my grandmother was born
a squalling baby
in the sun of the Ukraine,
her mother too young
and a father too violent.
she led her through the wheat fields
whose long tresses tangled
in her pale ankles
to a pond behind the farm
where she tried to drown her.
a passerby intervened
and raised my grandmother
with his wife up the hill
on their own.

she spent her life
not cursing the hands
that sought to destroy
when they ought to have held
but thanking the hands
that pulled her
from the freezing water
on a crisp morning
in the fields of the Ukraine
lungs still full of breath
and eyes full of trust

Every crumb, a cake
Each flower, a bouquet
I hoarded tiny treasures
And tucked them safe away
And though I knew you’d go
I’d always hoped you’d stay
I had interpreted your vice
As a tender, warm embrace.

Red rover, red rover
heart of gold
and bed of clover.
chip in the pocket
and twenty months sober.
times moving fast
and I wish it were slower.
an old open wound
that longs for some closure.
a day in the sun
and a night in exposure.
twenty-five years
yet it's already over.

We are expired prime
with nothing left but ribs,
a derelict butchery.
I gave myself 30 more seconds
to count every line in your hands
before I left
but it would never be enough time
for you have so many wrinkles
from pinky promises
and crossed fingers.
I will remember
your slumbering corpse
as nothing but idyllic
and ignore the temperament
the early morning would imbue you with,
cross and out of sorts.
You will become a year to me.
I will remember the landmarks
but no longer the husk of your laugh
or the salt of your sweat
or the look in your eye
while you roil in the midst
of hysterical laughter.
You would never
come down from your pedestal
to find me.  
I studied this man
as though he were art
and not history,
blissfully unaware
the course was pre-requisite
to heartache.

You are nothing
but cheap thrills
and a midnight laugh.
A half cigarette
and nothing new.

You make no promises
but a thousand excuses.

You can name all 50 states
and their capitols,
but you never learned how to love.

The water of your knowledge
is above a sieve of apathy
and I don't know if any
of the bits left are
worth anything at all.  

You are not who you say you are
but you are who I know you are,
and I am what I am
and that is an afterthought
after thoughts
not worth having.

Your sleeping breath sounded
Like the whistling
Of a crisp and frigid wind
And it’s howls between
The narrow and somber buildings
In a slumbering winter city
Whose chatter is smothered
Beneath a gentle and bitter
January snow.

The glass fogs cold from a muddy brew
Matching the sweat on your brow like morning dew

Falling into love and falling into routine
A waterlogged man seeking a mountain’s dream

Termites gnaw at the wood in my head
The chores, the anger, the existential dread.

A penny for your thoughts, a dime if you know me
A quarter for investment, a dollar for apathy.