there is a certain liminality to airplanes
even the ones now fixed to the ground,
all museum tours and rot held at bay,
for a while.
yearning for the strain of metal,
a voice calling out safety procedures
(don't tamper with or disable the smoke detector in the lavatory),
and someone who loves them to come back to brush
knowing hands, since gone to claws, over their instrument panels.

in the air there doesn't seem to be a good reason
for planes not to tilt,
tilt down inexorably,
till they kiss the earth again.
all crumpled aluminum and fire
and a small black box
to tell those we left on land
some of how it happened.
I can tell myself about physics and engineering,
about this being my second flight today,
and about how (if nothing else) I made it onto this plane.
the turbulence pays me no mind.

touching down, touching ground, it hesitates.
there's a ghost of movement still.
a waiting. a breath.
the rush of air and engines,
not gone so much as paused,
halted only for a moment.
I am a little afraid of flying
but I'm more afraid of moving on
moving past this moment,
all muscled grace and limbo,
a portion of earth held up in sky.
then we land and walk to baggage claim
while behind us the airplane-
the airplane holds.

satellites above your head
are blinking down not quite morse code:
they definitely wouldn't mind hanging out
whenever you have the time.
when they can't sleep
they think of stories you tell and rest easier for it.
stars and light from stars
that aren't anymore clutch
their metaphorical hearts over how good you are,
at how kindhearted you are, or if your heart is rage and fear
how kind you manage to be anyway.
the moon sees how hard you are trying
even on the days you don't leave your bed.
the moon loves you the way you are and she'll
love you when you change.
when you look at yourself and all you see is a parasite,
a waste of air, poison waiting to escape and it tastes
sour sour sour on your tongue and you realize
stopping this before more people are hurt
is your most compelling duty
the night sky wants you to stick around.

you smell like water boiling
with maybe a teaspoon of salt in it.
like safety, like a prelude to food,
like the reason everyone gathers in a kitchen during a party,
like home. which is cliche and sappy and ultimately true.
my least favorite poems tend to talk about how
cliche they are and how it's true anyway.
it's true I don't know another way to say this.
not yet. i think i'll learn.
there are constellations that you can only see from the other side of the world, that i've never seen.
the southern cross, phoenix, carina.
constellations I've seen over and over again.
orion, cygnus, the pleiades.
I've never seen them in your eyes. I'll never see them in your eyes.
There are still a whole universe of stars behind them.

what do you say to the ocean at your door?
lapping at your welcome mat
leaching dye with every push, every pull
slip sliding under the foundation
rendering it sodden. fertile ground
for the mold that you breathe in
with every pull, every push
of salt air entering your lungs.
what is there to be said to the ocean at your door?
there are claims that
making sand castles on the shore together
knowing the tide will come in
is still worthwhile
journey as opposed to product
but this is your home
being eaten away
this is where you live
and the tide is coming in
can you talk to the ocean at your door?*
anymore than you can talk to the ocean
in your mind, eating away at the levees
you worked so *******.
eating away at you.

drown an old shirt in a moonlit creek
hold it under, cover it with rocks
it should be plaid
but polka dots will serve
leave it there
you don't need it now

cut your fingernails as short as possible
try not to make them bleed
but if they do
that's all right
it's all all right
rubbing alcohol though

you are going to get sad
sometimes over and over again
choke on your own spit, up and out
bite your hand like an apple
till blood leaves for a while

blinking lights like petrified fireflies
on and off, off and on
you are so thirsty always
and the liquid in your veins
might as well be the yellow paint you swallowed
because the happiness wouldn't come
won't come

go back to the stream
there should only be rags left
soft, crumpled, and wet
bind your wounds
cool against your skin
feel the heat of infection settling
and breathe

