I dreamed I dug a bullet
out of my own thigh.
I asked if I might bleed to death
and they said no
as long as I packed it with happy thoughts
and my mind went blank.
There was no pain, no cringing release,
grim rush to blank reality,
these legs are used to feeling.
I pressed a ***** palm to the ragged edges.
I feel better.

I wish you could be here to feel my heart flutter when I think about you
Funny, because I hardly know you, but I still wish to be in your arms.
Arms which I've ever felt.

You're an enigma to me; mysterious yet captivating,
and I want to solve you.
I want to pick up your pieces and put them together like a jigsaw puzzle.
I want to see the picture they make when they come together,
and cry when I have to take it apart put the pieces back in the box.

I want to fall asleep thinking about you, and get a text message that you are thinking about me too.

I want to hold your hand and trace the lines on your palm, The heart line and life line, and laugh when yours and mine match.

I want to lean in close and whisper secrets only we know
and you'll whisper back that you agree.

I want you to mess my hair up.

I want my mother to be suspicious when I come home wearing your sweatshirt and not mine.

I want to lay out in the grass together watching the clouds with headphones in, listening to Green Day because I know you like them.

I know that much about you.
I know your eyes are brown and dark
and your mother thinks you are gorgeous.

I know your speech slurs when you get excited and start talking fast.

I know you tease me, and I think you like me too, but I don't know that for sure.

I know you have a silly ring of hat hair when you leave work, and I hate it but I love it too.

I know I recall all these things about you to write this poem, and I'm smiling as I think about you.

I wonder what you are doing right now, not this, for sure, you're probably playing Xbox with your friends and thinking about graduating in two weeks.
But not me, I'm thinking about you, funny, I know, because I really hardly know you, but maybe that's okay, maybe one day I will know something about you.

Dead beat (5 cents).
Dead pan (10 cents).
Dead dead Franklin head

Early deaths –
Casualties of the war of the changing seasons
Brings me back to a time without reason
When all I knew were the leaves and the road and my family –
My family  -
We, us, together, now!
Quick, gather in front of the tree with too many decorations,
Too many forced memories –
Do you remember?
Of course I do, Momma,
I know it.

Of returning fearful from a night of supervised sneaking
Uniform series of street lamps keeping us safe
But we did not know,
Knew only the fear and the fun and the one night a year they broke the laws of all that we know and mixed against the will of the world like oil and water
Together now

“Deformed Discourse” –
The body monstrous,
Explains my professor.
But where is my body?
Monstrous – of course I know –
But the body monstrous –
The body –
I think I’m better off without.
I’ve spent two years without a body
And I only miss it when a new one begins to creep on my bones
And I want to run, run away from
The settling, the thousand sufferings manifesting themselves in the forms of slopes, rivers, valleys
Etched deeply with the urgency of the years.

Oh yes – it’s a long way back to the Garden of Eden.
Even then,
Did hurricanes shake the foundations of the earth?
Did they ever cease?

We cannot see where we are going
Hurtling through the abstract of billions of collective souls
That’s a star, we say, that’s a conglomeration of gas reacting to give us heat.
There’s a planet,
We say,
Aggregations of solid matter drawn into itself –
Drawn to circling its parent material, again and again.
For years,
For ever.

Does the tree feel growing pains as its Cambrian layer holds its breath and expands?
Does it take into account the thousand other entities which drain its life blood?
The rabbit doesn’t know,
Shivering in the snow beneath the drooping needles of the conifer.
The sapsucker doesn’t know,
Drinking it all,
And leaving the rest to weep down the bleeding tree.
We don’t know,
The sounds of our saws retching back and forth drown out our inhibitions.

I wonder if the last lynx
To sneak through Wisconsin
Knew it was the last,
Knew its loneliness
Knew the trail it left through the snow
Would forever haunt its disciples.

I wonder if
The swooping hawks crying out
The streamlined white tail leaping through brambles
The silent oaks painting the sky with their fingers stretched upwards –
Do they know what we have done to life, to ourselves?
Do we?

Pennies clang in their cage
1,2,3,4,5
It hurts my head
6,7,8,9,10
To count every single
11,12,13,14,15
Moment of time wasted
Again and again
They, them, together now!

