He poured all the years into the river of his youth. It curves like black tears under the midnight moon, and the atmosphere is bent in sapphires. Estrangement—a circuit board with one ***** loose. What is the hour without an atomic clock? Or GPS coordinates when all the satellites are ******? Life in the periphery is to be a precious gem in a forgotten alley market after the fall of capitalism.

Can I get
some jas—
mine on my
tongue?

A delicate
thing to buffer
the poison—
ing.

Fill my lungs
with petals s—
oft.

Ring the doc—
tor. Call it
off.

Do not
resuscitate
The night—
shade.

Let her slum—
ber on the
eternal
gate.

Your ivory
Was devouring
First as a smirk
Then a ploy
Grazing a nape
I was your boy

“When will I
See you again?”
You said
“C’mon over”
I replied
So you made the drive

We were lovers
s o m e t i m e s

A birthday card
Now gathering dust
In a bin
I often think
Of what could
Have been

To have your teeth
Grasping my
Whole being
And your
Primal scent
In my nose
Lingering

“When will I
See you again?”
. . . I wonder . . .

Knowing the answer
Is never will we be
More than a secret
Every bead of sweat
Locked up in memory
Safe from your faith
Safe from your family

Which makes me
Sigh
And cry
And die
A little inside

This is purgatory

Your purple satin
Slipped through
My fingers like the
Sands of time

s e v e n
years
since
you
disappeared

And still a part of you
Is always on my mind

I don’t want to age gracefully, I want to touch the sun and feel engulfing flames. I want my bones exposed upon the plains. Every soul from my past will come to survey. Monocle and stethoscope—does a spark remain?

Only echoes now.

They reflect upon the times I laughed. Grew a garden so high the neighbors cried. Scent of cider and autumn on parade. Painted a house in sage and a deck in grey. The grass cut neatly like a landing strip. Where my skeleton is softly laid.

Towards the end, there was The Good Place inside of The Dying Place.

The raven watches silently.

You were drifting on waves of Ativan while I vaped in the courtyard before I flipped the mouse card. Lotioning your feet—now yellowing.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said to the nurse. “But here, take this” as I handed her the phone I yanked from the wall.

No more distractions, please.

An advance copy on a projector screen. Downton Abbey in The Dying Place. You couldn’t believe it. But you also couldn’t stay awake.

Nowadays when I say “calzone”
I’m actually saying “can I have another year on loan?”

When I think about bourbon in the rainbow-speckled glass, it’s a sip-by-sip plea to get those years back.

Alas…

I hold your hand.
The dolphin returns.
I kiss your head.
The mouse rests.
One last breath.
And the raven's wing lifts.

Oh mama I tried my best
Danced across the lawn
Oh mama I was not blessed
Heart sang until dawn

Your protector held me close
Casual conversation with a hand below
From open door she took off her clothes
Trust was broke—buried under snow

Like a sister only she was bruised
Another had tainted the shell
How could she have known
This was just another hell

In youth he was my friend
Held me to his chest
Innocent yet I felt shame
Was this more evil than ******

Oh how I thought I could pretend
Poetry on a doormat
Mama would that make you proud
If I were as tame as a house cat

I grew older and tried even harder
She smiled and I bowed
Oh my stars it was so strange
Lips silent while my soul was loud

Oh mama here am I
More me than I've ever been
Oh mama can you see
(Oh mama can't you see)
I ignite the night like a firefly

Oh mama he broke my heart
Made me happy until I thought I'd break
(Made me happy, made me shake)
Oh mama he turned away
Love twisted like a snake

Oh mama I’m a monument
Chiseled by loss, painted in pain
Oh mama I love you so
I am onyx now—do not lament  

Children, she is magic
She smirks with a spark
Children, she is a celestial body
A matriarch

Oh mama I tried my best
Well-taught by you
Oh mama I am blessed
Spell is broken
Truth is spoken
Life awoken
From the ground
Something springs up
Anew

I keep falling in love with ghosts
They flitter in and fade away

Three little spirits slipped wetly into my hands
****** and beautiful; we called each other family
The foundation cracked and poison filled the gaps

They used to laugh and call me daddy
Now…silence and estrangement
That name is reserved for another

Everything in my life was thrown into a heap
Misunderstanding and pain collided to spark the flame
I walk through this new reality, ash covering my feet

Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another

///

A wraith tall and handsome extended his hand in kindness
I reached with my entire being
Poured my heart into his chest

For a moment he washed me clean
We laid bodies entwined as poetry spilled from his lips
A summer zephyr under my wings
I was a phoenix

Balladry devolved to insult
He removes the dagger and ashes spill out
My brokenness is scattered everywhere

Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another

///

Splintered, scaly hands attempt to rebuild
A heavy mind sits in an empty room
Passing by houses filled with the ones I love
Never fingers to grace cheek again

