Honestly, my three favorites are
Puerto Rico, Nevada, and Texas.
I follow you through your souvenirs,
stuck fast to my refrigerator door—
mementos of places I’ve never been.
You always did that,
traveled without much warning.
I envied your ability
to cut loose from all those undesired ties
and just fly far away to somewhere else.
Merciless adventure that begged to be tasted.
I missed you when you left,
more than most things, but
you’d always come back
with a little something
to decorate my modern-day ice box.
“That’s your thing,” you’d tell me,
handing me the magnetized treasures.
You'd help me pick out a spot
for each of them, and
it made me feel a bit better
for being so god ****** unworldly.
They’re all there, you know,
varying shapes and colors,
with eyesore typography
spelling out awful puns that I love.
Somehow, they fit together
and make a sort of perfect sense
that I can’t explain.
My three favorites are still
Puerto Rico, Nevada, and Texas—
pieces of your completed journey
radiating childlike wonder, fervent hope,
and plenty of open-ended questions.
Completed, with the exception
of a single, naked, white space
that I will wait my lifetime to fill,
because, like you said,
that’s my “thing,"
and I'll keep it as such,
I'll keep you as such,
until my sand runs out too.

I see you sometimes
And I can tell from that
Faraway look in your eyes
That you spend too much time
Waiting
And not enough time
At peace
With yourself.

It feels like you've spent
Most of your life
Waiting
For the bus.

It's warm for February
But your hands are slightly
Chapped and your flannel is worn
Down and missing a button.

As the air bites your
Ears just remember your
Eyes only water when
They want to be free.

One by
One
Each piece of
Your drum kit
Flies away
One by
One
Each memory comes
Back at night.

Until all you have left
Is a snare
The same snare you
Started out on
And you're still the
Nervous kid
Who didn't make it into the
Salvation Army band.

Find a street corner
And scream at three
If you're in the right town
Nobody will question it.

It's too easy to hate the things
That are thought at night when the only
Bones that will work are
The red ones inside of your hands.

Stop
Just
Stop
Now.

All the memories that keep popping
To the surface like the
Bubbles in your carbonated
Beverage
Stop trying to
Push them back down.

STOP
JUST
STOP
NOW.

There are signs
Flashing
Warnings and
You won't listen.

YOU CAN'T
CHANGE
WHAT YOU DON'T
ACKNOWLEDGE.

And there's one more
To add to your list
Of screaming messages
Notated in black ink
On blue tape
Stuck to your cranium.

Ice and rubber
Fire and glass
If there's a cure
You haven't found it.

But now the bus is snaking
Up the hill and you're
Shifting your feet and
I can tell that you're not going to
Let your mind start wandering
Until the next time you're
Waiting for the bus
Downstream from a cigarette.

i'm not showering any
more frequently than
i typically do

but every time i step in
that bathtub i swear
a whole day goes by

the water falling
turns into soft
concrete

and the drain
stops up and
i'm standing

ankle deep in
a brand new
sidewalk

soap suds running down
my legs and pooling
upon an unwalked path

and heaven only knows
how long before it all cracks
and i'm free.

Frankly, I don’t give a ****
if you weren't a spiritual guy,
because I can’t shake it—
I see your smile
in the smear of each sunset
and your side eye in the stars that follow.
I hear your ‘hello’
in every forgiving breeze
and your infectious laughter
in each clap of thunder.
In these small moments,
I feel whole for just a second,
and my heart swells at the thought
that you’re now so much bigger
than anything I can possibly
clasp my little t-rex arms around.
But, see,  I’m grateful
that I get to find you
from scratch
every single day—
that I can wrap myself
in all the parts of you
that I committed to memory—
that you, alone, gave me a chance
to fall in love
with the change of the seasons
all over again.

Strange voices sing among the planets which
  Move on for ever; in the old sea's foam
  There is a prophecy; in Heaven's blue dome
Great beacon fires are lighted; black as pitch
Is night, and yet star jewels make it rich;
  And if the moon lights up her cloudy home
  The darkness flees, and forth strange gleamings roam
Lighting up hill and vale and mound and ditch,
Earth is full of all questions that all ask;
  And she alone of heavy silence full
Answereth not: what is it severeth
Us from the spirits that we would be with?
  Or is it that our fleshly ear is dull,
And our own shadow hides light with a mask?

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.