down isn't what
you think it.

the way the sun don't
go 'round us.

misdirected on a hit
(fucky little bullet-dodger)

we ripe for nothin',
curse-tailing the spit-shines.

just back-and-forthin',
back-and-forthin',

till the burden
drop, till the sun-

she gone.

file me away,
till dusty, till the drawer
squeaks, and won't close.

collecting archeology,
no place for me, out
of time, like us (were)

back wrecked and filed
with matching spine,
few papers to yellow.

catch me Sunday.
what'd you forget?
you no boxer yet.

file me away,
a pencil you forgot
to finish chewin'.

You can't tell now,
And don't ask how I know
But I promise
My bones are blue.

I've not been a fish
For thousands of years,
A near past though as
Sailor and whale.

Treading stones like a quake.

We've dipped so recent, so well.
Ache rests like a sinner
With naught to do.

I'll return again, indeed.
But not till you've seen

Just as I promised,
That my bones are blue.

Her soul on its side
Is a brick I won't fix.
Her soul on its side is a star.

I burn as she cracks,
The shine laying tracks.
I follow them, picking up scars.

I'll linger not long here,
The scent soon may fade.
Though I'd easily gather crumbs from afar.

I'll catch what I can,
This poet- a man.
Her soul on its side is a star.

Eyes set
with raven silhouette,
and she's not unlike my twin.

And with every effort
to take her pain,
I breathe.


I've practiced long
to draw these lines.


I found her face-


                                  relief.

there's a dent

right here,

in the couch.


Christmas Eve.