The leftover scraps of

that meal we shared

so long ago

turns over and over

like a cycle in the dryer

leaving the smell of that rotting sweet

the bone which I buried

and wish to retrieve

I, so willingly,

would spend hours trying to

crack the code

crack the egg

cook it all again

feed me feed me

tie the sinew of

my flesh to your

inspired

on fire

meat and potato recipe

hard to tell if this hunger is a want or a need

Round and Round

Spinning wheels

Like the tops on top

of counter tops

never end

again and again

and suddenly stop

the circle breaks

left to roam

these pieces make

wholeness taste

so puzzlingly

ornate

I am wrong to call you home

home on wheels
wheels I can't stop

I was wrong to call her home
her home was lost and I was lost with it

"Don't paint your body"
"Only paper for coloring"
I am not wrong, I am not
I am not wrong, I am not

I will let my hands
catch all the tears
which wash the blood
from my stained body
and use those tears
to paint a new body
a new vessel
which I will call
home

I wish my fists would unfurl
like the curls of her hair

Lay my hands down
separate from the rest of me
wrapped in tired vines
which held on too tightly
to dreams which have long died

Despite the wilted pedals  
I still wait for
the open coffin nightly
Dream lie,
play pretend with me, seek and hide

these overgrown weeds
knots of blame to which they are tied
to loosen or to lose
which is the virtuous side

I am able
though its not my type
I call it winning when I
bring the dead back to life

Shadow and play
Peripheral vision is slighting
The tease is messy
But the fall is neat
Give me your thirst
Encased in fragile bones
Spilling over with tension
features which mock
the feather lust

of poise and nerve

Maybe this has nothing to do with you
Perhaps this is a frustration of my own lack of commitment
to my own life
to my own happiness
to my own love
Certainly I know little about you
Uncertainly I am attracted towards you
like a magnet to the center of the earth
it's nature baby I can't help it
Inconceivable I could be wrong
Conceivable that I could be wrong about being wrong
Surely there is an answer
to this endless puzzle of flightless thoughts
which I so passionately present
as it may be, to you