under a waxing July moon
dripping with corona
hung in a clear night sky
i sit with my father’s ashes
tilting a glass up
of bottom shelf scotch
looking up
at the brown bats
flying broad circles in the air

like cogs, they spin
forever counterclockwise
in each another small life
snapped up and consumed
each cycle no doubt
filling their bellies
instincts fulfilled
catharsis for the moment
at least

among the dulled chirps
of functionally infinite crickets
near cacophony
a gentle but fierce flash
drawn from our chiropterological studies
on instinct
i turn rapidly to the plastic black box
that contains the remainder
of my dad
still defensive
despite the doneness of time’s deeds

bioluminescent chartreuse
warmly highlights what remains
a firefly, seeking respite
from the night’s work
of high stakes family planning
joins us for a moment
looking down, i join him too
with an embering spliff
drawing at his pace
least i could do, right?
our radiant rhythm
giving just enough light
for a single shard of bone
to gleam

we watch
as dusk drapes itself
across the horizon
crescent moon emanating ominously
lunar rays casting down
and one by one new gleams appear
we see the bats as well
me, new friend, and dad,
witness to the minute lights
of the fireflies, dancing
looking for purpose in a
brief brief window
one vanishing, in silence
with every arc of the bats
who continued their work
with admirable precision

but okay, i can feel you thinking about it
still on the ashes thing
its okay, i get it. fair enough.
my father, he died in June
you know the story
consumed alive by life
a juggernaut we all know
in the lungs
probably elsewhere too
decades of smoke congealed
of subterranean quality scotch scorched
old habits are hard to break
no, it wasn’t easy
yes, it was bad
for months, i was at his bedside
read him his final rites
looked him in the eyes
as he went
and i have to tell you
the light never left
i watched the whole time

possibly ironically
he had hung
on our fridge
since i was small thing
a Dylan Thomas poem
c’mon, you know the one.
rage, rage, and all
do not go gentle into that good night
blah blah blah
very apropos here, no?
i read and reread it
must have been a dozen times
in the moments after he rattled his last
it was half buried
under a few coupons
and a tavern menu
as i pulled it out
so too came
a dozen appointment reminders
magnets of polarized teeth
wrenches
and otherwise nondescript squares cascading
to the linoleum floor
also forgotten, unearthed
sorry, i’m off track
this isn’t the point

as we sit here
we happy few
watching nature
under the night sky
i think about that poem
i think about my father
i think about his scotch i'm drinking
i think about the fireflies and the bats
did he? do they? will i?
i hear nothing as they go
miracles of the universe that they are
making their own light in the darkest of places
they are just. gone.
one by one
following instinct
consumed by inevitable things
flying silently in the night
following instinct
one by one
seems pretty gentle to me

then again, dad didn't
i heard a lot as he went
i heard every groan as i lifted him
to and from the transport chair
dozens of times
back and forth
body betraying him
in simple but
vicious ways
vagus nerve, lying ***** that it is
i heard him as i cleaned him
when i told him i loved him
at night when he spoke to
the terrible magnificent dreams of the dying
i heard him
but it didn’t sound like rage.
no lightning forked there.
it was relegation.
rumination.
respite.

my father is dead, yes. but this isn’t about him.
maybe it was, in June. but it is July
he is already gone. and he is still here.
right next to me, under this starlit sky
watching the twinkling dancers in the yard
flicker, flicker – then out
dashed dreams of love and life
snuffed out in a moment
the bats, ever round and round
one by one
doing their best to survive too
to make it another night
to another circle
another cycle
they spin until nothing is left
cogs turning
great machine of life moving
beautiful for a moment
then done

we are no different
we three
now two
our small friend heading off
to work
to life and love
then death
dad, well. he was just ahead of schedule
spun to his own pace, sure
but like a dervish he went
vorpal speed delighting
daring
devastating
until that last good night
green irises still glimmering
though his body grew cold
no tears to curse, bless me now
just luminance, vestiges of thought
in eyes i realize remind me
of my firefly friend,
now likely former

i consider this
the reality of my father
his final form, immolated
at my side
i ponder how i can learn
from his example
his life
how i can survive
thrive
while I finish his rotgut
and my waning smoke
swearing to live differently
habits dying hard
watching the fireflies flash
the bats circle
everything in its harrowingly right place
under a waxing July moon

