Seek a safe place
a house with long hallways that push
and bend and fold in many
shapes and defy direction
or some other alliterative pair
push ******* the wall
like it's not even there

Words are a labor of love
so she hoards them in her hope chest
scribbled, printed, on sheaths white and gold
edges frayed and faded ink, old
I see you in every small town bar
wearing blue collared shirts and a sunset belt
Sundays are weird in my brain
don't talk to me until I'm out of the rain

So I'm crawling down this highway
hearing her echo pushing minor fours
hush, push down, lift
reach out beyond continental drift

Let the gator snake around your hand
and pass me some quarters to tip the band

There's a white eagle waiting
on the creased parchment of personal
history, sitting patient yet clearly
discontent, singing someone's praises
but you're never quite sure exactly who
holding heads higher than you could ever
and cocking two, by two, by two

I almost dropped this string into the sea
the one that connects your fears to me
the pull to fall kept me so tight
but I leaned all the way back
bringing eyes to summer light

So where were these rocks that had you
so compelled, that you called me crying
out in shrieks, giving them names, a
car crash of consonants like a fence
to keep something in or out, we
weren't ever sure

How could there be so many questions
when there's only one way to enter
and only one way to leave

I saw the drought in time lapse
like a blooming flower in reverse
the expansive lakes contracting
and the rivers slowing to a crawl
in their vast meanders

I saw mass movements
glacial scale sped up to meet me
I saw new species emerge and go extinct
in the time it took for our plane to go down

I always wondered about your intentions
the way your left pinky twitched in the rain
how your beard would grow and shrink and grow with months
under high clouds how your boots would crack
toes shaking off caked mud and elements
like snow on your eyelashes
like fairytale clouds

I'm almost there, can't you see
weren't you waiting
I've been waiting an epoch
while you flew fifteen miles
I've been climbing Jacob's ladder
while you've been ascending to the top bunk
we've come a long long way
I've come a long way alone

It's a hush hush spin cycle
Words at high volumes
Dew roses do talk
Olfactory persuasion

All things end someday
and some days are closer than others
Measure distance in hours
and time in long inches

How late will the light stay
and how dark until blindness
Don't set expectations
Their whispers will find you

Why hunt hurt hardly
with soft stretchy paper
that covers your eyelids
and howls through the night

On a soft reflection
on a moment sunset pink
and teeming with memory
I consider your smile
(the cliché not withstanding)
and I find that my fascination
is indeed in your gait
(a metric lifetime from expectation)
and your echoing distance laugh
(falling closer to thought)
or your room cross gaze
floating on the professional
where stairwell jaunts
yield unexpected adventures
in smoky silver rooms
on a bridge of glittering lights
or in a quiet heated room
with beard whisker scratches
and a familiar squeezing hand

I wasn't sure if I should ask
(when you tempted and taunted)
I wasn't sure if I should say
I wasn't sure

You alone hold keys and locks
and encryption codes
it's just you holding on so tight
little inverted pyramids in palms
and fronds in shadows on milky knees

It seems absent and unsure
who you might have been and when
and why you might have been there
it seems like errant leaves on the wind
late to pick up stepdaughters
with wild hurricane hairdos
or kneaded loaves of bread dough
braided, coarse, and bright

We're dancing on live electric
wire sparks shine in cold night
with high heels tapping on the porch
on eaves mosquitos hug the light
and here you're clapping to vibrato
vocal cords strained, you invite
a twirling dancer to your circle
with swirling, howling, coursing might.

With swirling, howling, coursing might.

Something about glass
and a pinprick strain
and a rumbling whirr
and a sharp stab that's mute
when wheels are lying (untrue)
and the closest thing to blue
lives in the white sea

Oh shed your sticky pie
mouth corners, the bearded hints
of yesterdaydreams
of pancakes in the oven
starting a new life

Still love for all the loves
sing all the sings and
sleep all the sleeps
shake off the ice water
slow eyes with puppy yawns
and subtle squeaks

Unintentionally smeared
like oil pastel sunsets
and frozen elephant ears

Radiator
like hot breath
reminding you of something
wrong, stinging teeth, sweat
and sore muscles
built up with lactic acid, a changing
and slightly more favorable wind