I’ve become the stranger that can’t find a home
Saliva stretches as lips part 
Lungs evacuate and heartbroken cries disappear into the sky

This hollowness haunts me like an apparition
Love…the ultimate curse
It’s previous forms have burned me to ash

Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another
.
.
.
I’m in love with ghosts
They flittered in and faded away

******* this hint of musk. It papers my eyes in polaroids. Drags me by the hair into every dusty corner. ******* sweet from clover until I’m dried up. A clay man cracking in the oven. ******* the burning leaves. Pillow-puff wafts of smoke sneak in through cracked windows. Take my hand, lost boy. Let’s **** the umami autumn into our mouths. Come closer, let me lap it up from your lips while my fingernails tighten into your skull. ******* the summer sun. It boils my shoulders into blister-pop red. A layer of skin piling up on the nightstand after a day in the backwoods. The creek kissed the mud from my toes & exposed a leech…feeding. Later, I cried alone on the bathroom floor when I plucked it like a petal. ******* its pregnant body & everything stolen from me.

I start my walk home with heavy feet after a long day at work. My earbuds are charged and ready to tug at my heart. The early summer heat is setting in and I wipe the sweat from my brow. I feel the thud of my boots against the sidewalk like the percussion of a tone-deaf child clamoring two cymbals together. The beat doesn't match the music, but the sentiment is sincere.


The light switches from orange to white; I make my way across the vacant intersection. I wonder if I ever cross your mind because you've invaded mine like a virus. I almost catch my breath but cough up blood. I wipe my hands against my jeans. Sometimes this is what love feels like. 

Feet still clanging like metal against the pavement...I walk. I think of you always. What a waste. My mouth full of pennies and you don't even see that I am golden. The salt I rub from my cheek does nothing more than provide patina. All of this sorrow goes unseen, unnoticed. 


Two hands of shimmering glitter. Will anyone ever see them? The purest gift to offer, yet everyone keeps walking fearfully away. I've never liked coins, but I flip one into the air and watch it spin. The axis turns and I wonder where it will land. 


The cymbals are no longer mashing against one another, and I stare at my boots on the carpet of my room. Silence. My bloodied denim folded neatly on the floor. Do you still taste me in your mouth?


Because you're on my tongue like a good luck charm tucked away in the corner of a drawer somewhere. Someday you might remember me fondly and think of what could have been. Or maybe you won't.


Vulnerability is a double-edged sword, and I am ready to be laid bare. It takes an incredible amount of bravery to allow love to split us open...our insides bathing us in gold. 


I will say it again: love is a heavy apparatus to wield, and it requires more than two hands. 


My earbuds beep incessantly...


Battery dead.

That green glass bottle resting gently by your sink. A little mist of memories kissing the curve of your neck. You’re cooking in the kitchen. Cardamom. Cinnamon. Your braided belt is on the floor. The one I removed from the loops of your khaki gate. I’m at home in this garden. Please, oh please let me swing in the hammock until I’m old. Here with your majestic oak. Fingers in the coils of your moss. Ginger. Clove. You’re humming into the steam. I sit on the bruised leather sofa and remember how you once climbed up my second-story balcony. A bowl of berries and the cream of your teeth. Fenugreek. Everything fades. Gets pulled away. Coriander. Allspice. Let me taste the nutmeg once more. A small child stares at me because I’m in Target crying over a glass bottle and the man it contains. Paprika smoked into oblivion. Blooded ash on the edge of his drawing on your refrigerator. Inside, I’m rotting like a box of mushrooms you forgot. Behind the bowl of cherries. Cursed by your memory. Salt. Ground chilis.

the projector whirs
a soft hum
while the film spins
into oblivion

a moment too soon
as the blade is ******
into the blooming
heart of the moon

meanwhile, it’s rock candy
hard edges with a crystalline
white-*** man proclaiming:

“the miracles of old, you know
they don’t happen anymore”

the crusty man &
a crowd of dim eyes
cry ten thousand tears
into the dying light
of hades flames
& the glamour of
gabriel’s smile

heaven & hell
intertwined like
*** on the shoreline

all dark
all light

split the bone
& make a wish
my limited sight
erased with a
silver kiss

father,
bless me
and press me
into the dirt

plant me
like a seed
moon water and
honey

sanctified
like a prayer

unrecognizably
a son
shining

Sometimes I pretend to have blood-love enveloping. And if I did, when I’m too weary to breathe they’d tell me:

“Rinse out your soul in sage and citrus. Wrap your heart in artichoke leaves. Kiss your cheeks with bing cherries and paint your nails chartreuse. Drink.

This tea is ancestral and sweet. Son, breathe. Slip your limbs into water so salted you’re floating.”

They’d burn candles ceremoniously. And inside this ring of protection, my racing thoughts cease. A holy basil embrace. A family.