i still remember your voice the last time we spoke
distant and aloof. a far cry from our first tryst
twenty-six stories up, cries of all kinds that night
and, i know, i know. consistent crying characterized us after too

i still see your face, eyes downcast. you already knew
knew i’d let you down again. crush your heart again
in the middle of Essex, we stood. last bits of
love falling away, rose petals in abscission -  to memories - nightmares - nothing else

i still taste those tannins on my tongue, Ernesto's
best vin transfusing through our veins, future fallout
fueled. red, rosé, i can’t recall. unctuous
though, and rich. it sat heavy in my mouth, like transubstantiated blood of christ

i still feel the thought of your breath warming my neck
the light of your smile, unencumbered by the
reality of me. we didn’t know what i
was yet. then a variable, an unknown. but we know now. i was pain. plague. pestilence.

i still miss you. your idea, your memory
but i don’t have roses in my eyes anymore
i know. i stole so much from you. too many firsts
you should have shared with someone who saw you. who knew you. but all i knew was roses

this dirge is yours, dear Laura. not for your demise
but for mine - the last lamentation i can give
may my memory haunt you no more - may your days
be bright, blessed, and bountiful, far and away forever. may your roses be real

farewell.

when i spilled onto this earth,
i was born with a human head
and a mane
no one thought anything strange about this
of course
not so strange to have a mane
i was just ahead of the curve
(which would not be a trend)

i grew and so did my mane
it blossomed bushily
i got my name
and, when the first fist arrived at my ribcage,
i got my first fang

sulfurous and shaking
rank marlboro breath
reeking from sorry bones he called teeth
the first of many came
and showed me that my human head
was soft
resilient
and surprisingly springy
bouncing with less pain than i thought
off of banisters
and landings
(ironically named the moment you land on one,
don’t you think?
but i digress)

must have been from all that bouncing
that my human head began
to shift
into something else
but it was made real the moment
those haunted knuckles knocked on the door to my heart
my jaw snapped
like my mind
and i bit
just bit
deep and visceral
his glazed eyes wide
with surprise
maybe fear
(although not for long
before the first was joined
by the second
but
still)
as i sailed away through the air
about to bless a landing with its purpose
i saw the arc
monument of my malicious maw
broken into skin
an insidious smile
but not that of a child
my head was a lions now
as my follicles foresaw
on my zeroth day

i was eight when i got my horns
it was surprising actually
third week of third grade
prismatic fissures of light
creating colorful schisms
in the asphalt of the church’s parking lot
i drank in the bittersweet view
as my face fell toward it
my travel sponsored by another boy
more sadism than sense
and two years past the rest
a fact never languished on for long

as most trophy hunters do,
he inspected his ****
a little too much hubris
about a little thing he just did
my chubby form rose
like Dracula from his coffin at dusk
stiff and unyielding
despite the protestations of my body below
and delivered my forehead to his own
the eponymous number of times
face newly painted in a scarlet shade
half blood below the skin
half above
he said you’re crazy
i didn’t know he was right, you see?
so that statement very much offended me
and so i added one to my quota and left
the nuns told me not to be so stubborn
not to hurt other kids
Jesus would turn the other cheek, they said
but Jesus also turned up dead
they said i was stubborn as a goat
my hair wild and unkempt
canines glistening wetly with blood
and, as if to suggest it knew what a goat was,
a **** on my scalp split open
just a bit more
just enough for sable spirals to rush forth

i was thirteen when i got my venom

in the light of day
your appeal is lost but the
evenings give it back.

i lost it

there was a thread here once
i had it
just here
between the tips of my fingers

i lost it though

cursed, i tell ya.
they say about me, in some circles

eyes hidden under indistinctly specific
iconography of ships past their prime
grumbled under half gagged swallows
of whatever passed for palatable ***** past
those
discerning lips
or, perhaps, poorly applied mascara
downturned eyes, downtrodden
but their feet?
find purchase on my back
when you look like this
what else are you for?

and sure, about the curse thing
they were half right
which is a stupid turn of phrase
isn't it?
half right is just

******* wrong
rights aren't piece-meal thoughts
they were, in fact, wrong
But

somehow right enough.
black eyes put a dark period on that
(do you even know my name?)
the universe is a strange place
what can i say?

