In your new life
Or death, whatever—
I don’t care
                         (I care)
I hope everything you encounter is
Vivid/bright/strange and so
Beyond
Any of your wildest expectations, hope it’s
Lovelier than what lies here, maybe
Understand philosophy, or maybe what it isn’t
And that you visit me sometimes.

Are you untethered by that which weighted you down, are you content?
Or did you go into the darkness with banners raised, tender voice roaring
As once you did when night fell over us, and you sang to clear a path through fear?
I can’t believe in Heaven, or a ghost of you, no; you have
Errands beyond this sphere, and though
Hell might be more of a fair match, you’d drown in drink and discourse until you tired of it.
Because you could dance with the Devil and hand him his *** on a platter,
And you would be fighting with that half hidden smirk the whole time but what, pray tell, comes After

                                                                                                                                                     The fight?

Tonight, I lean against the windowpane,
Crack it open to the sound of January rain
That falls soft in the shadows of trees, and sings.
I inhale, dream of you and the smell of spring;
(I am the roots that grow from the detritus of dead and dying things.)

I want to cut myself on the jagged edge of your mind,
Knees raw and weeping red as I traverse the other side,
I want to scream through the walls of your philosophy,
Until my voice rips ragged, until every sound is profanity.
I want to drag you back from this obscenity.

I want to eat your heavy, burdened heart and offer one fresh,
Torn ripe and ****** straight from the beast’s chest
Into my cupped palms, pounding fuchsia and new: Take it.
Take back the strength it stole from you.

I want to crawl through the collapsed tunnels of your cancered mind,
Down deep chasms where your weary soul withdrew,
Past where you lost your way and dug your grave
To find the opening where sunlight once filtered through;
Then I would squat there, **** love
Until it stuck to your ribs and grew—
Until you glowed with the health of it, until
You rose from dirt or ashes or wherever the ****— and flew.
So claw out from that cave, and let the rain cleanse you.

For this morning it was winter, and you were dead;
But tonight is spring..

Let’s begin again.

And so you have gone;
Gone to the realm where I cannot follow.
Words slip through my mind like
silver fish, flashing through a sieve--
a net that cannot catch your spirit and pull you back
from that dark place where I cannot follow.

And I must remain
Here, in this place where you cannot return:
Godforsaken, all-at-once hated
and most cherished place
Where you once bade me stay: Here,
in this wretched realm where you cannot return.

And so you have sailed
Sailed beyond that ocean, beyond my reach.
Flashed in my life like a silver fish,
slipped through my fingers; I only brushed
the essence of you, I only grazed the surface
of you, now across that ocean, beyond my reach.

During the early
morning, after you
left and my love
glowed soft under
the street lamp, I
reached the lone true
fall of my heart, and
it was less fiery leaves
than blue spotted with pale
yellow. I listen to the
hum & whisper of
the traffic outside the
window; it is like a
song. (How could I not
have seen that?) I
am not thinking about
anything directly, but
am perched on the
edge of it, looking in
on those I love, and I
realize with a quiet
jolt that I am happy.
Is this how it feels to
be dead? Everything
seems lifetimes ago,
and here comes the
point when my eyes
drop. Just for a
moment. If I push
through it, I will wake
with the birds and
that will be that. But
if I fall asleep, maybe I
will catch a glimpse of
the secret they
deciphered in the
night
in a dream.
Ah, how we taste,
but will never
consume, such
mysteries.

I have a lot of thoughts:
I think too much, I think
too little, I think.
I think in circles,
in mazes,
in labyrinths.
I think in tangles and
                                    snarls and
                                                    spikes and
                                                             ­                   blood

I wish I could unfold my brain like a map
Pluck out memories, savor them like candy,
pinch off fears and regrets, crush them
like blackened, cancerous leaves—
gone
Pick them out; you can have them.

(No no no, I need those
They make me who I am—
who I are — too)

I come in many versions of the truth,
all of them lies.
Which one is your favorite?
Pick it out; you can have it.

(I must have done something wrong in a past life)

I forgot what else I was going to say,
which is why
I wish I could unfold my brain like a map;
Find the monster, expose
him— or is it
her? Would my own kind
betray me? (Yes)

– and squash it like a spider.
That’s what I do. I have a shoe
that I grab, and
before I can think,
before it can blink:
whack,
With a silent little prayer—
(for all I know, the poor thing was innocent)
and send him (her)
on her (his)
way.

A
city
can’t
prosper
while
fighting
off
the
devil
(hi­m)
(her)
(it)
self.

My brain is not the blooming, bustling metropolis it once was.
(I’m not sure where to put this line.
Why don’t you decide? This is, after all, your poem now.
You picked it out; you can have it.)

I’ve foreseen this moment for so long:
Always on some other plane, in some other grain
Of sand—in the far-off of time
Some future, a world away, too indistinct to decipher
the blurred edges into a clear line.

I’ve had nothing but hot electric tears
to warm my bed this year,
but they’ve long since gone cold.
See? the birds know.
Outside my window, they sing in the dawn
Long and low:
come home, come home

I don’t know where it begins or ends.
Small snips, short-lived,
Cut from the reel, spun through my head--
Some future, a world away, too tangled to unravel
the golden, living threads from the ashes of those long-dead.
(I don’t know where they begin or they end)

But this is the plane, and this is the place;
This is the axis of time & space
Where the birds sing you home on a path so old,
you can’t help but remember the way.
Reach down to the ground, wrap your fingers ‘round
the tangles of this golden thread,
pull it from the ashes of those long-dead.
The dust, once settled, will find its way
into the skies, then kiss my eyes.
(but it burns, it screams like a blow to the head)

You, a sweet surprise— the ash in my eyes—
Sharpening the edges into clear, cutting lines
That run ragged and ravenous through my head,
drag me through the ashes of the long-dead and I
Promise not to scream when they snip this thread--
(Oh, I would really love if you’d pull this thread)


Yes, I’ve foreseen this moment for so long:
You linger,
I blink;

and then you are gone.

Round three o’clock,
I’ll roll over— wide-eyed and violent,
Tummy to the bed;
Leaning on my elbows, thoughts racin’ through my head
Like I never slept at all.

I’ll look around, searching for something
In the empty night; in the empty bed,
Anything that’ll keep me free from my head, but
I won’t find it— just my half-eaten dreams. And me:

Hungry cannibal,
Watching in despair
As they shiver and dissolve, like whispers in the air—
But they’ll come around again; they know me well.

All too soon I’ll step out
From the empty bed
Where the monster sleeps, and I scramble at threads

That shiver and dissolve  in the empty night
Where morning hides. But that’s alright;
I’ve come to love them, the frost and the stars—

Perhaps like me, they’ve got lonely hearts.

I was once a queen in this dress.
Peasant and nobleman, child and commoner I had been, yes,
But never queen.
In this dress, autumn was my station, my birthright, my blood—
I was an heiress of field and stream,
Of tall grass, tree and sky,
Of August leaves bronzed under an Indian Summer sun.

Let me take you to that day; See as I see,
Look to the field all where the trees
Clap their hands, and shake from their branches golden leaves
To crown this small soul, their Majesty.
Standing steadfast as sentinels as they
Watch a life in reverse: I am shrinking, I am becoming
Nothing more than these blades of grass I run on,
This patch of sky I fall from,
This body, this blood, this tiny wisp of memory
In a mind so vast with humanity,
It has to spill over and splash into something like Time.
Silent, they watch as I unfold into this moment:
This moment newly-made,
ancient,
eternal,
To become queen, to become everything, to become

Nothing more than an end-of-summer’s day—