We will roll them together

And promise to promise ourselves

That it was all worth it


As they transfer from sweaty palm to shaking hand

lately, we’ve been talking about the way things change
we’ve been building cities with our mouths only to blow them out
as if the future is a candle, with trails of smoke like lace,
just the murmur of secrets across the grass getting
softer softer softer
until they disappear, until everything disappears
everything disappears

lately, i’ve been think about the way things change
like seasons and lovers
i’ve been thinking about how
the only thing more permanent than forever is never,
and everybody thinks it’s going to be forever until it’s not
i’ve been thinking about whether it’s a good thing or not
because all the rock stars whose names
we were screaming at concerts are middle-aged parents now
and it’s weird, but i think it’s kind of cool too

times change and things change and that’s okay
you can’t be sixteen forever, and why the hell would you want to be?
being sixteen was kind of a ******* nightmare
growing up isn’t inherently bad,
and if you’re gonna be peter pan
then you’re gonna be lonelier than a lost boy

and maybe i’m the kind of person who expects
everything to fall apart, but life is equally destruction and rebirth
everything disappears, everything’s gonna be different
everything’s gonna be awesome
everything’s gonna be awful

think of it this way:
everything’s gonna be wonderful
just like everything’s gonna be terrible
that’s just the way it is
luck of the draw, life is a crapshoot
and sometimes your hand is ******, but you’ve still got to play it anyways
or you’re just gonna fold over like house of cards

think of it this way:
even in the darkest of nights the moon is always
hiding out somewhere in the sky
and the sun going to come up tomorrow
i couldn’t tell you why exactly because i didn’t pay any attention
in science class, i was too busying doodling in the margins of myself
and looking for stars,
but the sun’s gonna come up tomorrow
it always has, and the sun’s reliable like that
and i know that only thing that’s certain is that nothing is,
and i know i’ve got no proof, but i’ve got a hunch
that everything’s gonna work out
and i know “you’ll be okay” always sounds kind of hollow
but it does ring true

and we’re still young enough to be dumb
and we’re still young enough that we’ve got so many possibilities
it makes me ******* dizzy
and if you’re lucky enough to have
the world in the palm of your hand, don’t clench your fist;
don’t let it slip through your fingers
don’t let go
don’t let go

You can't pour wine from an empty
Bottle, the pop-up ad tells me.
I laugh. I laugh as the cracks
At its bottom cut into
My palm; I pour you
Another glass. It's all red anyway.
Who cares what that AI has to say.

i've come here to commit the quivering weak,
feeding scurrying beasts more reeking fodder
sentimental flesh no match for their razor sharp teeth
banging *** lids, stomping feet
hoping that rats near, feasting
on scraps and detritus will scatter amid bluster
before eyes dare to open - perhaps catch sight of things
that might scare us
our cans, never closed -
left always ajar, an offering of communion
lest they grow too hungry
gnaw through walls and come inside,
share foie gras with guests I'd hoped to impress
now seated and dining behind;
disgust them in sights of sins best hidden out back in the darkness
and leave fine linens soiled with meals yet digested

his body's been disposed before,
innocent specter resurrected by morning to fog up the mirror
reciting novenas as beads of his rosary roll in counts down its surface
never suspecting fate that awaits as night falls once more
daytime is easier, drowning sound
from his voice in symphonies of piano and strings
Mozart's or Mahler's  -
other things of distraction...
that aren't there to hide in when
sun fades and sleep, again, tries to invade
his figure repudiated, extracted
from a psyche dissected years ago, like a tumor threatening to grow
swallow the Now from which time's made.
in pretense of conversion for the moment,  i take his hand and lead him -
more fresh meat for the rodents
(even saints sometimes lie when they don't like the answers - they atone deception later)
he still cries when I leave him alone at the altar

once
a shaman shaking dried heads tied to a stick with palm leaves
promised mysterious potions that would strengthen the weak
reciting magical incantations expected to exorcise spirits within
for all those who believed
practicing his science of faith or faith in his science
for clients lined up at the door,
seeking doses of hope that he sold them -  returning each week for some more
but for those apostate, left to stare in the glare of florescent
humors never found balance in bloodletting
lancet nor leaches
the weakness of faithless was in never tasting the cure
or trusting tears could ever be wiped away by ice picks
he ****** deep in eye sockets, the sweet lies he told us
holes left in the soul could never filled by blue pills -
they couldn't reach there

missionaries positioned their ways
through that breach,
preaching a new theology requiring surrender
of my reliquary of cherished memories
as precondition for salvation,
discarding polished bones i'd kissed and prayed over:

Her precious pink t-shirt, coil of hair still stuck there,
though having no root it could never be proved
from whom it was groomed,
it was article of faith - who could dare question it;

the used ticket stub with date imprinted
indicating temporal evidence that
once something true existed
that i, too, felt part of;

words bound in a covenant sent by saints
in small pieces of lavender-scented mail
though having waited so long
faith in The Coming had wasted
and perfume, long ago, faded to imagination

and so, a soul abandoned all hope of redemption

a red rose rendered in oils
expressing devotion for eternity lost meaning
when it withered
watered by hope, as it was and forgotten;
our castle built on clouds came tumbling to the ground
when we looked up, stared at the sky;
the permanent brilliance of diamonds become mere stones in the garden
when sown from a window on high -
wealth for worms to covet and fight over,
though the fool still knelt to sift soil through his fingers
in search of lost sacrament
finally planting his hope
in the many graves that he'd made
otherwise, for forsaken,
faith is just hope not yet ready to die

then, there's the weak one i'll face in the morning,
likely still worshiping old bones and reciting from memory his ancient liturgy
when i let it, a cacophony of questions
can echo about paths never taken, and why some vows, not others;
and i wonder if there's a heaven for heathens when clocks cease their ticking
off nows that i try to live in

Each new vision of a sunset inspires a glimmer of hope
Illuminating the depths of darkness
Reminding us of the availability
Freely given by mother nature
Encouraging us to nurture the soul
By finding peace and tranquility
Resting in the palm of such beauty

I use my hair as a paintbrush to place raindrops on my palm
In the harsh light of the desk lamp,
They shimmer, on fire
Like the trees outside the door
I wipe the water on a towel
But the glow doesn't fade
Until my hands are staid.

A ship steams towards the shore
No port but a sandy beach
with tall palm trees stretching
like tired hippies

A crash of the falling anchor
the loud clanking of a chain
throws up the screaming birds
like a poor magicians card trick

The blanket like sail
***** in the wind
an extra large hanky
waved by a sorry hand

The smoke from the funnel stops
the tired engine pants
like it has had too much exercise
the birds settle to rest again
as the ship slows to a stop

he's only happy when
my pretty little lips are wrapped around him,
when he can pat my head
and say "good girl"
because i'm doing what he wants,
but if i don't,
he'll turn his head
and kindly never speak to me again
now i can't have that
can i

so i'll gladly take him in my mouth
if that means he'll love me
and he'll never leave me,
he'll keep me close
because he knows
he has me in the palm of his hand
and if i do what he wants
he'll have to be with me,
because who else
would bend over as easily as i do

Your wicked tongue awoke
Between crooked teeth
And a scarred smile

An accent at the boom
Of your voice; could shatter
Cities of marble to sand

The plague you've sent
As we prayed for an end
And you took your throne

But this is love, isn't it?
You whispered to us all
Through an open palm

This was all there is
And all that ever will be
You are the omega

You've slayed and conquered
But like caped crusaders fallen
You were mortal all along

And I realize that now
Whelmed through life's storm
You, too, never knew love

You Kidding (resubmitting for your consideration; posted here one year ago, today)

For Ian

Lived a long time coming,
Picked up yesterday my three year old grandchild boy,
Third of a third of a third of a third
Of a half of me,
Who I only see once a year,
And we fell in love once again,
all over as is our style,
Annually, annuellement.

We belly kiss,
Fist bump,
High five, talk jive,
Tell each other grand stories
Of dragons in pizza parlors.

Each of us,
Trying the other out,
To ascertain just what
Stuff we are made off.

I love to put him to sleep,
My fingers, rhyme writing like Pradip,
To the turning tires of mom's Toyota van,
When the tired is a steady stream
Of word mumbles of which I understand
A word here and there, but an epic poem
He recites, a verbal dream, a slippage
To that place where three year old bones
And crying go when they pass the point of
Exhaustion,
Rub his cheek with circles of forefinger,
Stroke his head with full palm of my hand,
Close his eyelashes with gentle fingertip kisses,
Take the toys from his fists without any resistance,
Sure signal time for both of us to nap.

