Golden light pours onto us
Like a baptism by dawn
This moment always feels holy
And I can hear Church bells ringing
But they haven’t woken you.
                     Thankfully.
Because the world is still now
Nothing matters but this.
And I can just gaze at you
In wonderment, in enchantment
Like a holy shrine
Blessed to everyone near you,
But still only mine.

When you wake up we’ll leave this place
Find Jacques or Pierre at the Cafe
He will already know our order
It will be the same as every other morning
I’ll read a newspaper
                   And say
real smart stuff about the economy,
Or war in the Middle East,
And hope you’re impressed,
And crack a joke here and there
So I can see your smile and hear you laugh.
I can’t see anything past that      
From lying here in our bedroom.

Beneath our window
On cobblestone streets
People are speaking French
We may never understand them,
But when we walk those streets,
                        We know.
They’re talking about
How beautiful we are
And of course how American too.
We’ll never fit in, but that’s okay
Because Paris is ours anyway
I see it when I look in your eyes
And nowhere’s ever felt more like home.

With arms around you I make love to myself.
Outside the leaves are changing with the ode of Autumn,
And the rain sings my favorite grey old song,
But I don’t think it sings for me.
You look up at me as if this all means anything,
While I hate everything i do to you,
And I will not tell you my name,
But I don’t think you’d care to know it.
You’ll be done with whatever this is soon enough.
Our ****** vignette of nothingness.
You put your nails in my back like you’re supposed to,
I kiss your neck as I imagine I probably should.
We act out love like the marionettes we are,
But we will garner no applause.

You are where you’ll always be
Laying silent in the crawl spaces of my mind
With hands filled with dirt and crushed pebbles
Eyes closed and that ****** bleeding smile
Basking in the glory of your own destruction

The sun won’t fall
                                 As I chase you
Around Penrose stairs
                                 I’ve almost got you
Almost all caught up
                                 And in the clear
I can almost touch
                                 Your beautiful face
And I think to myself
                                “Am I ready for this?”

Looking into storefront windows
I see your silhouette
Always next to me, facing me
And if I could make out the picture
A little clearer
And you weren’t just a shadow
I know
You’d have that same **** sad look
That always gets me
And I’d ask you
“Are we still not done with all this?”

You were a stranger,
And I loved you before I knew you,
But it was a conditioned love.
For if you didn’t look like you did,
Or talk like you did,
Or think like you did,
I wouldn’t have loved you at all.
If you were nothing like how you were,
I would have never loved you.
So it was a conditioned love,
And you were passive about it all.
It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t help who you were.
But you never stopped it.
You let it fester,
And let me burn for you with
Love and lust until the two became one,
And it became all I was.
The air I breathed was for you.
So I burnt and you watched,
Or maybe you didn’t,
Maybe it was too terrible to see.
All I know is that you’re covered in my ashes,
And you look stunning in grey.

Eyes so icy; like the heart of her mother,
Burning the air; and matched by another’s,
But that’s fine,
The feelings divine,
I like how it hurts once in a while.

A smile and a few words could melt me down,
Just a puddle for her to walk through on the ground;
And that’s alright,
She’s such a sight,
I can ignore all the lies.

Throw away the makeup and perfume,
And she can still steal any room.
She’s perfect,
I’m an addict,
I get my fix some of the time.

Idyllic dreams of untold Rome’s and Paris’
Caught in the constellations of slashed wrists;
She’s shattered.
I’m enamored.
This girl with be the death of me.

I became what I once hoped you wanted
Through years passed, years dead, and gone but not forgotten
With paintings of you dried like ink on skin
Through memories pondered, missed, and aged but not rotten

I never jumped off bridges except when i did for you
But still never enough to force moments to their crises
Never enough to satisfy, never enough to understand
But enough to never forget those ****** irises

A funny thought is, they never had a color to me
They were just what they were
Heavens gates couldn’t be so lovely
My world was those eyes, the rest was a blur

A funny thought is, that I am content
Finally understanding what it all meant

My eyes did not open this morning,
But that's okay, my bed is warming.
A hornet's nest is hanging above me,
But that's alright, it's just a warning

Of good feelings cuz they're never free.
Broke the mirror cuz I don't like what I see;
Knuckles scab and my tongue is flayed,
Hurts so bad but the pain is heavenly.