Central air, central heat
some unsung heroes and sparks
of something new, are you sure
there aren't spikes in my
drink, there's sharp pains
in my throat

How was it supposed
to feel, can't find the right
sounds and the room stinks
of hot leather stretched
over decaying bones

Just blank, and lines
that stretch beyond thousandths
of a decimal degree, traverses
Norway to Lithuania in a day
maybe two, with favorable winds
it's hard to be sure

6/8 masked with the bass drum
on the twos and fours, it just feels like
something extraneous and unnecessary
and other couplets of two words
that mean the same thing

Anger like snakes, like tentacles
the chaos of a cephalopod
the cunning of the reptile
cold-blooded, living in the deeps
the depths of storm clouds
and waving from an airplane

Forever goodbye, river
and all the secrets you've swept upstream
just to be churned at the confluence

Ghosts in shadows
shadow ghosts
and I whisper stories through a straw
tangled nonsense
and you keep on turning
in multiples of nine
and I count your steps,
the number of rotations

What and how do hands
move so fast and are
you sure you didn't mean
to use a pattern because
the seams seem uneven
moving up these curvy roads

Why can nothing touch
the reflex under your right arm
that pushes you to numb
and tingling, but one man
can make one phone call
and millions are at war

What one wooden branch
wouldn't swing back to serve you?
Hoist you up and save your knees
from the explosion on contact and dirt
particles nestled in your skin
and twigs tangled in hair

Our wrists don't hold up
like they used to

On tightest dull contact
I waited to note
the small dots and moss in the bark
as it slid over your bones
and your yelp of fear
and the air moving under
your feeble hands grasping

Don't tell me to hold on
when you release with such ease

The puddles from last night's rain
reach up towards the clouds
like they were never there at all

Glowing rooftops and alligator skin
washed up on green sand beaches
camouflaged, hiding shifty eyes
except irises purple and pupils expanding
what does distortion look like
reverberating through salty waves

Light flashes between the fifth
and minor four like a polaroid
but you probably don't remember
that kind of instant gratification
in a modern world where tangible
means antiquated and to make
means a veritable lifetime

Buck up, kid
the world is full of shortcuts
that introduce dense foliage
and exotic invasive species
and first dances on wedding days
and bare feet scuffed and scraped
racking up years of tear
and callouses leathery and intimidating

When the rain disintegrates your cover
and your muscles ache and strain
touch your toes and listen
to birds singing in the wind

Stripped down, stripped
bare handlebars on coldest ride
into the wind and shouts loud
discouraging and dissonant
whipping faces clean with
enticed tears and red noses
pedaling harder
into the fog

Pin down butterfly wings
on frozen dissection table
and claim aviary consent
by the beating of its wings
in specific, modern rhythm

Let's all don masks
of ****** beetroot red
and live our lives like lab rats
locked in dingy basements

Desperate avoidance of pronouns, articles
and questioning favorability of parts of speech
in desperate attempts to compartmentalize neurosis
like you're embarrassed and I'm foolish
swimming in this sweater
that was never mine anyway
although in dreams it was bequeathed
and I hold tight to that reality

How can a forest be on fire
while it's raining?
How can you put aside your
shiny weapons and arch voice to smooth sounds
lyrics that speak nascent truths
excuse me, sir, if I ask quietly
will you provide some affirmation

Getting to me, getting me
it moves slow, it shouts
I never forget my luck, my two-step
I stay patient, hungry
I built a bunk bed in this speaker
are you planning to stay a while?

I'll touch your caveat if you touch mine
I'll sing your songs if you lie still

Sweat in shade sweat, shade
and speak an octave higher to four-legged foes
biting your knees and knocking you down
singing in iambs, awaiting the slaughter
and dancing, always dancing
amid triangles on triangles of smoke

Waterfalls cascade, not topple
and human pyramids stay sick and envy
consumes the crowd like a virus
so they bark and sweep like clean linens on whipping posts

Drink faster, leave town
before you encounter sticky blue fingers
before they stain your blouse and cheeks
before they make you grade papers and sing hymns
before curiosity kills your wonder
and your joints buckle and crack
with loud snaps and ringing bells

I don't think you understand the geography
you keep running in circles in my head
while I keep pushing you toward the door