But let’s be real. When my inhale catches in my throat like a flash flood. I’m alone. It was all just a fantasy painted in cord blood.

A Sicilian lemon grove.
Root-rotted.
Fruit of stone.

I stood over the sink
Scrubbing our negroni glasses
Wishing the ginger-scented soap
Would wash away the cancer
Because the chemo didn’t work

I was wearing eyeliner
When I first met you
We’d laugh about that later
Over a bottle of wine
And patatas bravas

We always had our weekends
Movie dates and inside jokes
We would guffaw at the
Fuckery of it all
My god your laugh
How it filled a room

I remember when you said
“I love you, Christopher…
because you just GET ME”
You expressed appreciation
For how I carved out time
For our friendship

I reminded you,
“I don’t carve out time for you,
I shove everything away while
screaming ‘I NEED MY HEIDI TIME!’”

*******.
I need my Heidi time

For years you were
The most consistent thing in my life
Always there for one another
We were each other’s touchstones
I realize this now more than ever
During my weekends spent alone

Wine tastes different now
Something’s missing
Going to the movies feels strange
It’s like the hero has
Left the frame

Remember when I smoked cigarettes?
You’d *** a drag as we crept
Through early evening traffic
On our way to get gelato
Or if we were feeling sassy
Maybe an affogato

I switched to vaping
When you went into hospice
Then back to menthols
When your spirit left this world

I’m addicted to our memories
More than the nicotine
They bang around my head
Like a song or a scent
Nostalgic  
And
Lingering

You tattooed
“CEDENDO VINCES”
On your wrists
“By yielding, you will win”
My finger traced those words
While I held your hand

Last breaths

But what are deaths?

Transitions
Energy
Shifting
A spark
Returning

/ / /

Those letters live
On my wrists now
A reminder of her
The sister I never had
And sometimes
I still hear her laugh

You were a cerulean boy with ocean eyes
A heart as complicated as the tides are high
I brought you home to watch an angel on tv
The sun was rising…you didn’t leave

I was an emerald man
With a broken plan
Oz in my heart, silly I know

A little sad and not of the clearest mind
Enraptured by you
My hopes were misaligned

///

A few days went by…

Things seemed good
A record played
Blue Film
Pasta
Wine
Fingers through hair

An invite to Christmas
Your mom wanted to meet me
Imagine that
Seems a little funny now

I picked you up from the airport
We tried on a hundred pairs of glasses
Took a cute photo by the bathrooms
How foreign now

Sick days in bed
I held a cool cloth to your brow
Ran my hands down your wet back
The fever broke while you slept

You sang countless melodies
Fingers on the keys
While I lay on the carpet
Quietly recording

Then there was the nightly routine
Superstore and cuddles
Laughter and jalapeño hands
****

You kissed my neck
Asked if it was good
It was good
So you turned away

You kept pressing your body against mine
Only to turn away
Over
And over
Again

I would wait until you were asleep to cry
In the bathroom
In the closet
In the dark

My heart was breaking
My mind confused
You looked lost
I felt used

An arbitrary argument over brunch
You put the car in park
We sat in silence
It was a little dark

Suddenly we are ending things
My tears start flooding
You were far away
Emotionless
That still stings

///

Lies like waves crashing on the shore
You’re so comfortable spewing them
Mold on blueberry cheese
A spore

A Scruffy “random play”
A Grinding “top”
A fake *** alt-identity
Hiding behind a screen
Stop

You didn’t see my gold
You couldn’t
I wanted you to try
You wouldn’t

I wonder if you’ll ever
Pull back the curtain and find
Your
True
Self
I hope you do
You deserve that
To be magic (again)

In December, I’ll remember
You
Your cerulean eyes
And our demise

The edges of the carol singer’s face soften and fade as I nurse another glass of whiskey like a medic on call to save my tired soul. “I’m going home for Christmas,” escapes my lips with a gentle slur. I board the train. Or was it a plane? No, wait…it was my own **** car. Memory is strange. I glide through my hometown, but I feel like a foreigner now. And when I park in front of my parent’s house, I stare at the pine grove we planted. The tops mingling amongst the cumulonimbus. The frozen garden. Where have all the sweet winds gone? I stay for a few days, but I’m trapped in a deep haze. It’s only been three months since my best friend’s death. I return to my second home. A city of cranes. I belong here, I guess. You see, home is a prism. Light that falls into new spaces and places—warming the cheek for a measure of time. And just like that, a dove hovering amidst the skyscrapers lands upon the scaffolding. A temporary structure. A rest for the wings.