but we digress


cursed was the vibe tho
an idea carried through
some three or so decades
to now

our dying father fishing
for breath in the dusty light of morning
the sun, weimar conductor that it is,
demanding awareness for the passage of time
“are you still not ready for the day in there? tsk tsk”
he’s thinking it

probably. and that’s not all
because of-*******-course would we
get sick the day we get back
bb death riding shotgun
the very help we brought
to show appreciation
to the rock
that kept us from sinking
eons ago
now a threat to his life
cursed, i tell ya

or stupid. leave that for another day
but today, we flit to and fro
pathos ponging pitifully
a small white pixel
but capable, of self criticism
of despair
bound uselessly
in cognitive dissonance
intensely considerate
ironically exposed
through gentle spritz of lysol
and heavy sighs
each wrenching open the wound anew

and we knew curses too
don't get me wrong
this is no fresh hell
we know but do we learn?
now that’s a good question

for someone to ask
someday
when we are ash, i hope
for now, we wait
breath bated
afraid to take too much of the air left

how much is left, I wonder
we think on that
for a while

we wait
for nothing
for meaning
while he fades

i had a point once
something sharp and poignant
but it’s gone now
i lost it
we lost it

that thread cast out
cascading across my
fingertips
we lost it
away it went
a taut twang as it did
and, yeah, we all lose
all the threads
will slip
this is true
yet
no one tells you
once released
it is
not lost
just






gone

“You’ll never get in. You just can’t. You don’t understand.”,
she says. in this, i can’t help but hear that constant chorus.
she sobs softly in a room i can’t open; door locked.
she can’t help herself. she always cries in the morning.
i can’t believe she’s the same person as in the evening before;
in fishnets and spike heels, vying for attention, can’t take no,
no, won’t take no as an answer. in fact, i can’t take no
so well myself. in a growing rage, i can’t hold back.
can’t stand this helplessness in my own home.
i try to get in with a slam and a kick but can’t.
she sounds out louder in fear, can’t help herself.
in-side, i burn angrily at the sound. i can’t stand it;
can’t shake it, like a potlid in the throes of boil.
it’s strange. in my mind, i can’t remember how it
started. in memories, we can’t keep our hands to
ourselves, intwined at the hip and mouth, can’t stop
or don’t want to. in reality, i guess we still can’t,
though i can’t say it’s in the same ways. well,
i get in. she can’t hold back her sullen tears.
she can’t hide the hints in last night’s stockings,
torn into large holes. i can’t help but growl and
she can’t help but weep heavily in that old, familiar
way. and so now, we can’t stop it. it’s in motion.
the ritual complete. can’t help that, in each other,
we summon the worst.

i look at it this way, i said
we are sailors and our bodies are our ships
relationships are the riggings, the sails, the sextet
and love. love in particular is the anchor
it can keep us grounded in tumultuous times,
help us correct our paths more quickly,
stabilize our journeys, and allow us the choice of sea or port.
but when it's a bad match for our vessel,
it holds us back, limits our freedom,
damages our vessel, and drowns us.

indeed, part of determining that is learning and experimental.
learning how to use the anchor,
when it is appropriate to drop
and when it must be raised.
but the anchor itself is not inherently good or bad.
either fit or experience makes it useful or useless

that's beautiful, she said
where have you been all my life?

i paused.
i have been lost at sea
what seemed like eons
learning to sail
and where to anchor.

I will bury you
your bones and mine
first above & below
then slowly into each
our entrails will form
radicles and shoots
blowing past the past
to entwine in the rays
of some future sun
unspoken & bespoke

I will bury you
each gift given freely
consumed whole
seething, staring down
with unseeing eyes
another morsel
demanded of you
which you bequeath
lovingly, for love,
to love, to be loved

I will bury you
lips smeared with
pale juices, an elixir
to transform
you, from your youness
inhaled hungrily from
saccharine statements
in offering to some
eldritch thought that
sits just between us both.

