a century for every
year I pretended
we were supposed
to be strangers.
Were I to tear
off my clothing
to bandage you
I'd be left naked
and cold
but sometimes
I feel that is
how you want me.


Running from
and running to
are the same thing,
you know.
And now as we embrace
we have the monsters
coming to consume us whole
at our backs
but in your eyes
at least we go down
together.

I was tired, and looking
for a restful place
for my head
and you thought
I'd sleep forever.

My eyes are open now
and the alarm clock is ringing
and the birds are chirping
and it is dawn,
and I dare not wake you up
as I leave.

I wanted
to maybe hold hands
but it's hard to do
when you're drowning
and trying to keep
your head above water.
Your current is pulling me down
and another riptide
will surely **** me.

Maybe one day,
I'll see you ashore.

Two strangers
desperately throwing coins
in a fountain
from empty wallets
to wish the other
peace and solace
as I check the schedule
for a train that never comes
after a morning of
trying to go back to sleep
to savor a few moments
of a dream I had
about a person I met
who had a smile that
made me think of
clean sheets
and the smell of
butterscotch
and bourbon
and I hear a whistle
down the tracks
at the station
and I can't help
but think of
that one time
I made plans
that fell through
and I had to
mechanically
change out of
a cocktail dress
that I left on the floor
with the other laundry
I can't stand to look at
but can't stand to do
and that I sat at
the bottom of
the shower
but could not
be angry
with anyone
but myself
And I frantically
check the schedule again
and I don't know which train
is not coming
but I know it is mine
and I do not feel late
nor early for it
and a vendor
calls out to me his wares
and a child pulls her father's hand
and a *** jingles coins
in a styrofoam cup
and two lovers depart
on two separate trains
and a man chases one
he missed
and I beg for mercy
that too, never shows,
and I meet two strangers
and throw my last
quarter into the fountain
and I ask that
God saves us all.

Is this gossip or sweet nothings?
Our we sharing love or pleasantries?
A nickel for my aching soul,
a dime for who I pretend to be.

In armor so long stands the knight
there is no person underneath.
The looking glass and photographs
are who I pretend to be.

Tell me
How long has it been
Since we last danced?
It was before your smile became obliged
And your laugh had the scratches on it
Of a beloved record
That was played too many times.
And it was before your caress
Turned to a machine
Stamping labels
As the conveyor belt turns.
And it was when little nothings
Were wholly felt
And not some incantation
Invoking response.
And it was when we held hands
To stay together
Instead of to avoid
Falling apart.
How long has it been?

How dare you sing songs
When you don’t understand them?
And how dare you have dreams
That you never think of
And thoughts that you never plan for
And plans that you never dream about?
Where the mask ends and the skin begins
I’m not quite sure.
But have you ever felt as passionate
About anything
Or anyone,
As you do about your ******?
Have you ever put forth as much effort
Into your aspirations
As your ******?
Or is that all
There is
To you?

I built us a home
Inside a globe
And it was small
And confined
But it was ours.
Until one day you broke it
And put sunset eyes on the sea
And headed towards the horizon.
I cut my hands trying to pick up the pieces
But ended up sweeping them away
As they crumbled to dust.
So I set out the other direction
And dedicated myself to topography
Not cartography
Because there are people who own maps
And people who use them,
And I vowed to be surveyor,
And never a historian,
And I vowed to never share a map
With another lover again.

Tired modern gypsy
Hopped up on junk
And street-side bebop
That only he hears
Tells me he’ll read my palm
For a buck oh’ six
Including tax, of course.
He holds my fortune for a price.
He can see clearly
If he drinks his malt potion,
And rubs his magic ball
Behind the dumpster.
He grinds ashen hands together
And it makes the sound
Of a snake hiding
In the grass.
My hands are wet and sweating
From fear or nerves
For who am I to judge
The prophet come.
I show him my hand,
He examines it between his own.
His are covered in dirt,
And stories.
Mine are as clean and pale
As a newborn
Quietly sleeping.
His eyes are rolling
As he drags
Haggard thumb with
Cracked yellow nail
Down the lines of my hand
Muttering in tongues
Or slang
I can’t really tell.
And I reach the pinnacle of fear
That suspends time itself.
“I got bad news, missus,”
He says
And gently closes my hand
With the reaffirming squeeze
Of a mother that wasn’t mine.
“The world ain’t nothing but a giggle,
And it’s all laughing at you.”
He looks out to the sky
And with a loud guffaw
At god himself on the horizon
He slaps me on the back.
“Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry.
We all stuck here.
Even the ones walking.
We all stuck here.”
And this time I looked up at the sky too
And I laughed at god and the madman
Though I knew not which was above me
And which had just held my hand.