The wind from the
Cracked window
Is crisp
As it shivers
Along my
Eyelashes
Then
My lip

This boreal dance
Awakens me
Every morning
Until early spring

As one who hates
The sweat of summer
These brisk mornings
Are my everything

And when winter is birthed
The widow’s crack
It narrows
But never closes
I crave the frozen air
It blossoms something
In me
Like eleven dozen
Fresh roses

Death called your name, you said
Not from the periphery
But right here
Right now
And it requires bloodshed

Eyes glazing over
The tracks before you
Dreaming of being
Splayed
For the length of a mile

I laugh nervously
When you tell me
Because it was me
Your son
Who handed you the phone
“For death, press 1”

You’re at the crossing now
From the pedal
Your foot lifts
The train’s horn
Bellowing
As into its path
You drift

The brakeman screams
As your body disjoints
Your shame for me reduced
To scarlet exclamation points

A nearby sparrow
Witnesses the scene
“Sad”, she thinks
Hatchlings cozy
Underneath her wing

It’s a bit cruel
To pile your ****
On my shoulders
As if I were a mule

And it’s a bit wicked
To claim my
Unchangeable
Existence
As sin committed  

The enigma of stigma
Is yours to explore
I slide you a key
I’ll be right here
On the other side of the door

A mouse creeps
Across the threshold
Seeing both sides
“Too bad”, he thinks
As he scurries by

You named me Christopher
After a boy killed
By a train
And now you say I’m to blame
Like an unfortunate stain
On the hem
Of our family’s pain

The truth is
I couldn’t keep living a lie
And I’m sorry, dad
I’m the reason you want to die

the curve of
unattainable
things
your jaw
arms
lower back
& lips

i lap them up
like syrup

in the witching
hour
of my sleep
your fingers
they
c r e e p

I've come to realize the fragility of life itself as of late; a delicate dance of psychological and physiological elements, converging in the process of sustaining a human life.

These components become so complexly intertwined; wrapping themselves around each other whilst expanding and contracting.

My biological systems may keep humming along, subconsciously—yet it is in my mental environment that I choose to allow them to continue. A fascinating concept.

Neurons fire in my brain, telling my arm to extend itself outwards in front of me as if to point at something interesting. More signals are sent, instructing my arm to bend at the elbow; I am now staring at the palm of my hand that rests a few inches from my face.

Neurons continue to spark and my hand slowly twists for me to examine its backside, and then it returns to its original position. My eyes are entranced as they explore the landscape of my palm; its creases and folds resemble a map of sorts.

Fingers methodically open and close—fist, open palm, fist, open palm. My grey matter is aglow as a colorful lighting storm of activity pulses throughout.

Eyes close for a moment.
Thoughts.
Memories.
Thoughts.

They open up again to glare at this dead hand. That’s the fascinating part, the fact that the very signals that are sent to trigger these hand movements—or to trigger my lips to form a pucker or toes to tap, tap, tap to a beat—can also instruct those fleshy appendages to move in such a way to extinguish my own life.

No safeguards? No life-preserving big red button that my subconscious can press in order to save itself?

Nope.
A choice.
A dance.

And I’ve decided tonight…I’m staying alive.

Because somewhere buried deep in my psyche is a little wrinkled-up piece of notepaper with the following words scribbled upon it:

“The sunrise is just over that hill. The worst is over.”

This cabin smells damp
Tucked away in the timber
Backroaded
Secluded
Welcome to Deer Camp

It was wintertime
And we had to ***
Into a tube in the wall
PVC

I’m at that awkward age
Not lanky
But frumpy and weird
So hand me a rifle
For the slaughter
Of a creature I revered

Man, what we do
To make our fathers proud

My secret was
I hated guns
And loved boys
I really only went on this trip
Because I heard that John
Grilled some mean potatoes

Accented with caramelized
Onions and garlic
The rumors were true
The fire crackles
Against a sky
Of light blue

I watched these men
Bearded and loud
Would I ever be like them?
Did I want to be?
My quiet heart
Felt alien
A freak

I wasn’t a hunter
Instead I gathered
A harvest of me
Thoughts and emotions
Into a cauldron
Of poetry

But I kept that part
Hidden
Tucked away
For another day

The men in their
Camouflage attire
Yawn as the sun sets
I try to fit
Into the cabin
We retire

The lantern’s light
Flickers across
The walls of the room
Sam’s Club candy
For dessert
Distant thunder
Booms

It was bedtime
And a storm was rolling
In the atmosphere and in
My head full of fear

Can someone please
Get me out of here

I cried from my cot
“Please take me home”
My dad glared

What a disappointing
Drive that was
Have I ever not
Let you down?
I think
As blankly ahead
I stared

We pull into the driveway
Ignition turns off
Headlamps extinguish
He unlocks the door
By the light of the moon
I feel
Relief and anguish

Mom was annoyed
This was supposed to be
Her weekend alone
Grieving the death
Of her own mother
She hugs me
While wiping
A tear from her
Cheekbone

Steel Magnolias
And a box of Kleenex
I ruined that

You brought a fairy
To deer camp
What did you expect?

a pebble cracking the mirror
skipping across the body
only to sink into
the core

deeper and darker
the riptide

am i alive?
i’m not so sure

why do we
even try to
codify the mystery

an ocean
a fault line
nothing less
nothing more

all of the gravel
disappeared
with a smile

lips smacking
on a foreign
shore
i’m so ******* bored

My Chrysler was a survivor. Hidden piles of broken glass and leather seats split to foam. Summer of ‘99 and sailing down a gravel road named after a tree and a stone. And when we came to a stop, the dust did not. Meanwhile, the radio implores me to get it back 2 good.