His surprises endless,
His cunning now legend,
Alternating disguises tween
I a big boy,
I a baby,
As the situation arises that will
Get him what he wants,
A masterful manipulator.

Which is funny cause I still do that too.

But when he stops me in my tracks,
It is when somehow the brain that has
Just crossed the thousand day alive marker
Says the profound, the uncanny, the
Philosophy of the world weary that is something
That I think just about every thirty seconds.

It is when after some particularly wild reverie
I compose, of seals that swim from his Frisco bay
Around the world to his Nana's, on Long Island,
Pacific to Atlantic, and after ten minutes of
Escapading with Batman and his mates,
He looks me and takes me down with this
Almost clear, spoken, sabered-wisdom,
In the juvenile voice of
soft sleepy, of a babe of three

you kidding

Half statement of fact, half a soulful-questioning,
How does this three year old comprehend
The essential difference between dreams
And reality, that is separated, wheat, chaff,
Milk curd, cheese, the spider silk line that differentiates
All of life essentially.

Yes kid, I am kidding,
I tell that to myself every thirty seconds,
To keep me sane, straight, true,
But I whisper it to myself grownup style,

Who ya kidding?

So it appears that when they say
Out of the mouths of babes
They were talking about adults
Who are hoping they can still be three,
When serious and silly are just the
Same-thing.

You kidding(?/!)

Yes I am.
Just a kid,
Kidding you, kidding himself,
Pushing his very own stroller,
Writing crazy stories he calls
Poems, lovely little things,
As soft as your skin, stories of him,
That always end,
With belly kisses and a
you kidding.**
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Columbus Day
Oct. 14th 1492/2013
When I "discovered" the Americas.
You kidding?
Maybe.

From the backbroken fliers over oceans
From between the spiny frills along palm fronds
From Mr. Happy, the chain smoking chaperone of good times
From Mr. Happy’s half-burnt ****, coiled in the ashtray
From the disciples of Theravada and the skinny Buddha’s pupilless eyes scanning jocose scansions of jungle
From the tanned holy heads of students lounging in graveled football fields
From my bowl of rice at breakfast in the shade while considering western cities, you are not here
‘You are not here,’ I’ve written in my letters
‘You are not here,’ I’ve typed into e-mails immense
You are not here, my coke head pals locked in the veins of seedy nightmares
You are not here, my penniless friends who mix music in ascetic dark rooms out in Bushwick
You are not here in no eastern Central Park running naked in the night from horseback cops after hours of merciless balling in the bushes
You are not here you fair-skinned beauties in crowded alpine funiculars bearing your aquiline noses holding your hats over the mountains
You are not here my lonely mother waiting by the phone for a call at midnight
You are not here, you are not in my poems, you are not in the distorted notes harpsichorded across my crass imagination
You are not here, you will not be here, will you read my letters home?

Smoke is filling my bones
The carcinogenic ghosts of an irish ancestory
At war with my german temper
Fueling the fire
To a heart that beats for belonging
Keeping me in step with the frostbitten sidewalks
Of a December morning
Lips moist from french vanilla cappuccino
And your chapstick

Smoke is filling my bones
I'm rolling through my own fingertips
Losing touch with my own reality
Wondering if my knuckles are white from clenched fists
Or the grip around your palm

Smoke is filling my bones
You don't smoke
Yet you fill your lungs with my exhale
Breathe me in
I'll house myself in your capillary beds
Where I'll tuck myself in for the night
Listening to what makes your heart tick

“Please…P-Please.”
She whimpered against my neck
as I pressed it against her lips.
“What my love, what is it I can give you?”
My control was waning
as I unbuttoned her shirt,
exposing her ******* to the chill air.
They were ripe for me
I could almost feel them
grow under my hands.

“Please…”

she stammered again.

“Don’t do this, you don’t have to.”

These pleas were only superficial
I knew,
but I understood that she accepted
her fate.
The look was one of surprise
on my face
as I slid my hands slowly down to her jeans.
I let the question go unanswered
as I unbuttoned them.
I pulled the zip down.

“PLEASE!”

she screamed,
the saliva choking
as she pleaded.
The tears ran heavy
down her cheeks.

