Gray is so deathly
I watched it all, blood red
From tires you bring guilt
You deliver them no reprieve
From the window,
you look much sweeter
Down on the pavement,
you couldn't make hell any deeper
You're still half beautiful though
Every breathing lung disagrees
Your ***** blood is all you have to show
I won't recite you stories, you're dead
Just bury this in your non-existent grave
I ponder upon your disintegrating- I'll think
I amend the vultures that choose your corpse
You'll have that home you wanted
Even if it's for a little while

How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander
the halls of the skull with the fluorescents
softly flickering. It rests on the head
like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel
and awkward as soon as one stops to look.

That pile of fallen leaves drifting from
the brain to the fingertip burned on the stove,
to the grooves in that man's voice
as he coos to his dog, blowing into the leaves
of books with moonlit opossums
and Chevrolets easing down the roads
of one's bones. And now it plucks a single
tulip from the pixelated blizzard: yet

itself is a swarm, a pulse with no
indigenous form, the brain's lunar halo.

Our compacted galaxy, its constellations
trembling like flies caught in a spider web,
until we die, and then the flies
buzz away—while another accidental
coherence counts to three to pass the time
or notes the berries on the bittersweet vine

strewn in the spruces, red pebbles dropped
in the brain's gray pool. How it folds itself
like a map to fit in a pocket, how it unfolds
a fraying map from the pocket of the day.

There are 140,490 miles of railroad in the United States,
21,000 miles of Amtrak rails,
Amtrak owns 2,142 railway cars
plus 425 locomotives,
only one station near Atlanta,
(the ones by Toccoa, Jesup, and Savannah don’t ******* count)
and just the two of us.
My point is:
There’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday

Maybe plans will never work out,
and I won’t have you in my life the way I’d like.
Maybe we’ll grow into two completely different lives,
but we promise to meet up every five years.
Maybe we both just disappear for a while,
and just happen upon the same town/train station one day.
Maybe we’ll never be close friends,
or lovers,
but maybe,
just maybe,
there’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday.

When I was young,
I used to follow the train tracks.
For miles and miles and miles,
just waiting for my train to take me away.
And when I got home I’d have so many stories to tell.
I saw two dogs *******,
And a family of opossums,
And a dead deer,
And a really pretty bug,
(And I got you some flowers but I dropped them,
when I thought the dogs were chasing me)
But your parents would always get mad at me for disappearing
when they’re supposed to be watching me until
my mom gets home.
And they’d tell me,
“do you have any idea how upset she’d be if
she knew you ran off like that?”
And I’d apologize for going off by myself
And they’d say,
“We forgive you. We won’t tell her
Just this once.”
But they’d never
never hear me
when I tried to tell them:
I can’t help it. There’s a big, beautiful, country out there
…and I want to see it.

Then when I got older,
I kept following the train tracks.
For miles and miles and miles.
Except now, I was a little more grown up.
I didn’t just disappear anymore,
walking along the tracks.
No, I had responsibilities
and obligations
and most of all,
a little money.
So, this time, I actually got to ride the train.
So my trains took me away,
And when I got home I had so many stories to tell.
I saw two drunks *******,
And a family of musicians,
And a ****** on the nod,
And a really pretty tree,
(And I got you some jewelry, but I dropped it,
When I thought the drunks were chasing me)
But more than all of that,
I saw a girl.
She was beautiful and funny and kind and smart.
But they didn’t have time to listen to my stories,
About the drunks and the tree and the girl,
Because we had responsibilities and obligations.
So I didn’t even bother
Trying to tell them,
I have to go back. There’s a big, beautiful, country out there
…and I have to see it.

So,
I don’t know if I’ll see you again, or
If I’ll get to follow all the train tracks I want,
But there are 140,490 miles of railroad in the United States,
And it’s a big, beautiful country out there,
So it might be planned,
Or by mistake,
Or luck,
Or divine providence,
But I think
I hope
I pray
There’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday.

Two dead girls, flayed into leaves on the forest floor. Butterfly knife not so flitting, more like flying through the air, cutting whatever it dares come across. Mostly pearls, but then again you see a lot of baby opossums drifting up from the side of the road these days.

Cotton, cotton filling the mouths of anger hungry boys, not so sharp jaws and those dull blue eyes you see on every magazine cover. Who knew death looked so fresh dressed in tattoos and bruises that are the same color as your moms wedding night wine?