in the bottoms
the lowest points
tesseract echos
of clicking jaws
clamping down
clacking shut
with voices
murmuring in between
the soft augur
exfoliating down
a sandpaper of teeth
garrote out
in such
kind supply
and velvet layers
fluttering through
so soft
this psyche
crash pad
a spiral
funneled down
or out?
dunno but
scribbly sounds
reverb around
greatful dead
demonic retiree
homely calling
there there
even evil
gives a break
just be
all ideas
struggle to
swim so
float a spell

it
now. it asserts itself. makes itself known. rises from a vague landscape where,
starts slow.
what seems like moments ago, there was only tanned and tender skin.
first, a trickle of
we know its not fair, of course we do, how life
a thing, drip drip dripping
insists on malicious amalgamation of the blameless bright beautiful but
slipshod slipping in and out of
leaves us. we drift aimlessly, searching equally so for
schisms in the essence of a being.
a point. no signal, just noise. like static
like an idea in the back of your head,
but meta. we cut a crashing hiss
scritch scratching around, abound for parts afar and away
through days they never got to
chitter chattering all day, grabbing your tongue, taking your say.
taste. we try to hurry
then, just like that idea, there it stays. festering and flayed,
nowhere, without you. our
invisibly inviable too. just like you. i hate it but it's true.
attempt at
as we mourn the arrival of another morning, alas, it becomes less metaphorical,
growing.

did you ever close your eyes tight as a kid?
i mean, REALLY tight. Tight™.
so tight that the dark gives way
to deeper dark which, inexplicably,
explodes into starburst sparkles of abyss,
dark-light shimmering like eyelid fireworks
Lawrence’s nethers, bemoaning bavarians
and gloom, black blooms blossoming all
around

keep squeezing. keep looking, head bowed low
do you see the mad shadows now?
at first dancing geometric, measured
soon to vanish spectrally into the void
then – back! now embracing iteration
forward-thinking in their anti-euclidean considerations
midnight backdrop finally filling with colors; form
the first cracks of crimson breaking forth, shaping
it

don’t give up now. I wouldn't. he wouldn’t.
mama didn’t raise no quitter now, did she?
(or whatever aphorism gets you going
just get there) have you? good. stay.
for me, those shards of red form rivers
tributaries of some inner sanctum
a breach in the boundless black on black
static, silent and solemn, shhhhhhhhs
the space in-between paradoxically shifts. Then,
we

finally see it. the impossible pool. the reflection
somehow gleaming through white noise to a
subtle blue-sable flow, rippling ever-outward
can you see yourself? no? keep looking down.
i do, my face embarrassingly younger than i’d like to admit
vanity finding me even here, even at the core of my being
for a moment, all is peace. calm. christ-like in repose
memories flood forth, ajna working overtime
these ones don’t smack so sour, more often than not
in my father's favorite dives, only dregs in his glass
remain


but, like all tides, it turns. the backwash bitter
acerbic, odorous. the brimstone feel of it confuses
i’m half-expecting to be boiled by a burst of flame
none comes. the pool simply calms, somehow hellishly frozen
it is a mirror now, harsh and unyielding. i stayed too long (did you?)
nostalgia holds my neck down at first, but only just. they
rush forth, recollections forming a phalanx. a salvo.
Ah! –  but water does better than fused sand can at
justifying a god's ways to man. and so, it gives.
blasting upward, each now an arrowhead, rending rifts across me
traumatic bear trap sprung, Nemesis on Narcissis punishing
a hubris apparently deserving the maximum sentence of
always

i know what happened to Liropie’s son, gazing longingly into the depths
of his pool, Echo’s pining just ringing out for the first time
how his ardent passion, his primordial linage, burned him
from the inside out. he melted, that child of **** and regality
his tears rending deep rifts, a hunter in bittersweet appreciation
for the trap he understood himself to be snared within. he knew
he'd never leave. must have, storied slayer that he was.
a wounded gazelle in denial, bargaining with the Fates frivolously
he knew the score, packed it in. burst forth into molten golds
and whites. rebirthed radicles reaching for a new day
yet the sky above bears down, ever down, to the vengeful mirror below
always is always, ya know? i get it. but i find myself asking
how long did it take? how long did he bow and bleed?
how long before he made himself a karmic ingot? before
sorry.

