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

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.

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

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

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

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.

With heavy breath, I bring
pen to page and finger to string
and hold left hand over right, to steady
my shaking wrist as I tremble,
the echo of your voice resonating
permeating
bouncing off every sinewy fiber,
ankles and hips and lungs and heart
beating for you.

I try to write of other things—
of clouds and car crashes and
mysterious men in dark suits with trombone cases and silencers,
or big whaling ships off the coast of Japan,
cold lights singing through marine mist—
but the trains of thought all lead to your
"I love you,"
to your
"I want you,"
to your
"I'm all yours."

The lyrical cadence is tired,
reminiscent of the classics and
traversing paths well-traveled.
The major keys with clean sound—
no reverb, no filter, no distortion—
are boring and basic,
and the vocal sickly sweet
and the floor toms empty
and the ride cymbal whispering
shhhhhhhh
over a cavalcade of harmonics
in a complete circle of fifths.

You are the fairy tale,
the "once upon a time"
and the "happily ever after"
that feel fabricated passing through the lips of others,
but more lucid than taste and smell when
falling through yours
mine
ours
pressed
pushed
touch
close.

It all devolves
into tangled limbs
bright colors
and whispered, made up words.
The ones that exist simply won't do.

I write every song
every single ******* song
for you.

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

in the early morning bends
i begin to wonder, about my friends.
the tall order serves as disconnect
the scrutiny overwhelms.
i tap my heels along the sidewalk
pondering the ups and downs of our sideways dance
in the freezing cold that bleeds nostrils dry.
as our days turn into nights
in a cycle true and clear as glass
will we hang on, hang on, hang on
and let the nasty weather pass?
the clouds are brewing inside me
a voice repeating "let it be."
the fight, as all my friends could see
would be the force that set me free.

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

I don't remember if it was
two or three, the hour of the
night (morning) or the times you
said that you'd like to be nowhere
anywhere, tall places, submerged
locales, you said you wanted to share
these spaces with me, you wanted to share
those places.

I tried to breathe on cue
with the rise and fall of your
chest, but your breath fell irregular
with gasps and sighs like a rollercoaster.
Your arms fell at your sides on top of my arms
at my sides.

What is that noise?
There's a crying baby and a
scratching sound -- the record
needle catching dust in the groove --
and footsteps and water from the hallway
skipping into solace
in this glowing, blanketed fortress
where we hide, grinning.

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.

Even in the patchy fog of six am this town smells like the inside of a paper bag. Western Oregon holds itself, quiet at night, focused in on the valley or out towards the dune-laden coast. The hills are small and yet somehow daunting in the dark, driving through the curves past all the tiny towns. But six am, Eugene, the bellowing homeless men and the city workers, the overly commercialized strips and the people that don't belong here, don't belong there, don't really belong at all. We push them all together here.

And inside it all feels the same. The cold fog lays in my head, pulling down my eyes. New York City, Chicago, Atlanta. Chilled and tired and begging for something to call home. Something clean, not like the subway cars or the street corners. They're calling me: So, how're things on the west coast? A long long strip of lonely. It feels cheap and old in retrospect, creepy like abandoned warehouses on the side of the . . . freeway. I don't know what they're expecting, but the dust blowing through sure looks hungry.

All the hard to reach places are painful and sour. All the corners are dark and starving.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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 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

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

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.

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.

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

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