Oh darling what of that floor you laid?
What of all the debts that were left unpaid?
All the times I promised I'd be alright,
But I'm still ****** up and I wish I'd stayed.

Yeah baby that's okay, baby, that's alright,
I'm cold but my rooms filled with golden light.
I can't see it with my eyes stitched so tight,
Oh but that's okay baby; cuz I think I feel alright.

They are marching in Warsaw,
Through their wind and their snow,
With their banners and their anthems,
And their God and their crucifixes.

They are marching in Warsaw,
Scared and proud,
Strong and powerless,
Loving and enraged.

They are marching in Warsaw,
With thundering footsteps,
That’s clapping fades into the sad,
Sad hums of something destined to be lost.

They are marching in Warsaw.
In vain. In vain.

You’ll **** yourself up, you will, you know it.
Staring at paintings of purple women,
Through indifferent eyes; flames will be lit
Just so you may feel something. And what then?

You, you, you, and the cross you say you bear.
Not nailed, but rather tied, fettered, and bound
To the wood by splintered brown and blonde hair,
Severing with a cracking, moaning sound.

Love is written large across your stomach; 
Not your heart, not your lips, nowhere it should.
Nowhere protected from the candle’s wick.
Nowhere it can turn into something good.

When it’s time, find bravery in your chest.
Do not fight it, just burn with all the rest.

My chest is made of copper
Like all fourth generation Arizonans.
Strong, sturdy, homegrown.
Like every ancient thirsting saguaro
That 18 year old Scottsdalers watch
Flying by their car passenger window
In mid-August, going to Tucson,
The ***** T. Baja, U.S.A.
To experiment with bisexuality
And pursue a liberal arts degree.

I said it in moments of crisis,
But never when you wished or wanted.
Always to your shut door.
Admittedly, never looking into your irises.

I will always think of the things I lack.
Always wonder if you felt anything at all.
Always wonder what you thought.
Those times you didn’t say it back.

Youll **** your self up
If your folks didn’t already
Staring into mirrors
Like they’re another universe
Frozen in the cosmic horror
Of you and everything you are
Hour after hour.
A stubborn *******
With a mind full of bees.
But you’ll find ways
To look at the ceiling
As you put on mascara
And focus on the background
As you paint your lips red.
Excuse yourself when Grandma
Pulls out the family photo album.
And time will not wait
The earth will turn
Dynasties will end
Wars will be fought
Your sister will move out
Grandma will die.
And you’ll never really see any of it
As long as you just stare into mirrors
Through bloodshot eyes
And don’t learn you don’t always
Need to just
Tear yourself open
And bleed everywhere

Charles you’re looking pale
And your fingers are curved
And clenched, and cold, and light
They feel like a chill around my throat
You should really get some rest
Or maybe drink some wine
You oppress me with your conversation
And I never know what to say when you’re like this
Hit me, Charles.
I want you to hit me.
Maybe one of us would feel something if you did
Maybe we could live a little
Because this isn’t life, Charles
This is Hell
And you started the fire
And I hold the keys to every room

There’s a ticker tape parade on 7th street
And I’m contemplating the life and times of James Joyce. That’s my scene. In another a beautiful woman is staring in the mirror; Inquisitive as she is, she ponders the pros and cons of having her nose touched up. She’ll never make up her mind, but time will for her. “I should have been a pair of ragged claws.” Joyce says, to which I reply, “What the ****?” I like to get into fights. On 7th street a child is riding on his fathers shoulders, smiling, without any knowledge of the ions of death destruction and oppression which humanity has toiled through in the midst of patriarchal norms and bourgeois practices of power and control that have led up to that moment in which he laughs as a float with a Lockheed Martin logo passes by. I envy him. Why yes, I do attend a liberal arts college.

Pouring through an hourglass.
                                   I know where this leads.
A new scene where I paint the picture of confidence.
Standing tall.
                        Head high.
                                            Eyes ahead.
A strong voice with carefully chosen words.
It’s important to me that you notice this.
There are things you think you’ll never say.
There are things I could do but only think.
So you smile at me and I smile back.
And that’s enough.

