Ram your hand down my throat like you’re stuffing a turkey (I am one, after all) and rip out my vocal cords. Tie them to some wood and play it like a guitar. Even out of tune, the music will spell out all the words of the emotions I never told you how I felt. There really is love in here, I swear; it’s just trapped under some fallen debris. Pound me in the head and knock some sense into me while trying to knock the love out of me. Maybe you’ll be able to see it sticking to the brain-matter flowing from my fractured skull (you always hit harder than you should). Listen, I deeply apologize for being your disappointment; I’m so ashamed that I let you down. I guess I ended up being the lover my mother raised me not to be. Here, to make it up and show some form of affection, I’ll gladly rip out my heart and put it in your hand. But you should probably wrap it in rice and seaweed and eat it like sushi. A meal is more filling than my love.
Just be aware of the risks that arise from consuming raw meat.

My heart is not
an ugly sweater knit
by a distant dying grandma;
yet once received, you simply
packed it away as food for moths
supposing a trip to Goodwill could be saved
when holiday parties request adornment in
something kitschy.

My heart is not
a sweater but I had hoped
to keep you warm

I.
There have been homes,
there will be homes,
but we called this Our Home.
Not even the most skilled surgeon,
the most gifted craftsman, nor talented artist
could fix that about us which was broken.
Now I scrub these walls with my tears
removing the stain of us like
prepping a corpse for a wake—
too soon strangers will trample
through our vacancy.

II.
Packing is the saddest of exercises—
the visible decomposing of our life together.  
What was our scent now reeks of formaldehyde;
these walls now house a funeral parlor,
cardboard boxes coffins to our past.
“Handle With Care” some are scrawled.
A fitting dirge.

III.
We are history
reduced to nothing
more than scattered
artifacts on Goodwill shelves.

Let the rabbits keep their
feet. How lucky could they be
if the rabbits lost them, anyway?
There is nothing ominous about crossing paths
with a black cat; although, my mouse
would tell you differently –if he could—
but he’s a mouse
that crossed paths with a black cat.
Do not fret over spilled salt
unless it’s on your plate. That’s hypertension.
Walking around ladders is just good OSHA procedure.
A broken mirror is nothing to fear
unless you’re picking up the pieces with your bare hands
or unless it shattered just by you looking at it.

I’ve always considered superstition silly
and superfluous stress. But you can bet
every blown out birthday candle or dandelion,
every shooting star, every rainbow, every fallen eyelash,
every dismantled turkey carcass I made a wish.

Have you ever desired something you couldn’t see
but you could feel?
Like maybe how Adam, laying out at night
looking up at the stars, couldn’t see Eve’s face—
he hadn’t yet even seen a woman, after all—
but he could feel
for that which he yearned,
felt the aching deep in his ribs.

I dared dream a dream of a woman.
Unlike Adam, I’ve seen women before; but
I couldn’t see this one. Yet, every time I closed my eyes
she visited me. I felt her.
And for her I yearned.
In some ways, sleeping was preferable
to waking, just to be saved the torment of loneliness.
For this dream woman I kept making wishes.
Only, now when I close my eyes she is not there.

I am afraid I am an unlucky man, now.
So, despite the silliness, I do all the things.
Desperately.
I carry a rabbit’s foot;
don’t own an umbrella lest it open inside accidentally;
cook turkeys often just to wish on their bones;
only season my food with pepper.
I’m careful walking down the sidewalk
just in case my mother’s back really is in danger;
terrified of the number immediately after 12;
almost faint holding my breath in tunnels.
I excessively feed birds in the park, hopeful
that they’ll **** on my head.

There are phrases often said in disaster,
when catastrophe strikes but at least you didn’t die:
look on the bright side, silver lining,
fortunate misfortune.
But what are the opposite terms?
To be so lucky that you’re met with misfortune?
What if luck is like a battery or a retirement fund
and once you use it all, it’s gone for good?

See, when I close my eyes, no longer
can I rendezvous with the woman in my dreams—
that’s not where she dwells, anymore.
Dream woman is now just woman, a reality
right next to me when I open my eyes.
I can reach out and touch her, reach out and love her.
I open my arms wide like snake jaws,
envelope her, gorge myself on her love.
And I am so afraid to let her go.
I am so afraid.
I am so afraid that the day we met
I used up all my good luck

I discovered a spider lurking in the corner
of my room. Yes, lurking--a word implying
criminal intent. These creatures are a clear and
present danger to my peace and well-being.
This is my room, **** it. Why can't
it just go back to where it came?