I drag my sneakers with white socks pulled up to the shin to the only lonely structure on this stretch of land. A pole building painted ivory and evergreen. It’s mostly empty and smelling of raccoon **** and rusted metal. I grab the machete from the bench and get to work.

My squinted gaze is locked on the acres of horseweed ahead as I dramatically roll my eyes and walk down a freshly mown path. The unending task of the swing and the hack. Piles of severed green. My dad might call this agricultural TLC, but I am feeling very unpretty.

I distract myself from the labor with my Sony Walkman—mustard gold. She’s got EXPMAX technology with 40-second shockproof memory. The headphones move from my sissyneck to my sissyears and I’m pulled by a derelict wind to anywhere other than my own body.

That is, until the blade hits bone. My kneecap is now split in half by a sanguine smile. Its teeth of bubbling fat laugh at how my husky body runs. Its small mouth pouring its way down my calf. My sock, now a magician, is changing colors with effortless conviction.

The panic carries me down the street. Bless the neighbors and their butterfly bandages. Bless the glass of lemonade and a ring to my mother. Bless this memory buried deep under scar tissue purple and pink.

I now realize my first car and I had something in common. All this blood and gristle and glass needed an impact to be set free. Baz Luhrmann told me to be kind to my knees. But I blame it all on the ******* horseweed.

Oh Zion
Call me home
To the shores
Of carcasses
The smell of
Gasoline
Jet skis
Bobbing in the wake
Falling underwater
Let me stay here
For a spell  
/ / /
Oh Lake Michigan
Pull me into your depths
Froth me into
Your waves
Rebirth me
Into a grain
Of sand
Left upon the
Place where
Your waters
Meet land

Once I started dancing the secrets fell from my eyes like a transaction. So I belly up to the bar to refract it. Something close to death for a little bit.

“You see, timing is of the essence.” He mutters while biting his cigarette. So I called off work and left it all on the line. But now I’m curbside and ghosted wondering what to do about today.

Some nips of whiskey at the cinema to quiet all the stimulus. Time slips.

Then I’m shaken awake with strobe lights and his hands on my hips. Two more sips. Lost in the music. The whole thing felt like subtraction. I mean, a distraction. Tonguing the neck of death for a little bit.

I see that microphone. She’s pressed to your lips. I watch you sink her deep deep deep into your esophagus. Choke on your ****. Will the crowds cheer when your very own throat…you split? Wide open and soakin’ your southern cross. We are ripping and shredding your hate into floss. Teeth so clean and ready to sing.

You think you can attack my family and hide safely in the weeds? No no no, you silly goose. You’ve dug your own grave. You’ve knotted your own noose. Justice is an arrow already in flight. The soapbox soon to be kicked out from under your feet. Your horror left hanging there…forgotten in the night. A human quiver of self-destruction.

Now please welcome to the stage…they need no introduction. The people who LOVE. The people who LIVE. We will not forget. But maybe. Just maybe. We can forgive.

The lord’s voice snuck in quiet that summer like a locker room **** peeking out from the hem of a t-shirt. A whispered taunt. An alter call. Lift the fabric and taste the skin. Feel the blood engulfing. The secret hunt for mushrooms. Hallucinations of arched spines in the deep end of the pool. Communion wine on my chin and the wafer of your body on my tongue—dissolving. My position…kneeled. The peacock’s wail. Riding ******* in an open field.

I always wake during the strangest of hours. Time is supposed to be a foundation—something in which to measure and organize our existence. For me, it slips through the fingers of an outstretched hand and dissipates into vapor. There is no comfort in its passing, only a fleeting shadow of an old friend. I recently drove through the worst fog imaginable; every moment was a struggle to remain between the worn-out lines. I squinted even harder and my singular headlight tried its best to help illuminate a path. Its efforts were valiant, yet meager. This is how it is for me now. This is how the days flicker by; in fog, in a haze, no true distinction from one to the next. I squint. It is in vain.