on nights like this, hell, most nights
the cost is far too unbearable, it breaks the bank
breaks the soul too
the thought of waking again,
starting anew, rings absurd and distant like a land
too far and fair to be true
night wraps gently around me
both negligee and noose, swaddling, suffocating
what life is left
how long? how long will I wait?
bespoke bereft, i know. i did it all to myself.
pain into pride slowly crept
sure, my eyes will close and i
will drift down into the blaze-blue blackness of my mind
whereupon lurks
some peace. a lulling void left
alone, mine, free of each trial and terror laid as
a trap, intended to bind.
no ball or chain. an anklet
will do. reminds me of the ever-presence of you.
yet you’re not here.
daylight begins to break through
night disappears, void dispersing. with each, my concerns
too. out I go, fearless now
So suave So stoic So strong
Confident in the natural order and My place
til i feel it
again, ethereal
but there and so **** heavy
an anklet. yours.
i can’t pay for it anymore.

there is
inside me
at my deepest part
a little black ball
of rage

i don’t know how it got there
well, that’s only half true
i don’t know how it quite got there
at my core
at the heart of my being
but i know when it got there
hewn hard into my flesh
my mind, bones
tempered into me each night
my matriarch’s take
on hephaestus’s forge
and each morning
quenched in the light of day
each walk to school
under the sun’s yawning beams
miasma erupting from my pores
the liminal release before
the cycle began
anew

so, suffice it to say,
it’s in there deep.
DEEP deep.
and it reminds me every day.
hissing out from my heart
seething out of my skin
the steady sssssssss
of it always in the periphery
BGM for my life
like whatever that Animal Crossing theme is called
but sharper
a slicing sliver of steam

most days
she’s content to rest easy
in the wet dark alcoves inside me
a passive hum of her slumbering ember
rattling from my chest

on others
she demands her freedom
tells me i don’t deserve the reins
tells me i need her to lead us
i say “no”
she rouses
sizzling note rising to a low rumble
she says yes
i say No.
first
a jet of flame
burning bright blue white
like the first blazing pinions
from a piece of fresh firewood
seared sap seeping into
sssssssss
down to deep crimson
a spider lily dancing out of me
showing me
beautifully bouncing
and it’s tempting to get lost in that
get lost in the beauty of a renegade part
of your very own soul saying
****. That.
saying
****. You.
there’s something profound about it
(and someday, i hope a wiser person than i can tell you about it)
but getting lost in it is a snare
a distraction
more importantly
there’s the
ssssssssseething

if you listen hard now
the little black ball
she says
sssssssss
no one will ever understand you
sssssssss

another burst of light
that sinks sallow
from it
she shrieks
sssssssss
your only talent is pain
sssssssss

now a cascade
SSSSSSSSS
she roars now
a lioness tearing her way out of me
into me
she says
you know it would be better if it was just all gone  
my back erupting
a billowing cloak of indignant ignition
stoked by memories of midnight visitors
with knives or less
and christmas eves in dank dirt rooms
of ****** tears and well-tended wounds
and this is part of the temptation, to be honest
to just              

                                burn
with
it

to let go and feel
fall to it all
to succumb to the anger.
sorrow. vengeful vigor.
ambrosia would feel like this
ultimate release
my metaphorical form Usagi mid-transformation

                                 We
Burn

and i’m gone

there’s no me
just us
just her
we’re a phoenix of rage
she sneers through my teeth
a cheshire grin in smoke
she leers through my eyes
unblinking and vulpine
together, we cut down forests
burn and salt the earth
in devastation there is clarity, ya know?
we seethe
we embrace
in that flame
we connect
we seethe
shrieking a banshee’s call
unheard to all
but us
We
Seethe

and it feels amazing
truly
but as we all know
there is a cost to such things
and the cost of flames is steep
so. not plan A.

she needs out though
my little black ball
and i think she deserves to seethe
she deserves to rage
and so, some days,
i let her out
i let her out
here
right here
she reaches for you
wants you to know
the burden and blessing
the sorrow
the anger
the hiss of her voice
she wants to be known
she wants you to know her
you're almost there
it only burns for a moment
can you hear her?
can you hear her
sssssssss?

