what is death? a
middle-aged man
in a volvo, collecting
payments and
favors?

i met him once on
his road trip from
new york to
california. i imagined
death streaking across
america, the way the
ground shakes and
swallows its people.

i didn't ask him anything.
i was afraid of his answers
but he keeps files on every
living being and sorts through
them when he gets bored,
picking people off like flies.
i figured he had heard
about the likes of me
before.

is death the object of a
mid-life crisis for a god
who got a little too
close to the sun and
got his feelings hurt?

maybe that is the
answer after
all.

he left me at a truck stop
off the interstate
in anniston, alabama.

i didn't catch his name,
but i think we'll be
introduced again
real soon.

one frozen tv dinner later, i was
sitting on a bus in east athens.
going to meet my dealer, going
about my business, just like
we all were, then. that was before
and unfortunately, this is one too
many frozen tv dinners later. one
too many bottles of whatever was
left after i thought i had barely
enjoyed it all.

this is the step below, the struggle of
the common man. this is what our
parents didn't want us to see, this
is who they really were. we
are just inheriting it and will be
passing it along soon.

and we probably won't even care.

last november, it was thanksgiving,
and we were tired and hardly
thankful. you said it feels like home,

i said my food was still
a little frozen in
the middle.

seeing yourself pressed naked
against a window, remembering
everything that you love
is not sad so much as it is
exhausting.

you had asked me why
i wrote sad poems, almost
like you knew the answer.

it made me think about
how exhausting it was
to be near you.
how ******* you left
a bitter taste
in my mouth.

and, in yours, too,
if we're still
being honest.

i threw a ***** towel at you,
after we had finished it.
you said,
"i'm exhausted."

i thought about how sad
you really must have
been.

i split the pill like
it was the *******
atom or something.

i was about to scrape
the dust off of the counter
into my hands, to preserve
what i knew as pure,
to save it for when i needed
to remind myself i was
still there.

the doctor who gave them
to me wasn't really a doctor,
but there was this guy in the place
that would agree with everything
that she said.

and maybe i wanted to believe,
too.

it is so much easier to be
a cynic when you have a
diagnosis to back it up. it
is so much easier to make
them feel guilty when you
say words like "clinical
depression."

i could always chalk it up to
"i just haven't taken my meds."

i was splitting the atom
and i was remembering
my excuses and how i
wouldn't be needing them
anymore, how it might be
awhile before i can imagine
something else so brilliant.

in town, there is this
bar with a sign out front
that simply reads "bar."
as if it were official.
as if everyone should know
that's the place you go
to forget how much you
really exist.

women are smoking
cigarettes outside the
place, casually like they
don't know they're
killing each other.

i ask the brunette if
i could borrow one,
as if i would ever
repay them.

i do not yet have a
weapon to defend
myself here.

some man stops me
and asks for change,
and when i can't find
any, i offer him my
borrowed prize.

i even lit it for him.

i notice the no smoking
sign placed above his head
like i was being taught
a lesson.

i just thought i was
passing on something
i'd already learned.

it was not so long ago
you were showing me
that burned out stage
by the river where the
hobos had set up camp, with
their **** magazines
and other treasures.
hat day, we were becoming
the intruders as opposed
to the intruded.

we had come there, though,
for a purpose that i know so
well but can't seem to recall.
i know we had both made up
our minds about, at least,
one thing.

i remember agreeing with
everything you said when
you stopped smoking.
i remember saying the
same thing when you
stopped stopping.

i remember you said you
would visit sometime
during the summer.
when summer came,
and you didn't, i stopped  
stopping or something.
and kept smoking.

i was thinking to you
in my head, "now you,
too, are gone." and i
secretly, still, hope
you understand it now
like you did
back then.

understand.


when we left the stage,
one of us said something
about the hobos
understanding
our curiosity.

i'm not sure
either one of us
has gotten
over it.

i had a *****
when you left
which subsided
in the fifteen
minutes it took
to realize you
weren't coming
back.

when i couldn't
write a poem
about you,
i realized what
you'd done.