3:00am. I abruptly sit up and my eyes dart around the room that has become mine for but a little while. My conscious mind is still unscrambling data—separating dream from reality from memory. It all comes into focus and my chest heaves as I remember that my children are 539 miles away. They are in their own temporary rooms. My fingers touch the place on my bed where my son recently lay and told me how much he loved me during our last night together before the Five Week Separation. I cognitively continue to process the situation while simultaneously repressing it into deeper and more distant caverns.

My feet touch the floor and I find something to eat. I watch a movie to distract myself, but only feel all the more hollow. I shake my body into movement. I dress myself and head outside. An introspective playlist accompanies me as I walk along the Rock River. I drink in the breaking morning light until I become intoxicated by the sheer beauty of every single moment: the couple walking quickly by; the glow from a nearby kitchen window; the fishy smell of river water. This is the town of my youth, and in a few short weeks, I am leaving it far behind—yet again.

I walk the familiar streets and enter a café that is filled with countless memories of old friends, love, and laughter. The tables are now bare and the chairs empty, but I can still see the ghosts of memories projected throughout the room. The owner asks me how I am doing and how many kids I have now. I respond in as few words as necessary without being crass. I pay for my latte and scone, then turn away and wonder if I will ever buy coffee here again as the door’s abrasive dinging announces my exit. I slip my headphones back on and turn the volume down on the world around me. Everything seems more cinematic when I am orchestrating the score. Cars rush by and my scarf flutters in the breeze as a violin crescendos and a banjo jangles.

I trek back to the place of transient residence. Enough self-reflection for today. It’s time for some productivity. Everything is so very different now. Strange and painful, yet beautiful and mysterious. I am still me. My children are still my children. I think of them as I breathe in the damp morning air and slowly look around one more time, trying to record every detail in my memory. Everything is calm. I exhale deeply. As the breath escapes from my mouth it leaves a vapor that dances upward and disappears in a second. In that moment, time seems tangible again.

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

He stood at the window
Hoodie unzipped
& hair a mess
As the snow fell

He thought
“Wow, you’re a
hundred miles away.
Do you even remember
my name?”

Yours is carved
Deep in my veins

“Can I extract it?”

Pull the power out like
Rolling blackouts
Free for ten minutes
Or maybe it was fifteen

peppered pinky
touch of pheromones
twisting the tufted
hair between your
shoulder bones

a forbidden meal
burrito never
consumed
a chipotle tomb

back on meds
cruising the grid
& test driving beds

now i’ve heard there
was a secret chord
the jester played &
a dance with moves
to fool ya

but i have seen
the light & fled
the scene
with nothing on
my tongue
but hallelujah

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.

Dirt-poor and Balbriggan born
Into the arms of a mother
No longer breathing

Raised by a stone-hearted
Man with a catholic core
Finnian’s soul was gentle
As his ship left the port

He flirted with death
And French boys
Sipping on
Cigarettes and skin
In the alleys of cafés

He found a home
In Marseille

Less of a home, more
A small rented room
With a bed for a
Half dozen men
To break his heart

In a small mirror
By the window
Of his room
He sees the decades
On his face

Time is not
A boon

His glass overflows
With homeland spirit
As he raises it up
To the night sky
With just enough
Air in his lungs for
An Irish goodbye

The ineffable innocence of a child dancing in fire-smoke. A forest twig plucked becomes a magic stick. The ember tip wisps a spell into existence. But with all of his conjuring, he could not stay the Eateress. Her coal-kissed nails twisting into flesh.

“It’s a burning, breaking thing. This world.”

His eyes look scared, even when they’re smiling. The dirt-curse she wove entwined in his spine. A biting, retching thing. The time has come for new witchery. Seventeen steps into the woods. Six steps back. Turn left. Tracing the rings of Saturn around his skull.

“Make it blacknesses. Make me blacknesses.”

Three fingers to his chest. He talons away some bits of flesh. The blood, lets. He shift-shapes not into a beast, but a carcinoma. Devouring the Eateress from inside and returning to his original form once she has died.

In the following hours, he sits fireside. Pokes a log. Dreams of dancing. And with smoke in his eyes, he cries:

“It's that boy.
Him I want to put my arms around.
To hold him. To hold him.
Chase the scaredness away.”

I once yearned to be close to god. Whispering prayers and ******* through violent pages. Spirituality comes in phases.

Would god look away as I thought of another man’s nectar on my lips? Pooling and dripping from the eclipse of our hips. Would god gasp at the flesh within my grasp? Would god leave me alone in the dark as the seed is spilled into my ark?

I no longer think of god. Or liturgies. Or of words on pages distorted to manipulate through the ages. Turn your eyes from me, oh god. For I am close. Oh my god I’m close. I feel the truth erupt from within and it’s sweeter than fructose.

I’ve touched the heavens. It’s gates are pearls on my chest. Sanctified in sugar. Baptized in a batter of leavened bread. I am holier than I’ve ever been. Prove me wrong when I’m dead.

