younger than me
sweeter than I could ever be

what is more lonesome
than the youth
that drags its own wings through the dirt?
what else would I have done?

I've watched hope spring
time and time again
cling its moist roots
to arid land

somehow

as infertile a wild;
some auspice offered
to skin softer than mine

what I'd lost
before they'd begun to gain
bucks buried in the halogen
of the world ahead

and what small sorrow it crows for yet
like a father's shaking hands
before I knew what trembling was

or what such a shaken man begets

or life along the highway line
another cry carried on the air
threatened like road-wandering swine
a frightened feral

what is more uncaring
than childhood fancy –
what is more forgetful of me?

how abrupt has it been
and then to end in collision
flame spiraling, firing off its hot spittle –
the youngest of the few

never quite young enough

tonight,
my shadow settles
in a different corner of the world

and his obscures me
content to hang on my frame
shielding any light from my eyes

faith's grievance -
the gravest sin I'd commit
salt to skin

faith's only albatross -
the bits of faith I'd toss
like Ms. Greenwood's dress
into the darkest parts of New York

like I think of my name
winking into the fixed abyss
indifferent to its prior disguise
when it does not leave the lungs enough

and on the height of my fuss,
inspiration flees
like a sour gust through the city at night
- a hint of death
a tinge of it on my hands

the void I fault for its expanse
promises to snarl his shadow from my shoulder
invites me into its limbo
desperately whines my title

it calls with little confidence,
but I linger to step in
flecks of gray interrupting the black
wafting,
purposeless black

will I?
will I live, wander the world's breadth
with the impetus of two dead legs

or will I become a cry of breath?

I flirt with two dooms,
swinging like a two-phase-moon;
stay, go, stay, go
weighing the whimper of my soul
against brain's drive to die alone

I go limp in his arms
just to see if he can catch me

"don't forget about the stars, don't forget about the stars"

they are beautiful, and all over
but the darkness between them is such a scary thing

my lover
fashioned from old dirt
and bones buried
broken and brittle in the earth
painted so sparingly in gold
she is chipping all of such a thin coat
my lover
would start to wither, watered wine
I take her pains, tithing my time
her scent as sycamore and pine
to cut the wormwood from her twine
I love her
I will be with her, if it's fine

I ask the summer breeze

that seeps around

my cold, uncaring cracks

to sit with me

stay in its place

to keep directing the dance

of busy, buzzing bees

to kiss me every year,

staying rightfully in its season

but to write me of warmth over the holiday

I ask it that its honey-drenched, honeysuckle-sweetened air

would be my valentine

the ground is all
but under my feet
and
i lose grip
on whatever tethers me

my breath
as a bitten, threadbare rope

still

prolonged to cling to connate hope

somewhere between old and new moon

in dark,
i linger
on my last swoon
sit somewhere sidereal
seething in its last touch feel

unsure of how to temper it
and how my want to decrements

still

i want to land on solid ground

and hope to hear a voice call out
as stars tangle above earth's crown

a rose climbs from this second row step
like a wound, always bleeding

of all the men she's ever held
and will hold

and I sit in the barrel of her 45

she's all heart and stomach
I'm instinct and claw

hot filament
a wire, a spark

a breathing space where she can't breathe

an abstract piece

the sour smell

of ocean decay;

chartreuse waves

vermilion sky;

light breaks

and earth, untamed

hide,

ocean's undertow

and sleep, stagnant flame

against snow sunset
plow the land
freshen up
with ***** hands

cold cassette
sings along
to dial-up net
breathing strong

against scratched windows
moonlight dance
and paces slow
to fretful finance

ice collects around the window

I collect myself, collect my things

pick at the threads hanging from my clothing

on the way back through these heavy-eyed roads

batting my lashes at its sopitive sounds

patiently thrumming strings

waiting for patience to part with me

again

I possess myself

hang from the height of this parting breeze

no doubt that if it's picked me up, it will set me down

and someone from the passenger seat

exchanges a pithy parting glance

again

I possess myself

maybe somewhere unknown

I collect myself, collect strewn things

possess myself to collect dust

and feel it like small bugs stalking up my spine

as the bustle and buckle of the beltway

buzzes and rattles where my back touches the seat

breath fights me for its own space

again

I possess myself, remind myself

it rains somewhere, it's a different time somewhere –
someone, somewhere
pops the top off of their wine,
resigned to the sticky spill of its cherry scent,
drinks it alone and sinks into their dulled senses
possesses themselves to make it their last bottle,
patient for their parting sigh

someone, somewhere else,
pops the top off of their wine
giddy at the squeak and snap,
heart fluttering at the cherry scent
as it bubbles over the lip of the bottle
they present it to their lover
in two carefully poured glasses
patient in their honeymoon sigh

someone, I'm sure
stakes the highway line
somewhere,
maybe not too far from this home of mine
collects their dust in a similar fashion
prone, picked up on a gust of passion
possesses the last small comfort yet to be robbed
in imagining the same system of cogs
that turn under the same cover of sky
and pulls from it a patient sigh

soft and sallow
sulking, sunder, stroking willow
the sum of his parts
some tender, sundry other
sought southern shores, in silence
harrowing, path narrowing, but smiling
whiling away time – through glass, studying plant life
something cool glides on his skin
the tubes and trinkets beside him
cold mechanical contraptions slid inside him
from winding dolls and winding cars
to the wound machine that sets his breathing
keeps him afloat and keeps him blinking
keeps the wheel turning, lest its ceasing
though, like winding dolls and winding cars
he wonders, eyes following wind whirred plant life from afar
in time they slow and stop their moving
how long til I unwind and set apart

he stops and recalls the scraping sound
from the workings inside as they resound
from the yard, the bark of his hound
as mother trims the hedge around
he waits for the doll to slow its rounds
patiently waits for it to need wound

mist stretches along the tops of trees, bosoming coldly over the brush
like the bodies of lost souls

like the words that hang from the page
withering, wilting ghosts
that threaten to slither from their place
wobbling wraiths I'd traced;
my heart's yearn to spit its hopeless thought -
reduced to something like child scribbles,
like nonsense I'd etched with my non-dominant hand
with blithering, faltering pen

I swing like the moon between two phases
sure, unsure
how long will I sit here?
a few lunations scramble past my head
words on words on words
blend together in sequences of lines
that I no longer recognize
as anything close to cognizant

I read the lines again
dismantle, disassemble them
eyeful work;
like science sates its spirit
by prodding at the seams of the earth
no fear that it may unfix
the stars that string like stanchions in the sky
heaven's performance toppling

my words collapse before me
nothing more than a brief hiccup
before their quiet, noon oblivion
miscalculated blots that do nothing but spoil the purity of the page
I crinkle it, toss it behind me
grab a new sliver of square
uncrinkled, uninked
I stare into the ceaseless white
brinking, unblinking alabaster
immaculate - the center of nonexistence
so foreigning; a burgeoning sense of casuality within me

I remind myself that it is a piece of paper

but do I dare soil it?
ebony tweens from the pen as I press
callous deflowering;
assaulting the page with senseless drivel I will realise
five to ten seconds after I write it that I hate