I couldn’t help but kiss her trembling mouth,
or to taste to salt of her tears.
A low laugh escaped from me
as I buried my face in her curls.
I inhaled deeply
letting the scent of her
shampooed hair overwhelm me.
“I can’t stop my love.
I’ve been waiting so long.
You’re my chosen one.”

Her whimpering became sobs,
uneven and lovely,
as I pulled down her jeans
leaving only her nakedness
between
her and I.

Then it was my turn.
Her eyes never left me
as I pulled my woolen sweater
over my head,
or even when I let my own jeans fall
to the carpeted floor.
Again I sat atop her,
hovering
for a moment
looking in her fear stricken eyes.

Those dark inhuman eyes.

First I let my lips enclose hers.
And though they were unwilling,
I could sense a trace of resignation
in her rebellion.

She was breaking.

“No, no my love.”
I grasped her in the palm of my hand
and her gasp, her open mouth;

I took slowly,

gently tasting still that cigarette
on her tongue.

“Please.”

she muttered.*
But again a stronger sense of her resignation
sounded
and when I let my fingers slide
in her
I knew she had given up.

She was mine, utterly.

I slid in her then,
knowing that she would be fully ready to submit to me.

I was never rough;
I was as death was intended to be,
natural and peaceful.
In and out,
in and out,
like breathing,
until her muffled sobs became sinuous
against my ear.
In and out,
slow and never rushed.
Her arched back
her fluttered eyes
all signs that it was almost time.

The waiting was almost painful
as I burst within her
sending death throughout her limbs,

watching the life escape
and rise slowly from her
until she lay limp on the bed.

Her soul,
her life,
lingered a moment longer
before I reached out
and sent it up towards what lay beyond.

“My love.”

I whispered against her deaf ears.

“My sweet love.”

I dressed her again
and left her outside with the other bodies.
Yet she I left farther apart.
Watching as the snow covered her
until she was only a mound of white.
Already buried in a grave
by nature.

Pieces of eight I got on the high
sea, a tail be told how I got thee.

First was the coin I got off me
mum, as she said have fun my
bearded son. Dont spent it all
on one eye patch or sweets, spend
it wisely my son be the pirate you
wish to be.

So time went on and I kept my coin
I bet it on a chicken race, and won my
second piece, look in my palm its
gold its plain to see.

So I took  a walk on the beach and
in the sand another I did see, my
luck was in. I chewed on it and it
was as real  as could be, this day
I know does have three.

Four and five I won in a bet, but I
have a peg leg where there once
was a foot. Now I  have a wooden
peg but Arrr i won the bet more
gold I see.

Six and seven were as hard as could
be, a dare with a shark, well feed was
he. A hook is all the rage they say.
Mine has a can opener and wi-fi
ya see, I hope that shark gets a grip
inside that hursts it tummy each and every day.

Number eight was what I got for
going to sea, to be the captain of
the pirate vessel king of the seaI.
I roam around the waters me and
my first mate, my monkey horrible pete.

Pirate king I wasnt meant to be, as
this rowboat king of the seal, is hard
to row with one hand and a peg from
the knee. My first mate is a monkey
who works for yellow skins, but he
cant row a boat, short arms has he.

So around and around I go three
foot from the peer, at least I,m  now
in the sea. But my pieces of eight is
all the treasure l will ever see. Me
and my boat and monkey horrible
Pete enjoying our life on the open high sea.

Baby Teeth

I pulled the prayers from my raw gums like baby teeth. With the
          blood spat into my palm, there lay the tools with which I
          chewed up everything I ever put into my mouth. And yet even
          then I had felt the hands working my jaw for me.

Every day I tongue the empty space before meals and again at
          bedtime. There’s this moment when I feel like I should be
          saying something, but the void leaves my tongue aimless in the
          newfound space. I’ve grown accustomed to it.

I wasn’t so fond of it when they wiggled in my mouth when I talked
          or ate, acting like a broken saloon door for my roving tongue. I
          didn’t like to brag about it with my friends. It didn’t quite feel
          like a rite of passage as it did a loose Band-Aid.