Under the auspices of healing
we whisper incantations in the dark
warm breath in cold air lit by moonlight
employing physics and drawing circles
doing everything we can to hang on

Caught in the pressure, twig snaps
tambourine shakes on twos and fours
I am bouncing on the ***** of my feet
muscles tense, coiled, and ready

I refuse to fight your ghost
or engage in debate with any demons
I will let the wave reach over my head
and crash down behind me
I will float in your salty embrace
under skies gray and foreboding

Hanging in the orchid room
some smoke from someone's
clover leaf traffic jam
and disappearing words in
highlighter yellow scream
out from behind your eyelids
thinking, a memory, past fear

I don't know what to tell you
except that she's gone
and you've been sitting in
the same spot for three or four
hours and the ceiling is
falling around you

She only sleeps in specific
increments and watches
her feet, dangling off the side
of the tallest building she
can find, sweat dripping
through the marine layer below.

Reaching out
with all those side lights you love
and flickering shadows
and hopes of change skewed
by black hole pull
of inevitability

It's all different lights
warm glows and small orbs
and harsh white flashing fluorescent
and explosions

Clicks and snaps distract
absent sounds yield sharp neck jerks
and you react

Island can't stop sliding
even when dull pencils
stuck in sand push back
strong, even when your
toes are curling inward
and holding on tight

The sunburn highway is
crowded today and we're
stuck in traffic, caught
behind a particularly
thick cloud, compounding
beach  breezes and midday
shivering beneath towels

With sweaty hands clapping
beat and fast punches, the
overnight foliage blooms
and dies, laughing hard
in the bright room with no doors

Did you ever ask
how long it takes to write
you out of every verse
and all the lines and pages
crumpled in the wastebin
and beads in your hair
and lips drawn like mannequins
and some unsavory sounds
muffled and escaping under the door

Tap tap slap with accent
and headache and eyeroll
while matching shirts stain
in the same exact places
and the low powerhouse hum
hovers somewhere between C and D flat
while beachy melody traipses
over mutual bored expressions

Everything is borrowed, have you ever
built anything with your hands?
Why so soft and exhausted,
you *****? Why don't you stand and fight back?

Unknown monsters disappear
into shadows and thick smoke
leaving a trail of tired descriptors
and false intention

How many more of us are
dissolving into a creaky
puddle of salt and sweat
and glands and ducts
misbehaving, how many
of us are deserving of
a whack and thump
of never repeating
and never being happy

I need help I need
some serious help my
organs are failing I
smashed the glass and
confetti falls from spackled
ceiling oh wouldn't it be
nice if there was someone
to catch the little pills
rolling down my chest

What does it mean when no one
answers your call when you
can't pull yourself up anymore
and you cry out because you
failed to remember that failure
is a virtue, and that nobody
will ever remember you fondly
for playing with fire and violins

You scared the hell out of me
girl, you best remember how bad
it is for some humans in this world
and how you'll never jump any
hurdles, there were none for you
to even try.

They just ignore what they don't
like about you. They forget it
exists until it shows up again
and again and again and you can't
stop it because it's part of you
and no matter how hard you hack
it's still hanging on by more
than a thread.

Sticky red-faced and wanting
collapses in a pile on floral upholstery
exhausted, bleeding, and alone.

My girl is the softest planet
and I am unsure, but she says
the gaseous rings are clinging
tight to her knuckles and it is
after midnight when she finally
exhales and the room turns pink
and bright with starlight

On absent Tuesdays, and only those
of even number, we sit on docks
and watch the city float by
on cumulonimbus and pouring
and hail tie-dying the whites on our shirts
and blue eyes gray in stony reflection

Purple tangle watches, thorny stems
on a chase through the downtown streets
after falling for and off of you
under creaks of a lifting bridge

In the morning, rays and grays
peek through dark curtains and
I can hear the rain dance on
double pane I can hear some breath
measured and wanting I can hear
a foreign tongue and blue-eyed laugh
and fingers tracing cartography on
fading maps of Western Europe.

I like to hold the secrets of your past
close against my chest like bouquets
of dried flowers, crumbling in time
and dotted with sweat from
fever dreams, I watch you
sick and typing and moving
away from where I stand fast
and with increasing frequency.

