Love, I've forgotten
how to spell your name,
forgotten the taste,
the smell, the feelings,
all those things you
used to bring to mind;
no, not you, not her,
nor lovers now blurred
I've known in my life,
but you, Love, the meaning
and joy, the sweet pain
of one simple word that
I've not heard in so long
a time I can't remember.

Most nights
I reach inside
my mind
trying to unwind
those thoughts
like twist-ties
that bind
to keep the loaves
of bread
free of mold
and fresh;
un-plan the long
planned plan
of mine
to choose the time
of my demise;
and sometimes
I try to listen
closely to
the constant ringing
in my ears,
the rhythmic singing
whine and changing
tones that turn
the sadness
churning, the waves
of emotions raging
in my ocean,
blue as the bottle
kept by my bed,
sleep my quest; sleep
eternal, the rest
of death I beg, leave
me alone, leave
me one more night
of breath to breathe.

I was thinking
about back then
before I thought I
heard notes on
flutes made of reeds
when there was
no young bird
beating its wings
inside my chest
no light in my eyes
but this was long ago
before the shadow
of darkness came
to command the land
back when the moon
was the blind eye
of a fish in cold water
in the back of a cave.

If a person is quiet
enough inside,
they might just be
able to catch on to
the table of contents
of what it is
I’m trying to say, to
get to, to put away
before it's way
too late, and I don't
mean to
confuse you,
like before men
could speak,
they enjoyed confusing
one another
with signs,
they enjoyed this
as much as
a mirror enjoys
an image shine,
or the evening,
like a ship, enjoys
a sapphire grave,
but that's not what
I'm trying to do,
I only want you
to hear what I have
to say one more time,
just one more day
before it's weight
becomes way too great.

This book is full
of my father's eye lashes
He treated the pages
rough like his sons
pinching the daylights
out of them, I remember
mud and grease
on calloused thumbs
and you can still smell
Four Roses bourbon
in the morning
through the onionskin
He would not weep
he knew most folks
never kept their word
Anyway, his death
came through
like a hitchhiker
You could see it coming
like the slow light
of a faraway dead star.

I'll wake up
Mundy morning
dead tired
from restless
dreams about
the forbidden sound
of fish on ice,
a harmonica
full of ants,
cat paws that fall
in the night,
the breathing
of waterfalls,
the depth
of mountain roots
and falling soot
from the fires
of Viking pyres.