Sweaty bodies spike volleyballs outside of the avocado. That’s when you strolled in with some sand in your toes. A few chance hellos & maybe a wave lost in the mist of a crowd. But that wasn’t it.

Nor the platinum locks & black triangle pointing down with no birthday drink,
Nor the lack of sushi in a rooftop bar where strange girls tell us how perfect we are,
Nor the climbing onto your lap when we make out in your car,
Nor the deep-throat choke that went too far.

It was fast & it was fun with ladles of pre-*** but not enough love. Maybe if your heart had the right gland, you’d drip something meaningful into my cup.

& when the pouring rain collapsed the windshield, I witnessed hometown glory trampled by equestrian gold. & your touch was cold. But your homes have such stylish throw pillows.

Now you get your pills for *******. & your smile is a jackknife. While I’m down the hall listening to a young man from Venezuela who ran through the jungles of Panama so he could sit in a rooftop bar or make out with a boy in a car & not fear for his life.

It’s a bastardized glance from down the avenue. Whispering like bitter apple seed acts of mercy. Microdosing their way to an end with a means. Now will you please carve the mirror raw until my lemon eyes are pulp on the pages? I need blindness, can’t you see?

Knock, knock. The seraphim is here. Six-winged & singing. Cue the volcano until its hot **** is pouring down the drain. Tear the scabs from the cracks & watch fresh blood swirl like soft serve on a Sunday afternoon. Draw the gentle strands from each follicle until a nest for feral things is laid gently at your feet.

“This is the closest to death I’ve ever been.”

Something to be said by every living thing upon waking. & the sun & the moon keep doing their ******* thing. & these lungs keep filling & emptying. No permission was granted, yet they drag me into every sentient morning.

it took but
two whispers
to drop it all
on the cutting floor

no amount of
morse code
can save us now
my sweet

a silver doe
vanishing
in snow

i wipe the sleet
from your cheek
as we hold onto
shards of light
in the dark

three points where
two lines meet

flex your knees

it wasn’t
p r e c i o u s
no pearl

it was cyanide
after ***

a ******
at the end
of the world

Brace for impact because I’m coming home. Slam dunked into the veins of ancient loves. The dog is dead. Just a skeleton of unspoken things in a backyard cemetery. What did the military teach you, John? You can buy up the cable news, but you can’t rewrite history.

You can bury your lavender lips under the leaves of the world, but you can’t erase the ***** stains. They remain.

Buckle up because I’m on your doorstep. Ten tons of faggotry on your front lawn. Tell your daughters to look away. Because daddy’s mistake is here to stay. It’s Christmas of ‘23 and the trees are a choir of yesterday. We share this memory. Thrown from your embrace on the ATV—my tailbone cracked the ice. I cried. But the pain was bearable because your rosebud blossomed only for me.

Every single ******* one of you will spruce it up until it’s a bone-thin grin reflecting off the lens. Dress it up like a queen until she’s dragging her heavy pageantry. A millstone into the deep end. But I know every story, every wound, every memory. The grey morning greenway walk. The gimlet at 308 and flamingo manhattan. The soiled cloth sprayed into the porcelain pit. The carnal scent of ******. The animal bones gathered. The hot pink brain splatter from the axe. You can paint the subject as a father, a lover, or a son. But he’s never been more than a stepping stone. Smooth and mediocre. But when skipped across the water, he’s free at dawn.

I see a lone moose bellowing at the end of the world. From a neighboring ice cap, I kneel until my bones scream. & in a sweater poorly knit, I sing one last song to the three souls split from my own.

I know you hate me. Foals ripped from a home. A kitchen beam to hang all things lovely. But Rochelle rusted clean & chariots dragged us into new things unfolding on a serpent’s tongue. I see a hollow carcass in the shed drained of plasma.

What remains is spirit. A whisper of hope. Can you hear it? From the lips of an antique angel on a tree. You & you & you & me. Grey spaces in between. & when the loaf is cut in half will there be room for forgiving?

Grandmother clock longing to tock. Her second hand pleading to sweep the face. Graze the six or touch the twelve. It had been a long stretch of silence since the lithium drained.

Grandfather bottle is empty too. He hit that babysitter like the side of a parked car. The chrome finish—split. It had been a long stretch of time since he avoided a headline.

Son long gun hanging on the wall. Displayed like the prey he sprayed with powder. A face unrecognizably rouged with bits slipping down the drain. It had been a long stretch of night since he loved his own blood.

Father three candles on a window sill. A distance spread like an animal hide. Brittle to the touch—no formaldehyde. He reaches into the moonlight, but it had been a long stretch of days since the flames touched his meager face.

Mother/daughter save us with your grace. A gentle tick of forgiveness like the unnumbered  hours in this temporal place. We do what we can & then try again in this vacuum of humanness & deep void of space.