When he went through the windshield, amid the shrill fracture of glass and above the curling guardrail, he did not think of Junebug or his mother or his boyhood summers at Lake Tenkiller. He thought only of deep-grooved ritual: get in, turn the key, press power on the radio, turn the air to 1, and buckle in.

He saw the guardrail. He saw the guardrail and knew, or half-knew, what would come next.

He headed straight for it, going sixty, sixty-five.

He used to play a game to break up the monotony of interstate travel, back when he worked the night shift at Wolverine. He'd close his eyes for as long as he could while driving. He began with five seconds then ten, no peeking, eventually making it an entire minute, speeding down I-44 alongside the eighteen-wheelers and the farming crowd. It was around 5 a.m., sure, but a minute still.

Before he cut the ignition he turned off the air and the radio, always. His dad told him it made it easier on a vehicle when you started it. A mechanic later told him that wasn't true. Not even remotely. He still did it.

He saw the guardrail and thought of it in the same realm as driving blind, a game of chicken ending inevitably in forfeit although victory and loss weren't clearly defined, only the edge tangible, the heart rate going mad, the blood rushing through the tributaries of the body.

He thought brake. He even said it out loud, alone in the car. The air was on 1. The radio was on NPR, some story about "hacking" your closet. He saw the guardrail. His foot pressed down on the gas harder. He wondered what it'd be like to fly over the edge then he was flying over the edge.

He glided above the first snag of rocks, small cuts on his cheeks burning against gravity's drag. The car did not. While the engine continued to hum, pieces fell around him, shards of glass and jagged bits of the valance and bumper. The radio played Muzak. They were between segments.

He turned the air to 1. He hit the power button on the radio. Why didn't he buckle the seatbelt?

His screams came out in long monotonal bursts, automatic and not quite human. Turn the ignition, power button, turn **** to 1, click.

He didn't think about what he'd hit first, tree or rock. There was still some fifty feet to fall before that decision was made for him. He didn't wonder if the car would land on top of him. He got in. He turned the key. Radio on. Air to 1. Then he clicked, didn't he?

Marie didn't call tonight. Marie. Her shape started to form in his mind, waiting for him on the couch in that stupid shawl, her face lit, a bright blue, by the glow of the television screen.

A tree, he hit a tree first.

The rough bark tore at his face, chest and arm. He could feel the tree bend then repel him. He took a branch to the rib and continued his fall to the stony earth. He hit the ground and kept falling.

Rachel Ray is speaking.

The room in which he lays, passed out, continues on without his permission. Dead moths feather down from the less-than-steady window unit. A cockroach delights in the cabinet. The peanut butter the man swore he wouldn't touch, on account of his lack of self-discipline, self-denial, self-awareness--maybe just self--is not sealed, the lid at an acute angle, the cockroach rubbing its antennae together.

Gluten-free fish fry with a modern, chic potato salad, Rachel Ray says.
Easy to make on a work night or after the kids get out of soccer practice.
I like easy. Do you like easy? What about fast? That's what I thought.

The power flickers as the power always does when someone on the first floor of the apartment building starts a load of laundry. The man does not stir; he dreams.

But more than that, more weighty a subject than one two three lovers or falling from heaven, the muck of common dreams, submerges the dreamer.

The scene is this: The man is a boy again, three years younger than his waking self. He is in military file with boys his age. It is raining; it is night, the sky a starless miasma of electric blue.

There are men, old men, flat-topped and heavy-browed, walking the rows, handing out hammers. The dreamer receives his.

Now, a man the dreamer knows--just knows--to be the general says, lift up your hammers. On the count of three you will strike the boy in front of you. If you should survive, congratulations. You're now a man. If you shouldn't, we say thank you and goodbye.

One, the general says.

The dreamer does not lift his hammer. Won't lift his hammer.

Two, the general says.

In anticipation of three, boys start striking, skulls fracture, an odd harmony rides the air, hundreds of arms bringing down hundreds of hammers, hundreds of minds punctured, spilling hundreds of future glories and failures.

The dreamer still stands, hammer to his side. His peers groan at his feet. He is alone.

The general, taking long, purposeful strides, approaches the dreamer. He, the general, lifts the hammer in his hand, and with a singular word, three, strikes the dreamer in the forehead.


And it's just as simple as that, Rachel Ray says, presenting the boiled potatoes, baptized in mustard and vinegar, topped beautifully with celery and finely chopped shallots. Now back to our fish.

You know those tears you get
When you can't stop laughing
Because you don't want to
And they just rest on your cheeks
Until you finish your laughter
And you wipe them away

You know those tears you get
When you watch a sad movie
And you feel like the characters are real
Even though they're not
And the tears just rest by your lips
Until the movie is over
And you wipe them away

You know those tears you get
When you say goodbye to a friend
And you don't want them to go
But they need to go
And the tears just rest on your chin
Quivering
Until the dust settles
And you wipe them away

You know those tears you get
When you walk down the aisle
And everything is perfect
When love is beautiful
And the tears just collect on your eyes
Until you need to blink
And you wipe them away

You know those tears you get
When you remember yesterday
And you wish it were alive again
But it isn’t
And the tears just fall to the ground
They soak into the Earth
And you can't wipe them away

