you are not
really gone. i
say this to myself.
when the lights are
low and the music
is quiet, when the hum
of some distant furnace
is the loudest sound
that i can hear.

i still think of you
from time to
time; testing the wind
with your feet in the sand;
or striking notes like
the death of love
in the purple halo
of twilight on your
front steps.

i still reach for you
from time to time;
but my hands
return to me
empty.

i still miss you
from time to time,
but I cannot secrete
the venom from your
backward glances;
nor could I tell you how
our future shone with golden
strips of sunlight,
a pinpoint of it
dancing in your stratosphere.

so, i’m writing the future
in the corners of my mind
and convincing myself
that nothing is permanent;
and that one day, you
will return to me, with
the sun strapped to your back,
re-gifting that which had been
taken when you left me
smoldering in your wake.

If you have never seen a baby dream,
you know nothing bout longing;
About missing a divine place to come here.
Such innocence swaddled in such a small body without control.
They communicate with God
more effectively than any prayer I’ve ever heard.
So take a lesson from babies and children
to learn how to really be men
With a racing heart that should be in a marathoner,
he struggles to open his eyes and wake.
Their heavy breathing is the only sign of the errands
they still run in heaven.
They quiver their lips as if to tell you a secret only God knows,
but has been dying to share – he just needed more innocent lips
When their eyes close they revisit that heaven they just left;
seeing more than our eyes could ever tell
In their inexperienced bodies their eternal spirits struggle to move
Even as my arm goes numb
he’s the only thing that I should be holding in that moment
His sweetness makes me want to be a little bit... more
As I think “what will you be one day?”
I realize it doesn’t matter
That today he makes me a little better
The first time he squeezed my hand I knew it was God
who picked us a millennia ago
to live this life as uncle and nephew

Get your hand
off of my thigh,
it does not thrill me.

It makes me try to recall
the last time that I shaved.

But you seem less concerned
with the light fuzz
that could possibly be covering my thighs
and more interested in finding out whether or not I'm wearing a bra beneath this shirt.

I'm not.

But I'm leaving to go home
and shave
before you have the chance to find out.

what I really wanted had little to do with
cupcakes

and everything to do with the way
your eyes followed my
lips & tongue
as I pulled the first taste of icing

into a mouth that has been
ready to tell you "yes"
since before you formed
the question.

You trace the
stretch marks on my hips
with your fingertips
silently challenging me with your eyes to
keep still.
I have not the concentration or the will,
and my fingers
find their way into your hair,
pulling you closer
and closer to me.

Until

the only distance between us
is the invisible ocean dividing
our souls from one another,
A distance that cannot be crossed by a simple
mingling of breaths.

And yet, we persist in these attempts,
too stubborn to admit that we are both
beginning to tire of swimming.

When you approached me,
I was smoking a cigarette
listening to Macklemore
outside my favorite coffeeshop
in the rainy city

You said something,
but I didn't hear you,
so I removed my headphones
as you asked
"Could you help a veteran out
by giving him a cigarette?"

I said yes,
asked you where you had fought
you told me Saigon

"Oh yeah? Vietnam."

you looked at me
dressed in a coat
that was a color of blue
not found in nature
face of canyons
and told me
"We got those ******* good.
We did.
We got those ******* good.
Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
and you walked away.

I was stuck in a trance of
What the **** was that
and yeah,
we did get them
but I don't know if I'd lay down
Agent Orange
and call it "good"
Take Civil and Guerrilla warfare
and try to tie it next to butterflies
and welfare checks

I don't know
what you think is good
But me?
I can't find any other words
for 1.9 to 3.9 million casualties
in a war that should never have been fought
Than sad
and wrong

I wonder how many Vietnamese women
gave birth to half American babies
That they never wanted
that didn't even desire to participate
in the act
of child making

I wonder how many
Loved their children anyway
how many were honest with them
how many of those children burnt that odd color of blue
that should never exist in nature
But then again
neither should the bombs children are still unearthing
in the North
and South of Vietnam

I want to know how many of their parents
learned that American
is another word for a *******
How many of these parents
grew up telling their children
never trust an American
until you know where his gun is pointed
because he's always got it pointing somewhere

I want to know
If you would understand
where Saigon, now ** Chi Minh city
is on a map
if you had never fought there
Would you be on the streets of Portland
alone
asking a college kid
who was not alive
when you fought in Southeast Asia
for a cigarette

I wonder where are you going?
How many people did you ****?
how many are you sorry
for killing?

and then I realize I really don't want to know.

Your shirt was missing a button
and I couldn't help but notice
but you told me I was pretentious
so I pretended not to see it
but all day long it bothered
me and I couldn't help but stare
at the way the fabric bunched
and nobody seemed to care

The water hollowed the stone,
the wind dispersed the water,
the stone stopped the wind.
Water and wind and stone.

The wind sculpted the stone,
the stone is a cup of water,
The water runs off and is wind.
Stone and wind and water.

The wind sings in its turnings,
the water murmurs as it goes,
the motionless stone is quiet.
Wind and water and stone.

One is the other and is neither:
among their empty names
they pass and disappear,
water and stone and wind.

gone are the days of laying
with my head resting on the pillow
as thoughts evaporate with the ease
of turning the faucet to wash
away the lingering toothpaste
from the porcelain sink.

here are the days of dreaming
of past wishes for the new is too complicated
like the attempts to but together the new
desk with instructions in chinese as
two-hundred pieces are scattered on the floor;
like the nightmares that crawl into the ear
with the vehemence charge, seeping
into the desires with the black gelatin
infecting, with the cinching way of
mold spreading vastly to the too ripe
fruit sitting in the corner of the refrigerator,
forgotten.