I read somewhere once, probably on the internet,
that Australia has something like eight million species
of spider; and most, if not all, are
so venomous that they can **** you with
just one glance. They just stalk in bushes,
in your shoes, and under the toilet seat.
Now, I've never befriended a spider, don't know
enough about them to dispute this information. But,
anything that looks like that can't be anything
except a threat to me and society.
I am extraordinarily uncomfortable. While I realize this
is not Australia and there is plenty open
earth between here are there, aren't they all
related? Aren't they all the same by blood?

Honestly, my first reaction to finding this trespasser
is to reach for a shoe, or hammer,
a gun, or a match and a gallon
of gasoline. Yes, that's right--gas and flame.
Light it all up, burn it all down.
I wouldn't call this arachnophobia; instead, a valid
response to a perceived threat. I love living
here but I can't let my room stand
to further the spider agenda now, can I?

However, lately I've been trying to be more
present, to practice this radical idea where I
think before acting. So, I'm trying to not
react so harshly to things that scare me,
to things I don't understand... like spiders.
Why should I be afraid, anyway? I know
what I've read but are they that dangerous?
No spider ever confronted me in the streets
and beat, or shanked, shot, or robbed me.
In fact, I can't even verify as to
whether even one has even bitten me. Maybe
mosquitoes are just giving them a bad rap.
And no spider certainly ever threatened to take
my job. Let's be honest. I would never
spin web. Have you seen how hard
they toil at that? And for minimum wage?

I still want to reach for some tool
of destruction; but to stay my hand,
I devise stories about my intruder. Humanize it.

Maybe he doesn't even want to be here.
Maybe he really wants to reside on the soil
of his birth, but civil war sent him
fleeing. Or he had to abandon home before
some bigger, scarier creatures knocked on his web.

Maybe he lost his job and he's out
looking for work but no one is hiring
and he needed to just stop and cry
because his web is just days from foreclosure.

Maybe he just has nowhere else to go
because his staunchly religious parents kicked him out
upon tragically discovering he's atheist; or worse, gay.

Maybe he is not even he. Maybe she
was born he but now identifies as she
and has been holding her bladder for hours
looking for a bathroom to use without all
of her spider kin going crazy over it.

Maybe she made a wrong turn while heading
to a march against an over-reaching patriarchy
or is look for an open Planned Parenthood.

Maybe she's vegan. Maybe I'm not in danger.
Maybe I'm not as desirable as I thought.

The possibilities are endless. Even if I don't
like spiders, even if I think they're monsters,
it's a lot harder to harm something when
you know it has a story. Maybe they
can be dangerous; but can't we all be
when threatened? This may just be a silly
poem about a spider, but I hope there's
a metaphor about something much bigger here somewhere.

How did we get here?
I don't mean:
Did we arrive with enough buffer
for the TSA to violate our bodies,
to rifle though our baggage like the gestapo
before the plane left the terminal?
I don't mean:
Did the train make it to the station on time?
I don't mean:
Did we get an Lyft
or somehow manage to hail a taxi?
I don't even mean to imply I'm that forgetful.
Clearly, we drove ourselves to this
but it feels like we did cartwheels
or somersaults-
something has left me winded, dizzy,
the ground falling away from me.

How did we get here?
Last night we spent in silent
passion, our skin doing the talking.
We awoke embraced, footprints of your kisses
still warm on my body;
but there were still no words,
we ate like it was wine and unleavened bread,
space for twelve between us.

How did we get here?
Not all that glimmers is gold-
our sparkle made a fool out of me.
You're already leaving.
But yesterday, I could swear you
were not just a visitor.

A Japanese practice of aesthetics,
broken pottery pieced back together
with golden lacquer, the shimmer
doing the opposite of obscuring repair;
the gold creating vein-like patterns that say,
“Look at me, I have survived!”
The philosophy is simple:
A damaged vessel is still beautiful;
a body that has broken
is not worthless
just because it is a body that has broken.

She and I believe in love
the way a Jew and a Christian believe
in God. But is it the same God?
Was this the same love?
Her love believes two bodies
must be complete before coming together.
My love stands ready with golden lacquer,
not present for just a complete whole,
but also the broken pieces,
the cracks in between.
That which is damaged is still beautiful.
Let’s learn to heal our faults
together and shimmer.
Look at us, we have survived!

But sometimes, no matter the effort,
interfaith just doesn’t work;
we did not survive
for no other reason than simply
a difference of belief.
And now there are new broken pieces,
the crimson weeping from fresh cracks
is not the gold I was looking for