Driving to work I saw myself
how stupid I had been in my last three years
with my two lovely kids
my silent wife
my shining mistress
and above all, with myself

Coming and going from my pretty house
with flowers all around and lawn *******
with my finest books, waiting for me in my ***** room upstairs,
my long beautiful illness
& all kind of stuff
I was blessed every inch of these days
You are blessed, so ******* blessed, doctor Cozan

looking at stars with your boy through a shining telescope
in these silent nights of August
with fresh coffee sitting on Spinoza' s Ethic
and, sometimes,
listening to a deadly symphony of cows

and I never thought of myself as the happiest ******* on Earth
I've never cried for anybody
even now, when I' m waiting for nothing
(watching my daily ****)
and thinking of her, the luckiest strike I’d ever had.

its been a while
since my eyes have seen a dry night
i don't know
who's to blame
if its worth any at all
blame, i mean
i know this isn't worth tears
yet they are eager to fall
they are willing to be seen
they are much braver than me

I might have told you some of these things,
If you were alive.
 
You had an amazing body from the moment we hit seventh grade.
Your ***** just sat, round and high,
Your ******* pointed straight outward,
Like a freak of nature, or an action figure.
Cheering at football games
Girls hated standing next to you because
You peeled their boyfriend’s eyes from their skirts to yours.

One summer night on Garrett’s roof,
After making turkey sandwiches at two in the morning,
******* the fumes in your thin lips,
Watching the smoke twist in the air
In front of your ice blue eyes,
And your white blonde hair,
We talked about ***.
About how it’s ****** up
      how it is so much harder
For girls to have *******.

Then I dated Jesse,
After you.
We were 16.
Sometimes I think about the night I told you I was sorry,
In the parking lot by the river.
Your breath smelled like Doritos and cherry *****,
You fooled around with your pink shirt
Telling me it was ok.

We talked about our secret handshake.
We talked about how you used to want to be nicknamed cupcake,
We talked about the time we had a séance.
Age eleven bringing back ******,
On your screened-in porch,
Warm air swayed the candle flames,
Crickets in the darkness around us,
Suddenly,
A biker knocked over your trashcan in the ally.
 
You are dead now.
But you did it.
 
Sometimes I’ll eat too much,
Or *****,
Or smoke half a pack of cigarettes,
When I think about you.
One night last summer I ate an entire half-gallon of vanilla ice cream,
Alone in my kitchen.
My stomach felt sick for three days.
 
I walk the trail behind your house,
The one where you think you started your period.
The first place we ever smoked ***.
I talk to the trees about you.
When the wind blows the branches
And the dry leaves sound,
In that gentle shudder,
Along the cold ground,
My skin prickles,
And the hair on my arms rises towards the sky.

It trembles on a pedestal of glass and sand
A single beam of light pierces through the emptiness to illuminate its shaking
Its face of silver mirror reflecting light that disappears into the void
Frost coats the edges in the most delicate web, it shimmers with every angle
What odd eyes scan the depths of this isolation
Endlessly black bottomless pupils searching tirelessly
Eyelashes echoing arachnid origins flutter, meet and part
Sharp angled cheeks cut through the stillness with ease
A stillness of the mouth makes a parting of lips rare and foreign

The eyes flutter closed
Arachnid lashes meeting and locking
The lips part
Soft sighing escapes
The lips craddling its birth

The man lay upon the city bench, his eyes closed against the day.
Dark aged skin warmed against the bleached and crackled paint.
Shadows of humanity are the only clouds to cross his mood,
a hastened pace helps avert its formless gaze when passing by.
What judgments has the world heaped upon him, or he upon his-self,
that has brought him to this space of civic consideration?
Is he ignorant of the angst he’s caused to be set upon our bliss?
To how disconcerting to the whole, his social presence is?
He is the dying form of a comrade seen through the smoke of the day’s long battle.
The one who is forsaken to preserve our flimsy rationales,
least we be brought low in some vain attempt to save our dignity.
Whose eyes once open might catch us in their noēsis gaze,
and hold us there unable to avert their silent condemnation.
Yet they are closed.
And our troubles stir him not.

I am establishing self into
own vision; swallowed some of
My Own stolen ink: chewing on the pen from the front desk.
—tongue was aflame and bitter.
"Well," said self, "I better get more used to the taste of ink." —looked at me
in the rearview. "At least you look Dead Handsome with blacked-out, bruis-ed hickies on your lips."
And I popped my collar up.
It made me look distinguished, so I kept it there—. Opened car door and spit black bugs and blood against the snow.
Quickly realized then, how I could make the ground my canvas.

Teardrops fall from the heavens,
Tasting of ashes
From the world below...

Spinning
Twirling
blur.

Frozen teardrops
The world is still.