Thursday, February 21, 2019

FASTER IT'S ALRIGHT

Little Honda
flying through open
country at some hellish speed,

seeing the blurry steeples poking
small harmless wounds
through the mist in the distance;

I am not on my knees
listening to those
bells ring. I am one last

flickering laugh, I outlast
the flight of mourning
doves;

this engine is
the chorus of
a thousand boy bands singing,

that glint of light
on the road ahead, all that's good
and left

of someone they all
once knew
and loved.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

SWEET NOTHING

In your eyes,
I see—the perfect
slender beach

where you must
be lying
currently—alone,

starving,
stranded—and nowhere
near me.

Tuesday, February 19, 2019

SUSPICION

On those clearest
cold mornings, there's always
somebody else's
shadow in here with me,

drinking coffee in a perfectly
chintzy Ikea chair 
and gazing out the window at
freshly fallen snow

while I write
by curving
lines of light
those weapons of the enemy;

about a million
miles away from Never Land, I
nonetheless feel
the warm dark's absence,

but I feel this
as a presence. As if—
together, we are neither
body nor mind, but

a third thing.
Separately, of course, we
could never be
described.

Monday, February 18, 2019

NO BONES

don't cross me,
I'm bisexual
and spineless—like the fierce tiger

lily is bisexual,
like the venus
fly trap is spineless—nonetheless

flexed
and ready somehow always,
fixed in the very

same graveyard-
jungle of shade
where I was made

to stay—deep,
quiet, and strange-
ly well protected.

Friday, February 15, 2019

THE OVEREXAMINED LIFE

My mind is a tree, grown slowly
heavy with its
own maturity; its sole

and noble
purpose is—the invention of luscious
redolent fruit;

fruit so huge-
and exquisitely
pregnant with ingenious seeds—that its

only goal
could possibly be
a tree.

Thursday, February 14, 2019

TRAIN OF THOUGHT

Every afternoon,
after a long morning walking
around, thinking about

all the cherished people
and things I'm too afraid to allow
myself to think about now,

I walk back into this house to find
pure sound lying
all over the floor again—

radios spilling over
with their mixture of lean tunes
and marbled static,

blaring furnaces, hissing
water heaters, and sinister fridge compressors
whispering—not to mention

the incessant hollow drip-dropping
of so many ticker-tape
timers, unnerving alarms, chirpy alerts;

every day, I come home to all this
and I swear
I barely even notice it—let alone

consider
approaching anything
differently tomorrow.

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

MEMO

In the park
right now, simple
white snow

is caked up nice
and thick and capably—on a fat
spruce tree's bluish branches;

and that's about
all I know—after I
finally stand up

and look down
at the pale dead thing
splayed on the kitchen table

to consider—just what the
hell it is I
haven't been writing.