Behave, my heart
you skip, jolt,
race
catching up with
the speed of light
you and your
weak faith, and
your strong
predilection towards
fear and worry

You are ferocious,
unrelenting
both quick and false
bitter and
remorseful
believing and
disbelieving
polarizing
hypocritical
and sad

running,
always
running away
stealing my breath
away

God is engineering
your every beat
He owns you
You are borrowed from
Him

So go on, heart,
do what you want,
bolt,
gallop,
fly,
and sprint.

But be joyous
in your every erratic,
wild beat.
And only pump life
and faith
and wisdom.

The wobbly love bits
woke up when the morning is
still fogged by cold purple-hued
freshness

She covers her face
but reveals those baby eyes
to follow you with
mirthful wonder
and she flails her wobbly fingers
and wobbly arms
with playful waves
and her mother
takes away her blankie
And she is dressed in
blue, and that sort of
beauty all crammed inside
that little brand new human being
can be quite
overwhelming

Her few feather hairs
and happiness-crinkling eyes
and mouth in a laughing sort of circle
and her invisible neck
and super puff-loved
cheeks
And love-hearts
fill the air
and spread joy
though your bones
and nerves
like warm sunshine
that melts
yesterday's despair
and dissipates
all the tiny
agonies
within
her radius.

-To Alice
Jan 7, 2016

I am stalking you
You are drinking at night
and wallowing
and being swept away
in your melancholic
celebrated novel

The words
you wanted to savor
roll in your tongue
and taste
every
bit down to
its last literary
drop

But you're speed-reading
because on Friday
I will demand the book from
you

And maybe that's
why you needed
a drink
To cope with
the rush
the blur
of the bullet train
of brilliance
And it's making
you dizzy
teary eyed
impervious
delirious
depressed

And pausing
only to listen
to, and cry
over,
The Magnetic Field's
"Why I Cry"

I am sorry
I just want to
read
what you're reading
And feel your love and wrath
in my bones

I know you want to go
to New Zealand
And/or
Japan
I want to go to Peru.
Or any place
with string lights
And a cinema
and stacks
of dog-eared
gems
With you

And I want to
take a black and white
picture of you
in New York
Where we'll crowd
the sky
with our laughter
and
agony

One Friday night
You sat across from me.
Counting your change.
Unfurling old and new
bills
gathering them
Into neat stacks.
Brows furrowed.

You ordered these bacon-and-cheese wraps
For both of us
Which we agreed
Tasted like salt.
Salt and texture.

Look at me,

Wiping away dust from the laptop

With my fingers

Sullen

Chipping away at

My cheap nail polish

Hollow

Blank

The Days

Longer

Perturbed

You are twenty days late
In your response
Who do you think you are?
That I’d jump at your thumbspeak?

It was a passing thing

Thinking about you now
With your flecked baldness
Your Cheshire cat teeth
Glowing against
Your ***** black skin

Your disease
A foul smell
In the arid air

The long stretch
Of your tawny arms
That once carried
The weight
Of your insecurities

Your sweaty palms
Like milk
The sweat
In your back

Your unpunctuated sentences
And your shallow joys…

You are twenty days late
But you’ve lost me
On the fourth day