gifts.the blue light of the bus shelter summons the ghosts inside you.More Like This
the near biblical sound of snow; sleeping rain, shifting on the sidewalk.
we take the bus when we want to drink
or when we want to experience new people.
we take the longest route home
and watch the snow fall
and the people talk.
(grace me with a small plant that i can tell to grow
and i’ll be happier than with a thousand dollars in a card.)
and i take the bus to have silence and solace.
gift me with a last-line bus ride at one in the morning
and i’ll spill all my secrets.
i’ll write poems about the snow and be grateful.
listen to how an alone man sighs
on the bus at one in the morning.
you’ll be grateful.
(grace me with the sunrise over the golf course in our backyard
and i’ll be happier than with shiny new countertops in the kitchen)
you know how ghosts come out at one in the morning,
but you also know how they come out not from graves, but from the living.
the ghosts come out from the men
drown.yes, i am a creature of the sea,More Like This
it's why the sunset follows me.
oh dear, my dear, what you must know;
the place i will drown is the land,
but no dear no, not ever in the undertow.
yes, the land has books and botany and bees,
but i will only find home, find solace, by the sea.
cult chemistry.you were occult to me,More Like This
the fine line drawn between chemistry and fiction.
because you read blindly,
about how i believe in science, not god,
and then the fog clears your head.
i believe in the things i read,
you were occult to me.
you made me blind to what i read.
i read the curving of your neck,
the incandescent swoon of every curse you put on me.
the things i read don’t exist anymore,
they are past
they are past
they are past
it is the cult of you,
the split the spread the threadyou were standing in the lamplight with all the grace and incident of the black seaMore Like This
and i sat with a scrape of skin pressing into the carpet uncomfortably.
a shift of light moved us quietly into arms, some forgotten touch newly placed.
the only stirring in all the world was the moving of our chests
which at their crests would touch—a faithful mythology of meeting.
titular gestures carried italics and lost their momentum mid-air.
we were xerics of this arid landscape brimmed with sea air.
the shifts of light moving our bodies glared ceremoniously,
our puckering sensations forming a stunning tear.
we danced as statues with flesh and touch
more soft and real than our real bodies ever had
and covered the subway floor with our gritty concrete shards
—a bloom of breaking that spread and mixed and marked
that linoleum floor, grounded stone(fire)works.
a warm and gathered silence of togetherness.
the still beat of murk.
Prologue: the Neglected ArtistWinter, 2012More Like This
The room is far from bare and empty, but the tenderness of another presence is long past gone. He sits, looking at a harsh light until he staggers. Sipping away his problems. Getting distracted easily. Far from bare and empty, there is fuddle, mess, shackles of laziness and ignorance. (Perhaps fear, too)
The boy, ash-ridden, and no longer a boy, stares at the clock, fervently. Thinking that, if he stares at it long enough, believes hard enough, that it'll reverse. But you know it won't, dear. For you've made him realize how there is no hope for the boy. A dim ceiling fan murks around the grey, easing itself towards a small canopy of dust and restarts. Floors, covered by useless things, collected over the years, kept only because of how well they can remind someone of things. Triggers, sentimentality, damn it all, fuck it all. (If he stares at the objects he keeps for too long, he knows he will start crying.) Even if he just sees you.. he'll make sure you