"you son of a
*****," i yelled
as i walked into
the bedroom,
where we'd once
made something
of love.

knowing you'd
never hear it.

knowing that,
of everything i
had given away,
you had taken
the few words
i had kept for
myself.

read the following
under a false
pretense:

i am the bird,
you are the plane
that swallows
and hurls me
back to the earth
again,

to discover
myself one
more time.

i have your
memory,
your smile,
and your
silence.

and i intend
on being selfish
with what i
earned.

i told her she didn't want
to get involved, but she
told me that she was
going to be,
anyway.

and i was a little
relieved that someone
had gone through
the trouble of making
that decision
for me.

you scare me to death,
like i'm the one to be
scared.

but when you show me
that part of your thigh
that you haven't shown
to that many people,
i start sectioning off
my body with the tiny
pencil i keep in my
nightstand to
keep score.

i told her she knew
she'd regret it.

i knew i could
prove her wrong
if i wanted.

i've written too many
poems about how
unhappy i am,
or can be,
or was.

i've written too many
poems about not
believing in myself,
or being uncertain of
myself
or being my own cynic.

i've told you too many
times that i miss you,
or that i need you,
or that i want you.

i think i've bored you,
or removed you,
or misled
you.

i've written too many
poems and i'm sorry,
or unafraid,
or already forgiven.

we were no better
than the dirt that clung
to our feet, as we ran
away from what was important.

we were dumb to the ways
of a limitless God with a
venemous wrath.

and we laughed.
as he was killing us.

we thought we had tricked
everything we had known
to exist. and that we were
all that was infinite and all
that was holy.

and all that was right,
as i sat with you,
balancing our weight
between earth and sky,
what you and i knew to be
love and ultimately
indifference.

they will say that we were
all blind, walking around as
if we saw something that
nobody else could.

because we were that great.
and we got it all wrong.

digging in,
the way your teeth crawl.
and latch onto my heart
or my hipbone, when we
do our thing. digging in,
like the first shovel into
the earth when burying
someone you love. you
remember how fresh
the soil is, and you think
it's ironic and somewhat
painful. don't think.
don't think. digging in,
and you whisper in my ear
like you're telling me something
no one else knows while you're
having your way with me, or I'm
doing something to you. don't
think. don't think. forget digging,
forget the hipbone, forget all
of your common denominators.
don't think. don't think. and
you won't.
digging in.
digging into fresh soil
like there's something
worth finding.

i had loved you so well,
and still do. you are
my brother,
i will be waiting, at a
distance, for the chance
to do something
noticeable.
maybe i could write
something, i
thought.
i didn't remember
that you were
settling,
back then,
when we first knew
each other,when i gave you
every inch of what i'd
hidden.
back then,
you were waiting for
something older,
friends you had known
and loved and
could love, again.
i am writing this
and my heart is
hurting me, you are
only the first person
to never lie to me.
i can't need you.
i can't need you.
i can't need you.

as we dissolve
into the ages,
i will only have
these things
to remember:
your messy hair,
your easiness,
your voice,
your embrace.

when i drove
through the
last exit, i saw
a plane speeding
through the
cosmos.

i think
we are all
crossing some
distance.

even if age meant more
than a number, if it
meant wisdom and
common sense.

i will come up
short, either way.

these are the years
for believing in people
who shouldn't be believed
in.

i will file this page
under regret and
wonder.

across the
room the
door serves
it's purpose
as a reminder
of being forced
in and out of
them, shoved or
carried. you didn't
want to go, none
of us did. we left
the lights on
as a reminder,
peeking under
the cracks in
the bottom
of the barrier.
the light was
a reminder
of a purity.
this girl is just
a prototype
of another
one and another,
i reasoned as i
nudged you
outside into
the cold and
lightless world.
your eyes kept
their pleading,
as a reminder
of innocent nights
sneaking into your
bedroom hardly
breathing and
knowing nothing,
holding her
head there, i,
i...

leave your clothes on the
floor for now. there are still
a few bittersweet seconds
we've yet to wrap ourselves
around, some we've yet to
harshly ignore, and then,
with that last look of contempt,
look away.

i will wait until i hear you leave
and i will lock the door behind
you. this is closure. and this is
closing the door behind you,
waiting until i hear you leave.

just as i've waited before.

this is the first measure, the
first atonement, the first or
even second fall from grace.
oh, we are not (and won’t be)
that far from any trees, be they
of good or of evil, or for
shelter from the harsh winter
that we've let on.

i will wait until i hear you leave.

i will lock the door and i won't
have to wait
any longer.

the light outside your
window casts a shadow
as deep as some canyon
across the plains of my
body.

i labor my breaths
as if you are the weight
pressing against my lungs.
the train barreling down
my spine

running on tracks
struck between what
i’ve given up for you
and what i’ll lose
either way.

we are riding this out
until it’s done.
and then we’ll just
leave it alone.

he had
been a
pretty
thing.

i got my
own to
keep and
he’s got
his own.

we ain’t
got no love
to make.

when can
we learn to
live without

touching?