It's only in magic that we
ride bikes, wet leaves caught
under fenders along a river
side by side in shadows
of a lifting bridge.

these old books and all those boys
tripping on squeaking baby toys
your mother's last apartment floor creaking
under seven or eight count teenage weight
spilling boxes of recorders and claves
from the highest shelf and a xylophone
crashing onto solid oak table
spilling the last standing mug of tea
steaming, staining, spitting varnish
resolving to small puddles
in the divets on the table

What time is it?
We should be fine,
on time in Nashville.
Muted colors and eyes
heavy, wander in
blind monotone, sing
to waving adolescents.

The light turns orange
with age before brightening
morning sky, the flood
on the tarmac transitions
to scattered blue as seconds
creep closer to the dawn.

Arched window voice in
rolling fields with fences
cry out like grass seed sneezes
from rainy Octobers and Julys.

Six pregnant cigarettes later
a mint julep poured and tasted
fingers licked while lips drunk sting
and sweat beads and rolls on upper lip.

A lean on outdoor table with
feet raised on outdoor chair and
grass greener than the impressionists
while the sevens and eights dance
with awkward hair and chocolate stains
a look from picture window
and ribeye steak and butter in the pan.

Fish and gills in the air and salt
drops on tiny blue eyeballs
so squints make their way gracefully
into every last family portrait.

I've never thought less of you
than in begging moment, flipped
on smooth river rocks, arms wide
on expanded hips, smile
fake and expectant.

You paddle kayaks in
awkward plaids and throwaway
sweaters, grinning sweetly
at dimples and polished toenails
and forgetting my name
while I repeat yours in echo.

On tall bicycle, you look down
at tear-strewn carpet, at
lingering rain, and you lean
to one side, precarious balance
while the sun peeks through the blinds.

There are three or four
seconds between the
clicks of broken crankset
on the latest nights laced
with adjacent luminosities
and surreptitious glances
and back of hand touch.

Late lake lit low on warm
weekend afternoons with
goosebump breeze and
words on platforms and
palms that touch hips
and waists and fingers
traversing the length
of narrowing distance.

Notice the breathing and
furrowed brows, a focus
on sandcastles and houses
made of cards, the biggest
problems are no more easily
solved by forgetting arched
backs, sharp breaths, toes
tingling, contented collapse.

Some sunshine mornings
yield just the right few
moments when arms and
legs entangle and you
bring your lips to mine.

Knife brandished and dusted
on dirt rubber grout grown
stuck between concrete
slabs in parking lot, stabs
the oak bark and climbing
with hand hold knots and
claw bent cramp
of forearm strain

What if the lake came to life
revealed secrets from the last
era, before manmade channels
and bridges truss and bending

On approach grip loosens
uncovered, looks echo in time
loud, unsure when muffled voices
make it past headphones
while walking through clouds
of regrettable memory

All you've got is dead
ends and some cilantro
and maybe a few basil
leaves and a book of
stamps and your feet in
the sand and the rain
beaded in your hair.

What is to be done with
foggy film and sixteenth
notes, how am I supposed
to build a bridge alone?
I can't even see the next
pier, I don't know how
you expect me to reach it.

In testing new environments
and procedures you grab
the cast iron skillet and
throw it at the wall
to see what sticks.

With sparkles and bells on
I respond with a tremor
like a California earthquake.

Soft glow and saturation
make the dullest blues into
a steady walk, predictable,
cloudy like skies in February
and November, broken strings
on the head and into the coda.

Tracing trail maps with
fingers and bootsteps that
mud imprint the floormats
of your grandfather's gray
four-door with the cracked
windshield and long
scrapes down the sides.

Keep pace with the clicks
of fingernails on wound
nylon, don't fall to expected
declarations, don't let them
beat you to the top.

She wasn't sure what she
really loved until first
flight, when it became
clear that every experience
was available, that every
agent was awake and asking.

Like a footnote on a first date
phone call and voices low
and wavering, a quip quick
and quiet, monotone, sharp.

Free foundations firm
and faltering, a game
for half a decade second to
determine if the felt fear
is fabricated or fiercely
solid, a rock in a strong stream.

Eyelid shapes appear in clouds
and up and up the plastic
primary colors, the crisp white
sheets, the springtime rain.

Cream steam in mugs with
photos of pets and birthdays
and cracks in the rim, cracks
in the handle, hanging wearing.