Time’s up.

Open the flood gates!
                 You can’t be happy here anymore.

“You can’t get there from here.” Said a man in a white shirt
“You can’t get there from here.” Said a girl I don’t want to destroy.
Cut that scene. There’s no beauty in it.
Cut to a room that’s empty but doesn’t have to be.
A dream of you and me. Then only you and me.
These, our bodies, honey sweet.
You look at my arms and wish you could live in them.
I look into your eyes and am afraid.
Because I want to melt into linen with you.
Shatter and tarnish porcelain.
Okay fine, I might destroy you.
But I’ll bleed for this too,
And I’ll show you my scars
So you can press your lips against them.
Tell me that all this
                           and the fire too
                                                will be worth it.
Tell me if it comes crashing down we’ll never get over it.

The bitter cold snarls and bares it’s teeth,
With a clenched jaw and fingers tightly wrapped
Around a secret but known hidden sheath.
Bravely but terribly gazing into the dark.
I’ve seen it day and seen it night.
Seen it in reflections of paintings and in men
Of a terrible manner; men of a hideous nature.
Seen it in questions asked of “where” and “when.”
Seen it brush against the tips of my fingers,
But too far off to grasp or possess.
Too far off to hear my whisper, “I beg you, yes.”

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.

And so I’ve heard their cries
From time to time, and seen
Their looks; entertained their lies,
And they were always filled with mercy.
Kindness, sympathy, pity, and some shame,
And I would admit that that being that is best.
For if the scene were to reach its crescendo,
If questions were asked, answered and put to rest.
Then where would we go from there?
To a thousand simple thoughts,
A hint of passion, a little wit,
To the blackest crevice of a burrowed pit

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.

Hopefully, soon, you will forget my name,
The tyranny of courteous chains, relinquished.
Broken, buried, but survived by shame,
And wouldnt that be what’s best?
And would you notice?
How I sink into defeat,
As a thousand thoughts replace a thousand more;
Of how you’ll see my little retreat.
And will you see past the space in my eyes?
Seven galaxies between you and me.
Filled with lines crossed, broken, and blurred,
Laid out neatly before us, word by word.

Seven rows of dreams deferred.
Seven more scolded and deterred.
Seven last better left unheard.

Nights of passion, nights of regret
They’re the same for me
Better than nights wasted thinking
Thinking of a moment, a second
A second to force the moment to its crisis
A second to relive memories that haunt
Like a specter passing by
A second to be torn apart
By your nails in my back
And lips against my neck
A second to burn
Like pomegranate *****
With no chaser
And be yours
Truly yours

A Tequila Sunrise
at the Roadhouse.
A warm cup of coffee
with cinnamon sprinkled in.

I begin my dissertation on Ted Berrigans Sonnet 2.
A piece of my soul.
Although I am not 18 and my hands hardly shake anymore,
And I absolutely do not in fact know better.

The wind is angry tonight.
Conquering the dark with its horrible howls.
But it will not prevail against these walls,
That stand around this little Eden.

A bed, a candle, some stillness and calm;
I need nothing more than these things.
This is love—to be plain.
This is all love has ever been—to be plain.

Graceful.
Is what I strive for.
Graceful.
Is the feeling of holding Venus in my arms.

Your house.
The soft light. The green and yellow painted walls.
The tall and wide windows.
All your books. All your paintings. All your pictures.
All the most important words I know.

Then snowfall.

And you’re naked on your couch and the image of desire
It’s terrifying. It’s beautiful. I hate myself. I want to stay here forever.

Every move is intentional. I want this to be everything all the time.
I want to get this right.
I want to give you something real.
                  Something sweet and meaningful.
Something you can really get your claws into.

Please don’t say I’m overdoing it.
         I’m trying my best to make      
                             something worth your time. So you might think you could love me.

But instead:
              Humiliation.

Always the Long Hall
Always the thousand pretty and ugly words
               That all just amount to desperation.

On moment you’re young and beautiful and desired and filled with genuine, unironic, honest to God love.