Screeeech goes the sound of the metal door sliding to a close in a house black as crows. An owl howling—juxtaposed with white earthenware pecked by rainbows. Happy Christmas from the trenches of bone meat and parsley. I’m legs crossed in a quiet corner screaming “cut!” because this strange stage play needs to be noosed. The compactor reeks of trauma pressed too neatly. Coats piled on the floor with salted mistletoe. A savory kiss from the host as she clack clack clacks her dentures. A hand not to be slapped, but severed—falling onto the feast table. A crack of pepper. The guests scream as apples tumble from the backyard tree. Quickly wheeled away to conceal all of the rotting. You see, the morning sun in Harmon insists on licking a clean lawn. But this boy is a dawn renegade with a fistful of fuel. And when I unearthed your heart, I set it aflame. Cranberries in my smile, while the black house burns.

fertilized on god
yet withering
off-grid

look at what
you did, kid
when you
split

barbed
wire
ivy
meandering

don’t talk
down to me
no
pandering

listen to what
i said, babe
when i
came

right on out
into the
bleeding
truth

but there
is no map
in
me

this is all
so
differently
happening

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.

Somebody wipe the oil from the stone. The bubbling blubber is too thick over the bone. Spare tire. Rubber. But what if I’m four-wheel drive…with enough traction to thrive. I’ve traversed terrain that could **** a ****** of crows. Jet streams and moonbeams guided me home. Cavatappi and pink sauce to thicken my gloss. I don’t need more loss when the grease on the whetstone provides the perfect amount of sharpening. One hundred and eleven shimmering blades on my crown. Every false structure…severed. My enemies bow down. Lapping up the lubrication as my wings are re-feathered.

A rap on the door and a lift to your hip. Heels in your back and that uncontrollable laugh. The summer sun burned holes through our love. It slipped from my fingers like an ill-fitted glove.

I guess you had enough.

Never a door to be knocked again. Never the flames in your eyes. Never grocery shopping and dog walking again. My ankles around your neck…never again…no more.

You abandoned me like your socks on the floor.

Blood flooded my cheeks at 5 am. A frozen farewell kiss from Saint Joe while I’m scraping snow from my window. Shield me from the crushing pain, I think to myself. My brother waves.

And off I go.

In this new chapter, a stranger is singing in the shower. His cat shedding everywhere. The beasts of the southern wild are howling at the fireworks outside. Because they just want to crawl into a quiet corner and die. Peacefully. Like little bodies in sleeping bags. These makeshift beds were the beginning of the end.

I digress.

I’m a roommate now. A divorcee. And when he’s out working I’m alt-j laundry loading and making a snack. As if some chèvre and crackers could ever muster the gusto to drop-kick this depression attack. Can’t afford the meds so I grab a coffee with a philosopher. That should do the trick.

Nope. I got Žižeked to death.
What a mess.

I drive back home just to have you put your back N 2 it. And when you try to tongue and groove me, I recoil. Your ******* cat coughs up a hairball when you kick me out. Then he looks up with cloudy eyes and I realize: OkCupid is a terrible place to find a housemate.

Beginners mistake.

You won’t see me when I enter. The crystals of glass
gliding past as I ride a sliver of moon glow

through your window and crumple to your floor.
You won’t see me when I rise and survey

the scene. A foreign body by your side. Books you’ll never
read. I slip a gossamer thumb into your slumbered

mind. Let me finger through your dreams. Taste you
from the inside. I’m not sure why I chose to arrive. But I’ll move

an object enough to leave a mark. And now, like before. You won’t
see me. I leave quietly in the night. The last thing you’d want

is an encore.

We met in kindergarten
Miss Wolfe’s class
Into an ear I whisper
A shy boy’s bargain

I knock on your door
Pray the dog
Doesn’t **** me
Seems like a metaphor

Laughter and chasing geese
Stealing glances
And prances in the woods
Sprained ankles in the creek

Your moon-drenched family room
And our primal need
Bodies glide
Into foreign feelings
I concede

We’re both shaving now
Not children
Yet not men
In between and fooling around

In my attic bedroom
Space Jam soundtrack
Hoping my mom doesn’t hear us
My hands on your back

Then moving down
Committing little sins
Shhhhhh
Don’t make a sound

Then the bed of my dad’s truck
Some hand stuff
Never a ****
Never enough

You get up and leave
I want you to stay
I play the radio
97 ZOK

Meredith Brooks
And I hate the world today
Because I’m a *****
But I like me this way

Fifteen and fevered
Down Mix Street
I rollerblade
Turn right on Worth
My love for you
Is such a sad parade

Remember when
We camped on the lawn
Quiet light and secrets
Then that wicked dawn

Dragging us back
Into a world
Where our desires
Don’t belong

We are strangers now
With a little bit of everything
All rolled into memory
Like a sacred vow

I’m your hell
I’m your dream
Do you remember anything?