Calloused fingers ****** the memories
and lose track of conversation.

It's so hard to sleep
without the knocking of your
knuckles on the wall or on
my bony shoulder at 3:22am
or the tiny moans of dreams
in which you're touching my
hips or climbing fences in July.

The city lights bright in the
window mirror window distract
and while nearby sirens and
train horns sing through the
night in your presence tonight
I am noticing even distant song
and scraping of wheels on
track and locomotive groan.

I can see you curled in blue
and other devices for insulation
when I close my eyes tight in
the space where you were and
the space to which you'll return
in forever that's not far away,
in due time that feels eternal.

It's so hard to sleep
without your fingers on my
arm making circles and you
forgetting how it makes me
giggle or you remembering in
secret and smiling to yourself
as I squeal and squeeze you back.

patience, patience
jaw tight stomach purr
like lawnmower cat
like industrial brewing
like wheat paste motorcycle
like bellowing brook

adapt, adapt
bite tongue with sugar
stick to cold arches
stick to dewy lemongrass
stick to knife scissor sharp
stick to hooves and acrylic

forward, forward
ink rolled down track
onto chocolate silver boats
onto plain air flight
onto lightning scared bees
onto several unsure sets

relinquish, relinquish
dreaming fixed empty space
pushing black blanket bike
pushing solid redwood glass
pushing bowls ceramic smoke
pushing fields blue red and gray

it is hard sometimes to determine
how to proceed.

Instant chapped lip moving from
icicle breath to sweaty sigh in this
storm of memory this blizzard
of foreign hope, not sure of the
goal but **** sure of the end.

Old wood frames where you
make sure to stand when the
ground starts shaking, on the
other side of the room, knees
knocking on hard floor and
trembling fingers gripping
wet splinters, deep cuts.

There's a collective noise,
a chorus of claws and some
babbling basil-soaked bird
is hobbling across the house,
caked in ****** muddy sap.

I'm just organizing myself,
don't you pay any mind.

I don't believe in adding
round shapes of varying
diameter I don't believe
in groupings of similar
objects for aesthetic
pleasure I don't believe
in collection for sake of
comfort or to appease
some wealthy donor
I don't believe in some
mass of tangled string
that defines the universe
I don't believe in museum
display signs that ask
you to not touch I don't
believe in the science of
star symbols I don't believe
in your grasp as bait or
as appeasement or as a
subtle reminder that I am
alive I don't believe in
my eyes in the mirror as
you exit the room, quietly

I wish to be wealthy in time
to hoard it in boxes and jars
that are blue and caked in
fine powder, to keep seconds
in a piggy bank that is cracked
open every year on my birthday,
when I am excited to learn that
a year of saving yielded more
than just one or two minutes.

I wish to surf my history
to return to the moments when
it was possible to ride my
bicycle across town in 15 minutes,
when I would laugh at serious
notions and pass off my days
shielded from the rain in a
twisted building with wooden
chairs and faded couches.

I wish to lay down across days
stretching my arms up across
the calendar, reclaiming the
moments I spent staring at the
wall, falling into songs sung
just for me, wondering if I would
ever make it out alive, wondering
if the purple would stain the sheets.

I wish to return to a particular
hour that yielded the sharpest
spike in self-discovery, when I
laid with you and listened to
those songs I had heard over and
over so many times and watched
before my eyes them take on
new meaning, watched them
change the way it looked outside
my window and where my
reflection used to seem dull and
glassy I saw a glow reminiscent
of candle wax and silver beads
and box stools.

It is important to establish
early comfort, though pre-dawn
is the best time for experiments
on flowing swooping arm
gesticulations, on shades
of lips and knuckles scuffed
from carelessness and bicycles.

Where even did sleep
or when, those words
of inquiry are tight and
relaxed, small boxes
of language with nouns
punching holes for air
buried beneath verbs.

"It is OKAY to be who you are
when you are and where you
might go and how you might
get there. You can hold what
you will and teach what you
wish but you still are tethered
like the yellow rubber ball,
beat to death by adolescents."

Long winds are coming through
the building, they blow via taps
left on, they spew hot air.

Circle games, let's just move in
and stack the cardboard tubes
in an intelligent fashion,
let's pull it together for
breaking ice and watering down.