empty, he hangs
hunger echos eternally
euphoric echelons unreached
up tips the glass
all sixteen ounces vanished
split second, drained down
our dry roiling throat
oscillating, undulating
fleshy chords twanging discordant
as our eyes scan
the floor
for food

the hunger is
not unknown to
me. he speaks
his piece each evening,
growling guttural in the
ear of my psyche
in a word-like lilt
he needs
a constant cadence to
feel full, as he
enthusiastically entreats
every evening

tonight is no
different. across the
table he sees  
one. entrée du jour.
body fills with foul
pitch and sulfurous fire.
and shame, of course,
always shame.
i shouldn’t need this
and neither should he
prescriptive philosophies aren’t particularly
obtainable, he
offers ourselves

rising, a snap
audibly cracks from
my ailing back.
ours? his? hard to
quite say these days
but i digress anyway
we’re halfway to target
rolodex of first topics
spinning manically
searching, manipulating, looking for
that lone loquacious line,
algorithmic in its alignment
to enthrall
engulf, enamor

the spotlight of
consciousness is fickle,
you see. bodies
are only loyal to
themselves. they contain all.
and mine, sometimes, does
not even contain me.
no warning, he simply
begins his hunt, filpped
light switch
so banal and flippant
i am not needed
and so aside cast
succubi schema
sunsetting sense

i don’t know
where i go
it is the
sense of nothing, absence.
my body simultaneously there
and gone. i feel
some of it. pleasure
sneaks seductively up into
my sinew and bones.
i always wonder who
was first
which of the ******
spirits presiding amongst my
cells was the first
to see
sumptuous sunlight

as his evening
seeps into me
squeezing into the
small spaces where i
still exist, i flux
both small and sprawling
my void form changes
with me, taking direction
from my wandering thoughts
“was he born here?”,
i inquire
ineffably to no one.
expecting an answer, none
comes. just the squawk
of *** and sheets,
vibrato voices
vigorous, vehement.

couldn’t say who
was first out
but i’m first  
up today, rays rousing
from sleep and stupor.
i see her with
my eyes for the
first time, curled up
like a kitten, exhausted
of the evening’s destruction.
cast into her shoulder,
his teeth
show i’m the stranger
here. like mine but
aren’t. can’t be. never
met me. still, she
serenely slumbers
silent, sensuously

voiceless now in
his void, we
are finally separate.
abandoned to the labors
of the morning, infernal
impulses satiated, i go
method, best impression donned.
she is, obviously, confused
by the reality of
me. former affection burning
away like vampire’s flesh
in light of day
succubi’s *******
now gone dry. so
too it’s mosquito’s charm
subtle and soft, now
irritated, vulnerable. hurt. and
alone i
am again.

i look upon the dregs of a young man's youth misspent
and out upon the broken parts of hearts he was lent.
every one pristine before he lay hands upon it
twisting love of women to lust to hate
and where all the flames of passion were lit
his insecurities were keenly hit
to which his only tactic was to abate,
downplay, decrease, discount and more
he found the reasons needed in the lore
of days long past. the kindly ladies demur.

days and days go by and he could still only lie
to himself to ease his stress and pain
and hunt once more for hearts to strain
with lures in words and faultless face,
a self imposed long haltless race
to sieve their affect through enclawed hands
and
and yet
and yet he knows not why he stands
or sits
or speaks
or sings of love
when clearly he knows nothing of its austere offices
he knows only hunger for the heat of an embrace
the clasp of another hand
telling himself that life will follow with fences of white and broods and rings and gardens and windows and light, ohsweetgodlight
but he is blind.
there is light but he does not see.
each and every one does hold a key
to life and fence and broods and such.
his burdens must appear too much
to hand to others and so he flees
to hide in shadows and lament the passing
of another life. the kindly ladies demur.

and now. there is only nothing and no one to blame
but the arrogance of youth and the youth itself.
crying out with fist clenched tight
why oh why. this can't be right.
it is oh it is. you know full well
that each and every one was bright
and, for you, another light.
and yet you chose to bask in hell.
so drop the act and take your nails.
the wounds will heal, you stupid knave.
open your ears and shroud the mind.
when you do, i think you'll find
that when the women stand speak,
it's not words for sake of words
or just so that they can be heard
but because you think you know too much
and they love you more than you yourself.
a kindly lady demurs.

dark & light dance left
horizon a glacial crawl
spectrum shifting sable

watched closely enough
she was as an old TV,
diode warm, alive

and yet, undead too.
not gone but going. she knew.
her silent song set

a winking line of
signal, weeping out her last
lacrimal notes now

waves rushing to shore
sounded bent, for a moment
wobbling, unmoored

i heard the hum of
a **** turning, clicking to
off. electrical

bubble burst. picture
crushed into that same long line,
like an eye mid-blink
but never
blunk