I saw a blue heron
stepping with intent precision
through my fogged up sleep.
movement odd, off
(it's always wrong, it's always off)
with too long legs, proportions run askew.
maybe that's the exchange
the kind of grace
where you can feel the push
(pulling back to punch brick walls, but not too hard.)
(you wouldn't want to hurt someone.)
composed of tensed sinews, taut muscles.
that predatory focus
held, released.
the frog might
(urge for a little blood pulled past the surface, a bit of scraped knuckle)
have felt it coming but late
by just enough.
Sometimes they get away
(it's not a trap you can gnaw out of)
frogs are also good at this
predators in their own right.
(try anyway, spend energy you haven't got)
maybe it's about control
too fast and the frog will sense it
so going slow
(you wouldn't want to go too far)
is probably for the best.
weighing the calorie expenditure
there isn't a lot to waste
(actually, you always want to do that)
another meal struck off the list
and a little kid watches-
stricken. fascinated.
wants, like a hunger, to see it again.
(again and again and again)

we go hungry
go sordid
drugging ourselves with lack of sleep
slow blinking
fast talkers

go dancing
spin circles
sweat out
but don't completely lose our
nerve
nerves

spit on the ground
it's a shande, a shame
drinking our coffee black
like momma did

we don't like it anyhow
tension click clacking up our spines
staring wide eyed at the world
three am's spouse

faithful as anyone
**** failing us
closing opening

staking out cafes for the company
pretending to wait for friends
ordering small pastries
portioning them out slowly

they don't even taste that good
sour stomaches
lip biters
failing to locate

sights for sore eyes
only finding sites for the healthy
the normative
the well at heart

you painted your nails again. spanish moss, this time.
it's meant to be a signal. an intentional marking of the body,
your (white) body, to say something. say?
the cat scratched your hand up pretty well-
you even bled a little.
there's something pleasing about the pink lines,
dents and pock marks,
knuckles russet where cold air and washing dishes
ripped away. it hurts, just a bit.
you keep your nails short, another signal.
sign in, out, off. signifying nothing?
these things are relative. related to other markers.
relating to who is doing the looking.
you are often curious as to what they see in your hands.
when they look and they don't see you,
despite the careful work you put in,
it hurts, just a bit.

stick and stones and electricity
that's what you are made of.
there is a spark, a burning to this world.
it'll hurt, when you fall. i know it will.
made you those wings myself.
try to imagine: lit match, candle flame,
bare feet in the snow.
turn your head, avert your gaze
but your hand reaches out, body leaning forward.
resistance can only last so long. i should know.
you tried, baby,
and that has to count for something, right?
sticks and stones and sparks
that's what you are made of
what you will return to
in the end, your end.
hurts to even think about
constellations flickering in and out of existence
my solemn oaths following right after.
it'll hurt when you fall
wanting to so badly despite
or maybe because.  i know. I know.
made a mistake in your creation
handed down a flaw
one of my very own
sins passed along
side by side with that ratty teddy bear.
stitched right in.
i didn't mean it. too late.
this wasn't what i wanted. too late.
you burn the way i do
you'll burn the way i do.

semantic satiation: look at a word or hear it
over and over and over until it stops
looking like any thing of any sense. becoming
any random collection of syllables
any old snarl of letters:
love love love love
love love love love
love love love love
love love love love
love love love love
till meaning slips away.
water evaporating from your hands
before contact is even made.
a shiver at the edge of your sight,
disappearing before the movement to turn begins.
matches that don't want to be on fire,
covered with wax; you wanted them water proofed.
staring into your own pupils
watching them contract and then dilate
until they are no longer any part of you.
until they could swallow you whole.
gilt edges framing your face-
not your face, anymore.

if you practice this enough you stop being afraid.
or fear takes longer to arrive.
at least it looks different when it gets there,
love.

I'd like to talk electricity,
chemicals,
living better through

I take medication
and when I don't
I feel
effortlessly
lost

thoreau would be so proud
I cry at provocations
that I would sneer at
in better days

waiting for better days
I can imagine them coming
warm and sweet
sunny fall days
nippy but still safe

even winter seems like
it could be all right
in better days

but they aren't here yet
I want to burn myself on them
push myself nearer their fire
than I can stand

I cannot bear to run away
the ink runs off my maps
staining my fingers
till everything tastes bitter

trying to redraw in charcoal
the places I know must be there
but all the familiar landmarks
are dragons now

and even when I do
even when I remember
and I even eat
and sleep
like I did when I was
ok
years ago, in a country I can't find
now
that might never have been there in the first place

even then
I'm maybe not drowning
but the air quality
is a little suspect