I wish I could turn her voice into a song
And play it for everyone to hear
And it would sell out concerts
But no one would sing along with it
They would just listen
Because her voice is so beautiful
I wish I could turn her voice into a song
But I can’t get the notes right
And the lyrics don’t fit

I wish I could capture her beauty in a painting
And display it in a gallery
And everyone would come
To gaze at the canvas
Just to see how perfect I think she is
Because I think she’s so close to it
I wish I could capture her beauty in a painting
But I can’t get the strokes right
And the colors don’t fit

I wish I could turn her into a movie
And it would play in every theater there is
And everyone would buy a ticket
To stare at a moving screen
Just so they could see two hours of her life
Because two hours seems like enough
I wish I could turn her into a movie
But I can’t get the lines right
And the actors don’t fit

I wish I could turn her into a book
And give them away as presents
And everyone would tell their friends about it
So they would go buy one
Just so they could read what’s been written
Because she is worth every page
I wish I could turn her into a book
But I can’t get the title right
And the words don’t fit

I wish I could show her to our child
And raise our daughter in her image
And everyone could see her again
And they would be happy
And they’d know she’d be happy
Because her daughter would be perfect
Just like she was
I wish I could show her to our child
But the pictures all burned
And I might never see her again

It seems as though
I always want to talk to you
But our conversation comes at a cost
Because every word spoken
Puts me one word closer
To the last words I'll ever say to you.

With hope I could forever speak
With reason and love aimed at your heart
Taking your ears and making them listen
To what I need you to hear
Before you cannot hear anymore.

Carefully I select the sounds I speak
As not to choose the wrong ones
Picking silently in my head
The memories I would like to leave behind
In every moment I spend with you.

I know the last words I will say to you.
They are in my head now
Dancing on my lips
Teasing your ears
But I will not say them.
Not now.
Instead,
I will say them when it is time
For them to be true.

I do hope, however, that when that time comes
You will have already said them
To me.

Anna's got unsavory passion for heavy brows and bent lips.
She used to tell me, "Baby, you're so strong."
From the top of the spiral stairs, she'd sing songs.
I never felt comfortable, but I'd hum along.
The beer got cheap.
My sorrows got expensive.
The first of December, the blackbird, the rent check,
and chicken scrawl sent her into the snow.
I watched through gap'd fence.
I watched through portal
while Anna danced barefooted with a politician
who looked like Dylan Thomas, but spoke like
Don Juan.
What a wicked woman.
What a ******* cacophony.
What an icy wind.
What a fever dream.

There is a greatness in your form
The way you carry yourself around
Like you're the beginning
And the end
Of every sentence.
There is a cruelty in your eyes
And how they cut me down
Around every corner
And under all the moons and suns
We've seen together.
There is a kindness to your body
Like it has covered all it's bruises
And learned from its mistake
Of trusting you with it.
And there is ****** on your lips
When they join with mine
And I feel my life ending
With every untaken breath.

we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****,
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).

still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.

here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
this
machine [her body]
can do."

but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
swallowing
and
it makes me uncomfortable
but
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."

I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***.
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean
anything?

"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.

"mazel tov," I say.

I entered as an accident,
and by accident I now leave.
With black sky above my head,
and black water beneath my feet,
I breathe deep, beerlit, shivering, and free of strings.
The salty sea's tides tease -- beckoning me.
Self-inflicted with age, far beyond
***** talk bedrooms, and burnt sage,
I travel deeper.

Deeper into the rocking cradle of the sea.
And any man staring into that black, wet eternity
would wonder about what he'll leave --
I've heard of leftover children, money, wives, lies, and lucky influence,
but I can't leave that to which I never cleaved.
I've got a suit and tie.
A pair of black shoes.
A pair of brown shoes.


My heart beats madly as the waves bash against my chest.
Whiteness laces the black water.
Immaculate white.
Whispering white.
A Great White Peace washes over me,
along with the seaweed and some wooden debris.
In this moment I say
-- I love you each
but under the sound of the sea,
my words, no more than flybuzz speech.

In this moment,
this Great White Peaceful moment
my existence does freeze,
as my body twists in the hands
of the black sea.

Fingernails dug out of steering wheel
in the out door, not enough gin to ****
50 pushups. 50 more. Change my body
Maybe you won't ignore
Ambien, the lull of the ceiling fan,
the crowds of protestors disband --
the blanket warm, cosmos tease and can,
malaise, malaise, I'm trying to be active
and sane, sane for the next promise ring holder
and wine cooler queen, here comes the switch:
ether.
The night brings me back to you
by way of illusion --
you've got lingerie
I've got needs
You've got teeth
I've got shoulder blades
so it begins,
white knuckle, culling songs, strain on scalp --
I sing along, ancient melody, satin dirge --
precursor to your soliloquy and black venom urge
to scatter this bandaged man--
pieces in your hand,
collected and left on 100 dressers
for ill-informed future connivers
conspire
but I'm only tired of trying not
to look like a liar
so I blend into your blood
satisfied smirk from
transparent you
but what is the future
--a present hope
but what is the past
--a present memory
so we abolish each other now
betting on tangible mirages
in this delicious, miraculous night  
the stars align
the planets collide
not an inch of you goes unkissed
not an inch of me goes without an itch
blackness and breath swirl and spit
me into a confetti end time without prophet or priest
only a skinny seed, and then the switch:
wake with a present hope of getting over
my present memory.