I recall it all
Your tousled hair
And my forbidden grin
I think you live in Wisconsin

My childhood comes in fond waves of recollection.

The holiday seasons of Thanksgiving and Christmas were always my favorite times of the year. Times in which familial bonds felt their strongest. It was so easy and wonderful to be swept up in the whimsical magic of the holidays. Little problems or concerns are forgotten for the sake of repeating another year of well-constructed joy.

I would shiver with glee as we unpacked our three-foot-tall artificial spruce, set it on a stack of boxes covered with sheets, and decorated it with care. Proudly displayed in the window of our single wide trailer. Every night before bed I'd stare at it admiringly.

It ******* glistened.

My mother and I would piece together a jigsaw puzzle on a card table set up in our living room while watching Christmas movies on TV. It was humble, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I recall being upset one year when my father (correctly) guessed that I bought him a Buck Knife for his Christmas gift. He then made a comment suggesting that he didn't need another knife. It crushed me because I thought it was the perfect gift for a man I tried so hard to relate to.

Most of my childhood memories are filled with joy.

Pretending my G.I. Joes inhabited the branches of our softly lit tree. The elf and angel ornaments were either friend or foe and offered either shelter or a diabolical plot of destruction. The angel atop the tree (from my mother's first marriage in the '70s) was the queen that all the other ornaments and soldiers bowed down before.

She was a goddess.

These days I can't help but be brutally honest with myself and acknowledge that the connection to my biological family is barely existent.

There are no jigsaw puzzles.
No Buck Knives.
No glistening lights.
No tree.

Just me alone in an apartment with a glass of whiskey.

There was a time when I carried on the gleeful tradition of the holidays. With my own three children by my side, I carefully placed that angel from the '70s atop the tree.

I think they were as enamored by her as I once was. I could see the innocent thrill in their eyes.

I haven't looked into their eyes for over a year.

The naive childhood excitement of the holiday season is a distant memory. Now, these days on the calendar remind me of things I will never experience again. They gently, but painfully enter like a dagger between my ribs.

The wound is reopened every ******* year.

I look around and see happy little families shopping for holiday meals and gifts as I push my humble cart around the grocery store alone. I imagine them with a crackling fireplace in their living room like I once had; decorating the tree and listening to holiday tunes. Dancing and giggling.

I can't help but wonder if my children are placing that angel atop the tree with their new dad.

The angel their grandmother passed along.

Her broken marriage.
My broken marriage.

And still, that cardboard angel sits atop the tree spreading joy.

She's a goddess.

Autumn leaves burning
In the backyard
The scent accented
By a nearby
Lilac tree

What a weird thing
Memory

Like the shack
Closed door
Dusty sneakers
On the floor

Exploring bodies
And fantasies
Galore

Don’t let the hinge bend
Keep it shut
If they don’t see
It didn’t happen
I mean…
We’re only friends

A man I once loved told me he wished I “cared more about my body”
But I do care
I care for every lump and curve as much as I hate them
As much as he hated them

I remember yearning for puberty
A thing to make me tall
And thin
A biological fix for my
PROBLEMATIC BODY

Does he know the history?
The gain and loss
The bullies
The pushed-into-puddles
The nightmares

I despise the power of his lips
A lover disfigured
That’s the vibe
His words birthing a mantra of shame
And I’ll never outrun this skin

Thirty years later
And he’s pushing me into a lake
No principal to save me this time
No dry clothes

He left me years ago
Found a much thinner replacement for my side of the bed
It’s for the best
I tell myself as I drunkenly throw rocks at his window

“Don’t think
Just eat”
Is this just a game I play?
Three glasses of whiskey and a Postmate
Won’t chase the horror away

Momentary pleasure
(add guacamole)
Is that enough?
Will I ever be enough?

No
I am too much
Too much skin
Too much softness
Too many folds
Too much of me is filling up space
That’s what they tell me
I see the reflection and I hate all of this excess ME

“I wish you cared more about your body”

What is the remedy?
A perfect diet
A perfect exercise regimen
Pills
Sweat
Porcelain

Think before you speak on a body, sir
Because your words alone
Have the power to ignite a hell
Of
The
Utmost
Destruction

His venom is still pulsing through me
And I’m burning up
I want to escape
Crawl out from the water
Become pure wind

But how do I love me?
How do I allow myself to occupy space?
To stop hiding from every mirror, every glance at the ocean of my belly?

I don’t know
I’m not there yet
I am on an opposite shore consumed by self-hatred
Longing to set sail for somewhere

Somewhere I can cherish the secrets that these sacred ripples of flesh hide
Where my waistline is a treasure map of my wisdom
A place where his words have no power
Where I collapse into the sunset and set myself...
F
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