They dangled on those last few roots that desperately clung on to that
          childlike innocence, which looked like Awana badges, Sunday
          school, father reading to me bedtime stories of David, the
          girlfriends in church that were always repentant after we
          touched;

I began to believe I could sew it back in if I only believed hard
          enough. It was in those last few efforts that I was at my lowest,
          when my gums started to become infected as bacteria got
          beneath the bone and festered in the flesh. I grew sorer and
          sorer.

At some point I ripped every last one of them out. The therapist had
          cancelled my last three appointments. The bible study couldn’t
          progress since it refused to answer my first three questions. I
          stopped believing an artist had to first and foremost be
          miserable.

I still keep them in a little plastic treasure chest in a cardboard box in
          the garage, along with my plastic baseball trophies and other
          sentiments unworthy of the bedroom shelves. I recycled all the
          extra bibles I previously felt guilty enough to never say no to.

Sometimes a meal looks so good I feel the need to thank someone for
          it. Sometimes I wake up so happy I need to give someone credit.
          Sometimes that’s not the case. I’m happy I don’t have the voices
          telling me through my own teeth how sinful I am.

I’m also happy they’re not telling you how sinful you are.

I tongue the space before meals and before I drift to sleep. I feel
          something growing there. My parents are looking into an
          operation that will put the teeth back in. I still fear one day I’ll
          be the one to grab the sewing kit.

I don’t fear cavities anymore. I think they took them all with them. I
          brush my teeth now and believe in modern medicine, and
          climate change. Needless to say, I didn’t put them under my
          pillow that night.

A technicolor thriller movie hits me up the head.
It comes sneaking around the bright corners of my mind.
It breaks through the firewalls of pleasant memories.
It melts my thoughts into mush.

I give in.
My heads drop to my side and my nails begin to dig in to my palm.
Immediately I started toying with the dead skin on my bottom lip.
The winter has been cruel to my skin.

Each rip of dead skin feels cathartic.
I am peeling away my pain and discomfort.

My Flashbavk looms over until I am completely defenseless.
Which is one or hits.

I feel I am on a shaky old roller coaster that have up.
The ride attendee has side bye.
The silence is deafening.
My breath catches in my ears.

I wake up on the floor of the cold, wood floor of the living room.

I have no recollection of what happened.

I feel deattached and removed like a minor character in a big movie.

The star has just gotten hit by a track and the perky comic relief friend turns serious.

That is my flashbacks.

I am not as scared as before but I don't trust him.

I worry he'll come when my defenses are even more eroden.

I whisper the duas I learned in Sunday school to ward the ailments of my conditions.

I tell myself it's a just a test.
I put my headphones back in and resume listening to stromae, letting the tears take control.

It's all that I have known.

Contemporary words hath I evaded,
Sweared to swear thine,
Fo' the respect o' thee faded,
Throwed me, e'ry words o' fame thou lied,
Only for t'se blasphemious plight,
Curious cherishity o' mine birth hath taken,
Quiet blade o' thy palm, hath rest broken,
Unrelated bloods' related as blood,
Mates, masked t'en thy hath brought me to cut,
Tranquil drops o' life, heat kisseth, fast flow'th,
Taste o' t'se machetes, my body tast'th,
Final screams 'n my mouth, silence stuff'th,
Drops o' my own blood t'en blind'th me,
Lips o' thy blade seal my n'ck with t'at kiss,
Final beats o' my heart 'n thy hand pumpeth,
Mysterious reas'n attract'th my death.

You once had my heat,
In the palm of your hand
Chained from the very start.

I was so torn apart,
But when I couldn't stand
You once had my heart.

You wheel it around in a cart,
You had to make me stand
Chained from the very start.

You words have become ****,
You were my grain of sand,
You once had my heart.

You have played your part,
You took away your hand
Chained from the very start.

You have torn me apart,
To the point where I couldn't stand
You once had my heart
Chained from the very start.

all weekend i fed cucumber skins
and apple chunks to Minokie
and several times i thought the old
corpses of tree trunks were fallen calves
leant to and packed with damp soil, white
roots stretched out under the overcast sky
peeking out of the natural mulch and fern
soft and raw

If I walked past the rocks quick like, they
looked like shoulders or kneecaps, angel heads
that the earth washed out, pines keeled over with
their innards exposed, the sound of veins being ripped
from the bedrock still audible

I started thinking of things based on where you
could have been or would have been
with me--sleeping patterns we might have
discovered, the narrow places we find we fit,
the hollows too cold and mountains just right--
how the night flashed behind my eyelids
like a buoy in tumult and the rain sounded like the footsteps
of someone stopping at the edge of my tent over and over

I keep casually mentioning your name because
it still sounds right, but i'm cautious around the syllables
as if i've taken clay to fold around the ends, spoken secrets
into sego lily petals,
I'm a little more down in the earth as if
i've been too high up in the clouds, i've picked up
this strange way of speaking that the old folks are
drawn to--they touch my wrists and pray with me
over their anemic daughters and passed sons--

they hear me.


