I wandered down
the street in
a Manhattan daydream
pretending to be in
a town to which I've never gone
imagining the boring
small-town architecture
to be skyscrapers
and the strangely viable
candy shop down the street
to be something that isn't
the embodiment of the
hokey nature of this town
and all I want is some noise
someone to yell at me from their
car and call me an *******
instead of the vultures who
stand outside the bars
with their cigarettes and secrets
who get all quiet when you walk by
because their conversations are just
that important in this
small town
where nothing happens
and the pulse of the city is
a straight flat line
because any deviation
would cause our local
herald of the free world
to sit down and write
and form everyone's opinion
about just how great it is to
never change,
and that only a fresh coat of paint
is ever acceptable around here

She asked me to write her
a poem
for Christmas
and so while I sit here
waiting for the car to warm up
I look at all the sets of
footprints in the snow
all going in different directions
going to different locations
some out of religious obligation
some out of unconditional love
and all I really know is that
I don't care where I go
as long as my footsteps in the snow
get to be alongside hers
from now until eternity

There ain't a thing
here other than
ghost stories
for you to pack up
and tell over your
campfire made of
burning books
and love letters
leaving our memories
suspended in the smoke
and the carcinogens blend
and I don't know where I begin
or end
and I refuse to choke
because that's not what you
do at a campfire
to which you weren't invited
but it's a show for you
for your birthday
and the ghost stories
are there to tell you
to behave
because you are nothing
but a book
a story that is
oh
so
flammable

We love the dead
more than ourselves
if only because
the dead sit still long
enough for our worship
and love to solidify
around them
ratifying them in the
cosmos
as a memory to rally around
because the people down here
on earth
are all moving too quickly
for love to stick
and the best moments
are the still ones
where we can wrap each other
up in the
honeyed cement
of our love
and just breathe
before the next thing comes
along and we have to go
dropping pieces
all along the way

I get so anxious
when I get nosebleeds
the red dripping
sounds of thunder
against the porcelain
sink where
water waits to take
that part of me to
an unseen place
because blood
out of context
is something to fear
and must be washed away
and with prayer it is welcome
and they all commune
but here I stand hoping
that the flow will stop
long enough for me
to stop making a scene
in this Chinese restaurant
and I can get back to something
more important than
some mild bloodflow

I'm tired of
drink-coaster
poetry
words that are
forever inspiring
that can hang on
your fridge
and make you feel
good and deep
and so very
inspired
to carry on with the
day as planned
bolstered with the
strength of
a thought
or a prayer
and it's so
easily digestible
through and through
and I want teeth
I want gristle
I want poetry that
rips me out of my sleep
words that haunt me
like they're in on something
I've never known
but we settle for that which
brings us comfort
we settle for the airy quotes
that we co-opt into our
daily mantras that everything
will eventually be okay

When in all reality
every poem
every string of thoughts
will have to end

unremembered and
pure

We went to the
humane society
to get acquainted
with some cats
and we met a cat
who was returned
after five years in
a loving home
because he was
an inconvenience
and found another
labeled
"hidden treasure"
which was an
awfully nice
way of saying
that this cat had
been abused
and would never
be a 'normal' cat
a plaything for your
kids
a trophy for your
instagram
and in his bleary
eyes as he tried to hide
behind a scratching
post to avoid the fingers
of strangers poking through
the safety of his plexiglass
in his eyes I saw
more humanity
than I'd ever seen or felt
in my life
and I sent a silent
prayer to my intermittent god
hoping that he found a home
and happiness
because he never did anything wrong
other than be born into a world
where the value of life
is on a sliding scale
based on agenda and feeling
rather than the simple
acknowledgement
that life needs
to flourish

And I cried in the car
on the way home
because I have no space for
him in my life
and I wept
over the pain
and panic in his eyes
that is so easily recognizable
after you've seen the same
eyes in your mirror
for too many years
and all I can do I rewrite
the narrative for my cats,
rescued from poor circumstance
and impulse
and give them life
and help them flourish
and breathe into their
very existence
a notion of security and hope
and warmth
and love