he had
been a
pretty
thing.

we crawled
in the back
seat of my
car and i
pulled mine
out first.

i came
on his
*** and
was proud
for it.

i know he
won’t need
me again.

i got my
own to
keep and
he’s got
his;

we gather it
together
under a
dying
sun.

we were given the best
of each other or, at least,
that was the agreement.

we are both guilty
of something,
either way.

having burrowed out a grave
underneath your sheets, i still
feel safe inside the warmth
of your existence.

i have tied a noose around
our mouths, so that we won’t
ruin such art
with words.

and you cry, as if it will
matter after we have
settled the scores and
the blame.

your tears erode my skin
away into rivers, floating
down our (for now)
melted form.

i will stay until morning.
i will stay until morning.

and we will wash
away our sins
in clearer waters.

it is
nothing.
the parking
lots and the
schools are
empty today
and tomorrow.
we decided we
didn't care
about it,
at some
point. we will
all wait here.
it is
winter
and it feels
like spring
before the chill
of god's wrath
sneaks up on
you. whenever
the weather
suddenly changed,
my mother swore
up and down that
the world was
going to end.
i wanted
nothing to do
with it. but this
is where it's
come: the empty
spaces in our
conversations
when we run
out of ways to
tell people that
we love them,
when their eyes
lose the thing that
made your stomach
turn, when they get
bored with you and
throw you away.
it is
nothing. the day
is someone's or
no one's at all.
i, myself, will
wait out
another
cold
night.

there was this
guy, probably
not a day over
40 or so. he
looked like
everyone had
envied him in
a past life.
people at work
would just ask
if he was tired.
and he would
nod, knowing
that it was yes
and no at the
same time.

after he spilled
his brains out
in his wife's
beauty salon,
telling her he
was tired of
waiting on
everything,
they said she
went home and
put on a new
dress and that
was that.

when i heard
about it, i could
only lift my hands
in some prayer
to no one in
particular
that wherever
he was going,
someone
would ask how
his day went.

how final is it,
(i thought)
eternity?
i refuse to
believe it is
final enough.

after we have
accounted for
all of our steps
and have said
everything we
ever wanted
to say.

it is here,
after all,
where we
begin.

i imagine you are
here,
even now,
in this air.

it's funny,
being a child,
how you conjure up
people that
understand,
people that won't
let you down
until that
one final
reckoning.

i have felt that
reckoning before,
met it with those
eager eyes of youth
but i feel older than
usual, older than i think
i should.

i know that i am feeling
and not feeling.
i know that i am alive
and not alive,
yet somehow i hope,
and only hope.

i will ask you if that
is enough.
you will say
"yes."

broken as it was,
we had tried to
fix it. you said i
was your first like
it disappointed you
to admit such a thing.
would this be worth
it? my heart sighed
no.

but the body,
entangled in yours
as it was,
kept fighting its
own battles, waging
its own wars with
destiny and with
your eyes and your
legs.

you told me not to
speak to you, as if
i was the only one
doing the hurting.
but would you mind
keeping me, once
again,in my own
dreams for awhile?

the heart says stop.
the body says go.
turn on, turn
off.

when you
thought i was
sleeping,

i was pulling
the breath
out of your
lungs.

scaling your
throat, deep
into your core.

the rope strains
and breaks
between your
teeth.

you feel it
and remember
the way god
feels in your
stomach,

the fear of hell,
and of waiting
rooms,

the thought that
someone out there
had, at least once,
thought of
you.

this poem is
for the dreams
you’ll never
realize.

this poem is
for the words
i want to shove
through your ear
and into your
heart.

this is for one
night, a thousand
miles away
from here,

when you
say good night
to a man you
can never love,
force your head
down on your pillow
and remember
that you had been
loved at least
once.

you are
the only
science
i’ll ever
know,

the only
pieces i want
to add and
subtract.

connecting
the arms,
the head,
the ****,
the heart,

and breathing
what life i
have left
into you.

i hope you
remember
how that
feels.

i had asked the thing
if i would be forgiven.
i had to shake it out
of her. she told me to
concentrate and ask
again.

i wondered if we were
really apart and if i had
pushed you over there.

i decided not to push
my luck in asking
that.

i imagine things you
will never say to me,
but i prefer to think
that you already have.

it is something warm
on days like this in
october, when the sun
waits until noon to grant
everyone else its eye
but your house and your
heart are cold
as ice.

that ******* red
jacket you let me
wear.

i told her i wished that
i could give you something
in return.

i wish i could grab you up
and bring you into
some light.