Power up and out of the office
and into the wires of emergency
rock, the tables, the walls, the
bookcases taut and tensionless
and keeping secrets of the room,
imprisoned by gravity and friction.

Unfit to wait forever I am
impatient I am noticing fluorescent
light flicker while you waffle and
waver I am sitting on the front steps
pushing the doorbell on threes and fours
if we don't leave now we'll miss the bus
come on hurry up now it's time

Yell through sore throat I hurt heard you
I have done and undone the buckle
on this bag I am waiting are you going
to strangle me are you going to straggle
will we miss this flight while you focus
neatly on the folds of your skin
come on hurry up now it's time

Restless you are restless I can hear
your foot tapping on the hard wood
and fingers on the tile I can see
where you are wanting to go why won't you
talk to me while I lay silent on the carpet
come on hurry up now it's time

I should go I should just get up and
go and let you linger and concerning
the electrical bill well once you fix
that bulb we can talk but right now
I need out of here I need to know
if you're going to follow me down

come on hurry up now it's time

Stand in dusty pew and listen
through cracked stained glass, hear
bellows of bike corpse peddlers
under glassy sky with loud sirens
that pierce the mindful silence
of a downtown service riddled with
seemingly thoughtful reflection.

Nose and eyes, I am dripping
from my face I am grabbing
at my stomach to keep it from
screaming out, to keep it from
disrupting city noise and
undiscussed knee touching and
squinted side glances.

In some corner in some alley somewhere
a young boy cowers, covered in dirt
and takes a long swig from a bottle of cheap rye.

The most sinister sounds exist in your head
or they are in the walls too, scratching and
clawing and gnashing gnarled teeth to
intimidate, initiate conversation. I, like the
elephant man, can't get people to look at me.

Crawling in the walls, crawling in the walls.

Body noises, bodies making noise all on their
own, no contact necessary, no touches, none
small swift sweet brush of fingertips on freshly
shaved legs, these noises follow marbles down
tubes of recent cell growth and death and the
burnt cilia from one or two nights up too late.

Who wouldn't want the danger? Who wouldn't
be seduced by the threat of extinction, the on
and on challenges of basic survival? I don't know
that I want to know the people who would lie
down during the apocalypse to be taken up to
heaven or who hang on to thoughts of angels
in clouds out of fear. Stop apologizing. Just stop.

Move slow through tall grass on hands and knees.

With one light slow breath I can pass pathogens
to unsuspecting commuters on the 7:05 train
who will pass by hundreds of people in their day,
breathing heavy from flights of stairs and some
pollution in the air and some emotional turmoil
that will likely resolve itself right before collapse.

Understanding imminent destruction has a
strange power reminiscent of floodlights
coating a thousand heavy construction sites
covered in some damp **** ***** snow.

He was long-winded
and going on about
physics, about gravity
and the processes with
which it associates,
about how you can
blow lightly on a
precariously assembled
house of cards to see
it fall over but if you
remove one of the great
mortared stones from
the base of one of the
great mortared pyramids
the structure stands tall
and sturdy, a forever
remnant of one great
injustice and remarkable
innovation.

In the dusty garage that
day his glasses covered
in gray soot and greased
fingerprints on side of
face and shoes with caked
mud from the recent rain
that quickly turned to
cerulean sky as the clouds
were whisked by so quickly
it looked like they were
being pulled by some great
and holy wind, beckoned
to festoon someone's poorly
timed outdoor wedding and
force crepe paper flowers
to stick to stucco walls like
wheat paste.

You think you need to
talk to a person when
you have a problem,
but those automated
systems were created
in the images of people
who were created in
the images of other
people who were
created in the image
of God or some other
restless celestial being,
perhaps a dying star
or an asteroid hurtling
and on a trajectory to
startle a species primitive
and struggling to survive.

The vast mathematical
implications that determine
the universe are sometimes
a bit too much for dinner
conversation, so our chats
turn quickly to local sports
teams and the evening news.

Who even are you anymore?
Hiding under small orange
bottles are letters from a former
life, a former name and address
in former envelopes and former
handwriting, former pen
smudges and former doodles
on the folds. Save yourself.
Save yourself first.

