November Apr 2014

too far gone to chase bygones,
wist you’ll never negate me.
Never Nowheres: bores
and Frequent Losts: chores,
but we are of the Amblers, ramblers,
missing persons, rustling souls

and I could swim
                                                     swarm through your candlewax depths, dent
                                                     barefoot toeprints ch-ch-chasing
                                                     across your surface
                                                     with s c a t t e r e d abandon.

you could stitch wings to my shoulders
and I would not wince but ache to fly:
Bionic Foreign Being in your
bumblebee bliss sky.

I'd rake my hands through the rushes
and feel you breathe upon the marshes
while croaking bullfrogs
                                                             ¬                  spring
                                                             ¬                                         your toes.


tall grasses leglash me and burrows twist ankles,
but no injury can keep roaming eyes.
Pupils dilate to swallow cloudscapes and
g n a r l e d trees and we can
                                                             ¬                                          climb
                                                             ¬        climb

                                     above the losts, over the founds
                                     to nest and be t h e held.
                                     Cherished answer, wanderer’s home.


and you, you, you abandon me






November Apr 2014

Engrave his statistics into his corpse-headboard with
no flowery words of revere.
Skin will dust and feed.
Bones yellow.
No words

last wish
(stumbled drunk):
to be buried deep
in the memories that judged him.
He was, however, drunk and, besides, he died alone.

November Dec 2012

In the woeful weary aftermath
of you and I combined
after binary & renewing bad habits

only the scrape
of a briefly-stolen snowshovel against ice.

November Mar 2012

Cross now.
Who gives this woman?
The moss and the skies do.
Cross now.
No millstone around my neck.
make me better.
Who gives this woman?
The moth and the fly do.
Cross, now.
My vogueless Lover,
make me do right.

November Sep 2011

i. When my skin is clinging to yours,
the valley between your shoulders is where I want to find a home.
Sometimes someways I'll run away
because I've made myself a runner but
Love, I'll come back.

Let me watch you grow old
till our pulses find a mean.

ii. iloveyou and it means
                                         the churning organ within my skull is mine.
                                         the words grow strongerstrangerfaster simpler.
                                          i would rather be crushed than smother you.
                                          you are the meeting of elbows and knees andandand
                                                                ­                                                                 ­            shy fingertips.
                   and, sadly, that
                                       i've liedandlied and lied to those
                                       on whom i wouldnotcouldnot rely.
                    that i've reached my destination alone
                                                           ­                                      & mostly intact,

                                                  and that it's time for a new journey.

iii. To me, you are love in skin and sweat and teeth and warmth.
You are love in chill and fire and storm.

                 Toxic & intoxicating with potential.

                 You are the gasp of a flame
                                     born of friction.

iv. I know things.
I know you.
Somehow, I know you.
I knew the rhythm of your breathing
before it lulled me to sleep in your arms.
You've told me these things in the dark,
and I don't trust.  

v. Fuse with me and form a sea.
We will succumb to our sirens
and hope between waves
that the next
                      will pull
                                    us under.

November Aug 2011

Three hands around my wrists.
My arm can break three ways, I say,
and they laughing say yes, three,
but your breath can catch a million times and
for a thousand reasons.
They whisper my name in the night and
push me down by the neck, and dust
lingers through these shrinking airways.
Hair tangles in their hands.
I cannot tear myself from these men
biting at my knees like a cement floor.

Too full of emptying to call for help,
too close to hell in heat.

November Aug 2011

you break me with water
injected through my hollow bones
you shatter me with ice

you are the winter
first snows & numb steps

you are the winter
you break me with ice
you enter my bones and expand

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