I keep thinkin' maybe we're meant to be or maybe
you were the catalyst to an end of a softer life i'd been
living, one without the smell of cow pats baking, the dense
grass giving off steam, uncomfortably humid but it makes your
sweat kind of sweet, and the bees think we're honeysuckle, foxglove
jim hill mustard, soaked up in truck exhaust at 5 am,
a dry cold that advances on your lungs--
almost hurts the way it unabashedly fills you up,
doesn't feel sheltered, feels saturated and heavy with
possibility. Feels like the amber grass, newborns, cold tin roofs,
stars in the back of your throat.

tell me, was that in your blood? and when i dug splinters out of your
palm, when you were staring around my earlobes, did it spread? Did the birds pick you up and scatter you like wildflower seeds? it jumped river, through our mouths or elsewhere

we're not talkin but you're still here
we're not talking but I'm still there.

As she traced a path
in the palm of her hand
she felt sad for forgotten
     things
lost hearts, lockets
and misplaced gloves
left like dying moths
in light too rare to remember.
She picked up
where she left off
and went - with blessing -
into white winter streets
step upon step
soon forgotten.

I wish that I would've fallen in love with someone
who loved me as hopelessly as I loved you
so I could have experienced what it's like to be someone's world in the palm of their hands
so I could know what it's like to see someones world stop
and not just feel it

In my imagination
Without me, he couldn’t stand to be alive
By my side
hand in hand
and if he dropped me, his world stops turning
Yearning to keep me

Put me in your  hands
hold me as if i were the most fragile piece of your own soul
I am the world
I’ll keep you whole
Don’t forget
The world is in the palm of your hands
Drop me and
Your life turns to sand

On the clock
The hands stand still
As you drop me
Against my will
Only had you loved me as hopelessly as i loved you
Maybe you’d understand my obsession
You caused my depression

In my dreams
You held me and told me
I am more perfect than the moon
Had you loved me in the slightest measure that i loved you
I would not envy the sky because in his eyes
I was the stars and the comets in which
We wished for infinity lives

I wish I would have fallen in love with someone who loved me
Til the world stops
I want to be sky that you admired
never take your eyes off

Jealous of the open sky
The satin sunset we gazed into
Was always prettier than me
He held me in our satin sheets
I prayed he saw the universe in my eyes
Silence

He dropped me
His world did not stop turning
The ache in my heart
It’s burning
The hands on the clock
Stand still at the time of my demise
When my heart was shot
I still visit the scene of the crime

There will be days.
There will be days when the person you most want to see is right in front of you.
There will be days when that person is miles away.
There will be days when you accomplish little more than a quick nap.
There will be days when you fail.
There will be days when you succeed.
There will be days when you need people, and that's okay. Because one of these day's they'll need you too. Just wait.
There will be days when the very uttering of their name will send shivers down your bones and blood to your cheeks and the tips of your lips will curve up without you even trying.
There will be days when the tips of your lips refuse to curl up even though you are trying very hard.
There will be days when you don't want to leave the comforting pillow that finally fits your head just as you have to leave.
There will be days when you have to leave.
There will be days when you have to leave behind.
There will be days when you have to forget. try. to forget.
There will be days when you try. to forget. but are reminder over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. there will be nothing you can say. it's okay, I've been there, too.  
There will be days when the feeling is just out of reach and taunts your desperately clawing fingers like a grass seed.
There will be days when you forget about the grass seed.
There will be days when it floats in between your fingers and lands square in the palm of your hand and those are the days you need to day thank you and remember remember. try. to remember.
There will be days when it's difficult to breathe.
There will be days when breathing seems to be the only thing your broken body remembers how to do.
breathe. it's what you're built for. breathe.