Swipe, snap, flint on stone
to make sparks that make
flame that make fires that
make light and heat and
allow drawing of deeper
features than really exist
with shadows moving in
erratic fashions, swinging
back and forth between
the you that was farther
from death and the you
that is much, much closer.

Giving is hard. Taking
is the easiest thing you
can do so long as you
can run fast enough to
escape the guilt that is
falling on you like trees
in a northwestern forest
with gravel crunching
sound of logging trucks
not too distant grinding
their way up small roads
and wind blowing through
trees that are deceptively
deciduous and shaking.

I'm judging you for
just about everything.
I am hard like feverish
breaths in a sweaty
freezing bedroom that
belonged to someone
else who bled in all the
corners and licked all
the walls and is reaching
out from the breathless
past to steal yours too.

It's just you and me
here, you can tell me
anything, I promise I
will hold all your secrets
like they're crystal glasses
that belonged to your
grandmother's grandmother
and made their way here
smuggled in a suitcase
with pulled out gold
teeth and brown plaid
blankets folded neatly
such that none of the
corners stuck out the side.

Sneakers sinking
into mossy muddy
backyard ground,
you extend arms
up and grab the
lowest branch of
the tallest tree and
pull yourself up
to sit atop and look
down at all the people,
holding your fingers to
your eye and squishing
their heads between.

On a dewy moonlit front stoop in
September the hiss of extinguishing
embers in an ashtray drowns out
crickets (in the city? Why?) and
truck horns from the highway
while the neighbors drink cheap
domestic beer and sing out loud
to radio hits, sounds penetrating,
muffled, through heavy doors.

Stretch arms up with back cracks
side to side, bending forward and
considering the pile of paperwork
shoved to the side of the desk, next
to a *** full of water that only
occasionally spills, only when the
chair pushes against the side of the
smooth black surface, only when
there's been one too many and the
Saturdays are full of drizzly skies
and shouting at televisions as men
jump and yell and throw themselves
into each other such that organizing
space is much less than a priority.

There is a spot on the front lawn
where grass is reluctant to grow
that on the Fourth of July held a
folding table with red plastic cups
and awkward side glances to try
to obscure the uncomfortable meets
and greets and questions asked
with eyes and loud patriotism
bouncing off the street still warm
from the afternoon sunshine.

The dust of front window and
squeaky red door pulls additions
when stomping feet on soggy
doormat and turns quickly to
mud on the concrete step that
is home to insecurities and
broken promises that fall from
mouths well trained and bike
accidents of a karmic nature.

Squint and smile into the dark
with toothy grin that mocks
and muses and beats down on
insecure eyes spread wide with
admiration seeking your
go-ahead, the few moments of
your life when you drop your
shoulders and admit that
someone else has a point.

Touching hand to doorknob, a
waver. Hand reaches into pocket
and pulls out another. Lighter
flicks into shadows lit by a
moon too bright. You sit back
down and listen to the night.

Face down on the turf
and dizzy from impact
with hands on backs and
words of encouragement
and reassurance that you
probably just got the wind
knocked out of you, that
you'll probably be just fine.

Step up slowly and clutch
stomach and wave off
trainers and push through
dull roars of boos and
applause to find a metal
bench and a warm towel
in appropriate colors for
wiping sweat from above
eyebrows, in order to avoid
obscuring precious vision.

It is hard to see sometimes
where lines live on the field,
which can make it near
impossible to display
adequate decision-making.
Constantly presented with new
situations. Time is of the essence.

It is hard to know when
to let go of the ball and
when to hang on and
shove your way through
the line like it's your job,
like someone is depending
on you. It is easy for some
to move onto the next play
like the last never happened,
and to stay focused on the
goal without dwelling on
the day's past events.

But when you're catching
your breath and laying
on the artificial surface,
pushed over by a force that
seemed much greater
than yourself, you run the
events of the day over and
over again in your head
and wonder how you got
here, and why you are
grinning so wide.

You learn so much about
yourself in the moments
when you're helpless and
mangled on the ground.

"God is a place you will wait for the rest of your life."