The next you are standing alone,
               bathed in the pale fluorescent light
      
And you are tired.

There is one car.
There is one car barreling down the hillside.
You watch it and you know the hairpin turn is
Coming. You can’t see it, you’re too far behind.
But you’ve been down this road, you know the bends.
You know when to let off the gas and coast on
The driver, does he know how the stars may fall?

There is one car.
The driver is a man you don’t want to know.
The passenger, a girl you think you could love.
How the rosary beads hang from the rearview
You know the seat is made of white leather and
That it is cold. How the girl could melt into it.
How the man will destroy her if you let him.

There is one car.
It’s driving under starlight and to nowhere.
Inside, it smells of passion fruit and skunk ****.
You can’t see it because you’re drunk off *****
And another girl wants to see you naked.
She has blue eyes and likes your arms and tattoos.
They’re both the same girl until they aren’t anymore.

There is one car.
It misses the turn and goes careening on.
And the girl was dead when the good guys found her.
The girl was dead when the pictures were taken
Of the jagged metallic mess and posted
Without care or compassion or just mercy
You’re not special. Everyone loves the girl now.

There is one car.
The driver is a man and now you know him.
He made bail so now he is in front of you.
He wears a red and black beanie to the girl’s
funeral. He does not look towards her mom.
You’re so busy hating him you don’t realize
That, well, you are him until you aren’t anymore.

Forget the car.
The alive girl is always begging for you.
She makes you sad in a way you can’t explain
You’ll destroy her if no one’s there to stop you.
She says that the dead girl wants to sleep with you.
You deny it but you know it’s true of course.
She worships you so you ignore the phone calls

The funeral
You meet the dead girl's father for the first time,
Where has he been? He talks about seeing ghosts.
You see a bad man that could have destroyed her.
You try to fight him but he runs for the door.
You run after him. You catch him and realize
You are gripping your own throat in your own hands.

January
The alive girl does not love you anymore.
You never loved her so now you just feel *****
and mean. The driver stares at the stars and feels
Evil. He should never be the same again.
The dead girl’s father stares at the stars and feels
Empty. Of course, the dead girl’s father is you.

Drivers seat. **** stereo. Karl has the aux Windows down.
You’re used to it
So the scene is yours.

It’s all snap backs and ear gauges
All ripped jeans and graphic T’s
All reggie **** and stolen liquor.

No one here wants to be innocent.
Rebel against anything.
Cover your scars kid.
Maina’s got the needle. Get to it.
I got jumped on Brewery Ave.
Sammie said I did good.

I was not well.
I was not on the straight and narrow.
I was bent.
I was getting high in Whetstone.
I was drinking moonshine.
I was throwing up
I was being thrown against the wall
I was burning holes in Jeremiah’s carpet
I was watching him take the blame.
       And we never talked about it.

He overdosed last Winter.

That’s all gone.
I don’t need to sleep on the floor anymore.
The folds of my flannel jacket never told a story.
It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry for that.

That’s all one scene.
Now yours. Just yours.
I’m sorry it’s not pretty,

The constant flailing slender arms.
You were screaming, everyone was.
You won’t come back from this the same.
No one will. No one wants to.

Life will just be this
You accept it. You grow out your hair.
Home, James.
You can’t be happy here anymore.

You know what it’s like to yearn.
To stare beyond the ceiling
Looking for a feeling beneath your skin
You know it. You lived it.
Now you take the good parts
You bend them. Break them. Dig your claws into them.
Cover yourself in them
And you are still so terribly in love

I’m sorry for that.
It’s not a good scene.
I really shouldn’t talk about you like this.

Back to me.

I wake up.
I lift heavy weights.
I think about my beard.
I drink heavily.
I take long walks.

God no. Let’s not talk about that.
Another scene. Another morning .
Cut the hotel room.
Cut the Courthouse,
The tears in your eyes,
The bad tattoos,
The little white cross on Charleston Road,
Streaking by the police station,
That one cigarette specifically.

It doesn’t matter

In the next
                     there you are.
You are what you always are
And you are covered in white light.
Smiling in a some terrifying way
That makes me feel desperate and afraid.
While I think of saying something ugly.