Monday, January 09, 2012


There on the swingset
feeding a pigeon, one fucking pigeon...


How it was morning and bright and sleep was
to physicality and kerosene one gender alone. Both
my, my, my.

An event so rare. You come into town
and liberate the feet of the teens. We
are stranded by snow.

Falling-down-hopeless alcoholics, gag a little -
force it all down, munch our hay. The milk truck had left.
I vouched for that.

It is my birthday. Bring on the razor
make love to it and take me out to dinner. Pickle it.
Arcane brine.


- Pigeons! For fuck's sake...
There should be starlings
You chose poison.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

A Letter Kept To Myself

It is somewhat what I imagine knowledge to be
dark, salty, clear moving, forever flowing.
Since our knowledge is historical, flown.
A monotonous coastline, endless and sagging
delicately ornamented by the moon still hanging solid.
The poorest postcard of itself.

I was waiting for this letter to find you home.
I guess it will reach you on that waiting room,
I am too shy to stop.
Cannot derange or rearrange.
The Islands have not shifted since.

The pale bay still wearing a milky skin,
flaunting exaggerated beauty.
Topography still more delicate than history,
insisting and cautiously creeping.
Worming back.
Like a prayer for the night to last twice as long.

Those nights, not these.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Threatens to meet

Utters words known.

City erodes. In time
carves out words on flesh
in shorthand,
pregnant paw.

Hunts alone.

There is the the wish
and how the wish goes
noons and afternoons.
the jackal - notochord,
has only a heart.

Names the light.

Your river, your wars,
propped up against walls
then white, throat, then slits
of different languages
- Here's my dead body

Look at it.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Something sleeping.

Tell me again where to hide.
- It is a secret as well.

Was it spring?
- Along my dubious veins.

Come closer, listen!
- Another fruit I have tasted before.

Is it about me?
- No. It is about war.

Is it about me?
- Yes. Only the part where you're tired.

It has something to do with that song.
- About the divorced father, yes.

Is there honor in this, or a point even?
- Not in me, no.

You do it to get off.
- I beat you to it.

It's because I am weak and you know it.
- ...

- Stupid statement.

You hate me.
- Yes.

Then tell me again where to hide.
- Hide inside me.

Friday, June 03, 2011

Some Endings

Feasible vision under bed linen, you are here and you are here.
strangely enough, that '61 talkie was on tv last night - black, white,
"absolutely not". Your parting words, your queer wrangling
intoxicated, acting sober - Misfit Flat. A beer a year
would say my friend Mitch, whose dad passed not long ago
came summer. There's the sky again, as shallow as creek
God willin'. It will. We both know. Back in my bed again, red
jubilantly delinquent. I have already lost one tooth and it is
not even September. Nothing has happened under this dead
streetlamp. I am not unaware, just being aggressively fictive.
Some practical concerns include my teenage years that were
bent away from their assigned post. I forgot where and am already
starting to cry. Looking up, I make out stars and walking papers -
my very own - burn to white. Some endings never end.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

To a Lighthouse

Then again. Here, the former site
of a nineteenth century shipping dock
now a concrete slab overlooking
the East River. I was younger then
[the shoeprint gives it away], time
was for lovin' the hell out of you.

Jesus preaching for the apostles
Be his light dude, not his judge!
I try to understand what he means
While setting the table for Easter
Promisse me you'll never be sad
on my behalf kid. Remains are silent.

You call and bring forth what's within
you. And that's when the missing starts.
I write you and there's no end unless.
The kid looking amazingly cool at
the back of the Plymouth Voyager.
And I do not know where to drive.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Weird Sisters

a treasure taken,
by ghosts
is time told.
the walls bare
the inside of
rooms also
tell things.
the things gone
by chance
a You, an I.