In all my dreams you're drinking Nick Drake's pink moon out of a red and white straw
Standing all alone in a black coat
Sinking into secret places where no one else dared go
And laughing; I love you when you're laughing

You're always singing my favorite songs
Where we were young, and laid awake through howls
In these spaces, I've returned
Trying to feel how it felt, is supposed to feel

In all my dreams there are greasy hands and frozen feet
Tiny tanks pushing through snow and ice
Painting all the walls blue and gray and black
******* and hands and eyes shut tight

I drive through Nebraska and Wyoming and West Texas
I drive through meadows of dead grass and think
Twenty-one on midnight and hiding in a tall booth in a dark bar in a cold place
Home, because I was with you

In all my dreams I am reaching out and up
Seeking earth takeaway memories
Lifting skinny fists, bare, raising my arms in surrender
Through the mystic on all the lighthouse adventures in the world

Tonight your ghost asks my ghost in earnest:
"How strange *is it to be anything at all?"

Remember art class in the big room
with spray painted concrete ground
where you were given a tiny mosaic
square and asked to recreate it on a
much larger piece of canvas when
you knew full well you weren't an
artist and you never would be? You
spent the time mixing blue and white
acrylic paint together on a small piece
of a former gallon of milk, adding and
adding until there was more than you
would need but the color matched
perfectly and of that you were proud.

Now you're older and you know a bit
more about hue and saturation and how
difficult it can be, working with imprecise
mediums, to do that, to make something to
fit a very precise set of guidelines with no
missteps, no miscalculations, no question
as to its perfection. You wonder if the color
really did match back then, or if you are
remembering something that never really
happened, if you wanted it bad enough
that it changed your recollection.

That day, everyone's large square canvas
pieces went together into designated
spaces on the wall to make a composite
image and all the blues were different
shades and that made you frustrated
and nervous and disappointed in the
other third graders sitting around in a
circle on wobbling stools wearing dad's
old dress shirts as smocks and throwing
brushes at each other and giggling as
eight-year-olds do. You stared at the
tidal wave on the wall made up of all
these disparate pieces and you told
yourself that you'd notice when things
matched as though they were meant, as
though they were destined and divine.

You see the waves lapping at the beach as
we stare out at the vast Pacific. We stand
on the shore and you tell me that my eyes
match perfectly the colors of the Sitka spruces
reaching their arms out wide behind me. Your
flannel shirt matches the gray November sky.
It took all the way to Oregon until it happened
again, but you keep your promise to yourself.

You notice the matching colors. You
smile to yourself and look down at me.
You grab my hand and pull me closer.

1:22.

She puts her phone back on her bedside table next to a small blue vase overflowing with fresh white tulips. Her feet are tucked behind knees still jeaned and under thick blankets. She lays down. She sits up. She turns on her side to the left and pulls her shoulders down. She turns over.

1:30.

She wants him to call. She wants some water. She has a song stuck in her head. Don't **** with me, don't **** with me now. Something doesn't feel right. It's just a little too cold. It's been just a little too long.

1:43.

She still hasn't gotten water. Someone is dead or dying in a swimming pool, somewhere. That person got a lot of water, she thinks. She thinks about holding his hand. She thinks about being next to him. She wonders if he wants to be next to her, too.

1:47.

She closes her eyes and can feel him kissing her, his hands on her hips, his lips on her forehead and temple and cheek and neck. She is reaching out to him. But maybe he went too far away and she can't reach him anymore. Maybe she pushed him too far.

1:54.

She stops that train of thought, brings it to a screeching halt. She stretches out. She sits up and finally fills the water glass. She looks outside to dark gray and yellow skies and wonders what he's dreaming about, drug-induced, nauseated. She thinks perhaps if she can sleep, she can meet him there.

2:07.

She puts the phone back down next to the vase. A tulip petal falls on her hand. She places it gently on the pillow next to hers, closes her eyes, and heads in his direction.

Sky spits ***** flecks of
conversation onto swift
lips and the tooth knife
draws blood from grin
in the evening that is
probably too cold or
maybe just right.

I climbed the warehouse
wall in my head while
you watched my eyes
move up and over and
around and down back
to your denim jacket for
the sixth or seventh time
that evening and then up
to meet eyes with spots
from fluorescent lights.

I told you a story and then
we rewrote it for just a few
minutes in several different
locales with varying degrees
of passion and curiosity while
lessening the distance of feet
and hips and gaze to try to
feel something new and same.