and ******,
a man who comes back to find his father dead.
and at the end he discovers that he himself, had killed him.
four years ago.
forgot it all- fell to pieces

there's no reward for the children.
there's no love during a power-outage.
   
a dog-biscuit god,
lonely on the 4th floor landing
tired.
biting his knuckles
as the night sits on her hands and waits for something spectacular to happen.  

somewhere a huntress is hurting.
somewhere we finally live.

we are beautiful- clean, like some ocean drug,
smiling out of nervous fear.
sitting shirtless in the dark,
slapping our fingers against our thighs to warm them.

we wanted heroes
but god kills like a hero.
we found a crumpled hand and a cigarette.
saw a girl hiding from a killer in her closet

man with crow on his collarbone-
for some hot, damp woman
lost a piece of our prize in the coming of the sun
***-runner's daughter,
sign of the father.

we need no such badge of courage on our sleeves.

everyone thinks themselves the hero of their own story,
but that simply can't be true.
for those of us that accept the comfort of villainy,
it is much more liberating.
its not  that i adhere to any great evil,
its just that i don't care for such vanity.
heroes ****
villains simply walk away
god kills like a hero.
I watch and walk away.

resurrection



animal vegetation, visitation rights and eight days of blue sunshine

on a red.
window.


bird feeder world washes yellow sparrow birds sundial weather watch the water get so warm

all the lines drawn down your arms-
the skin on your lips
desperate and parted for pine-needles and paper-dolls,
tear me around you
pass up opportunities in favor of numbness
shuffle around me like the wet stones under your feet,
you barefoot rain catcher-
moody making idols from chewing gum and string-
we've got you.
you've showed me the flesh under your fingernails
and we've got you pinned.
you scrape out paint from cracks in your hands under a two-skinned sun
and you're burning.
burning like a furnace full of hand-made nails-
like a black-tar roof-
like a ***** wrapt up in hot white sheets
what of it then,
your head, your hands, your hair in your face-
what of it for the fire that
need not, know not, will not what you want,
we will not
we.
rain in the shame of me
she ran after me
she drilled small pilot holes in my rib-cage and left me to fall asleep on the floor