Tell me, boy, where did you get your emotions? Is that mania an heirloom? Or did you buy it from whoever first sold you that Xanax? Did you rip them from the heart of the first girl you told looked beautiful in blood?

You ***** ******* liar. You filthy thief of virgins' teeth, swaddling your broken skin knuckles in baby bonnets.

I hope God finds His way under your greasy fingernails, your greedy skin and stained teeth. I hope the waves that toss your thoughts only curl towards the bottom and your heart only strains it's sides to reach your father's ghost.

There are so many messy, sloppy secrets behind every self hating fool with a pension for roadside crying and cheap liquor shopping. A desire for so many I'm-only-trying-to-pay-off-my-loans ladies, covered in last weeks work and warm old men cigarette breath and guilt. I hope for all eternity that you find something worth panhandling for, whether it be disease or love. I hope God finds you in the sewers, whimpering your sister's name and your brother's license plate.

(The devil went to find what's his, down in Los Angeles where you last hid.)

squirrels and opossums and birds of paradise
because im screaming
profanity into the trees
they can hear me scratching my sores
flaking scabs onto the crumbly floor
to integrate myself with the remains
of generations past
they can all hear me
crack the first beer of the morning
and pour it out for my love
no longer here
they can hear me all
repeat myself and pace
atop the pecan shells crunching
but the cap of the bottle spins
whirling around its rings
for a glug
and they all scutter, scamper, and waggle off
only proving my point
a terrible mood to be around

it sniffs for the sweet breeze of Florentine
when all around are flies on rotten meat
can vaguely feel being the last of its line
as slowly falls silent sounds of heartbeat.

its fading eyes seek the far off moorland
feet still echo the long runs on limestone
in the deep woods where giant trees stand
a home where never would rest its bones.

in delirious dreams it stalks at the night
hunts for preys chasing opossums rabbits
itself haunted by looming shadowy fright
of fires that brought down all of his mates.

it's so cold out here with the sun ever far
limbs ice frozen to hold the shaking frame
only frail groans and no one to hear
for man the hunter it was another game.

And the obnoxious people who claim relevance just because you married into their hillbilly clan...And day in/day out you breathe & eat rice & put shoes on & laugh out loud & then you stop because your refrigerator stopped and the green foods are turning gray and the orange juice is acting like apple juice...It was dark and the shadows played against me. I'm fully 6 inches. Ask the head waitress at Denny's. Why won't she love me? Is she afraid of my old ******? My hep. C? My V.D.?

And the obnoxious people who claim relevance just because you married into their hillbilly clan...And day in/day out you breathe & eat rice & put shoes on & laugh out loud & then you stop because your refrigerator stopped and the green foods are turning gray and the orange juice is acting like apple juice...It was dark and the shadows played against me. I'm fully 6 inches. Ask the head waitress at Denny's. Why won't she love me?

She's the width of an average driveway , about a five mile walk
Lined with sugar white sand and slick creek rock
Girdled in Water Oak roots and red clay embankments , a summer quick retreat , swift running with occasional pools no deeper than
a few feet
She's teeming with small fish , tadpoles , crayfish and
mud puppies , ruddy bank boulders and thick grassy shoulders
Lined in cattail , brown eyed susie's and monkey grass
Home to cottonmouths , alligator snappers , raccoons and
opossums , king racers , swamp rabbits and cottontails ,
whitetail deer , wild hogs and bobcats and a million childhood tall tales
A sister to the South River flowing into Lake Jackson , a mother
to abundant wildlife , a brother to an inquisitive youngster* ...

I find myself. Or maybe that’s too presumptuous. I’ve lost myself in my mind. I forgot. **** memory. What was the name of that cute guy who never loved me? There were many, but in this case his name was Richard. I miss the butterflies, but I know that now is winter and winter is cold. I don’t like the cold. When the butterflies return, breathing will be harder.  It’s hard to breathe in spring, one of the many things out to get me. Like opossums. If there was a Hell through my creation, there would be high pitch noises and opossums in a perpetual spring. There would be all my bad memories and experiences, and soul food. I like trees. I imagine they more about time than me. I married a tree once. He cheated on me and I divorced him. Once a tree was clocked by police and was going 15 mph. The police should have given the tree a ticket for being so ninja like. I can recall a time where the trees would attack me in darkness. I use to try to find happiness, like an endless quest for a mystical object. I think I found it now, so I stopped looking.