I Can't Remember What You Used to Cook AnymoreSummer ended with a phone callMore Like This
“You need to come to the hospital”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes, it’s bad”
The storm had passed, it was quiet now
But the world had shifted, warped
Everything was out of place
Unable to keep my footing
I fell into the darkness
every chance i didn't take IIYou tell him about your cancer on a Sunday,More Like This
in the shower of all places, in between brunch plans
and speculations about whether or not the weather
will ever get any colder - hasn't it been the strangest November?
Just the strangest.
You casually mention that somewhere
deep in the secret space between your hips
your own cells are proliferating uncontrollably,
whispering treason and passing down forgeries,
teaching each other the steps of mitosis with alarming intent.
You don't miss a beat as you drop survival percentages
mixed in with tomorrow's rain forecast
and predictions about the game later that afternoon -
easy as breathing, even as counterfeit armies
shred through the soft tissue just below
his favorite place on your spine.
And as you stand there
calmly making conversation
and sharing the last of the soap,
he watches the water
run quiet rivers
through your hair.
Hunting CoyotesHunting CoyotesMore Like This
Footfall of a frost-faced hunter
heavy with a winter kind of hope;
one paw raised above the stream.
You thought I would shatter with the sharp bark
of the gun, but moonlight still sparkles
in a spray of wet pearls along my sides.
I am cold teeth, I am the blood-stopping stare.
Shore LeaveI was in love with an empty pen.More Like This
I fell for all your
abrupt endings and
trusted your cold endings to never
You were a poet by any means,
ripping words from the root of my
stealing tiny bits of my vocabulary
until you were accomplished and I was
mute. It was your way of
writing me a love song.
I waited for you to wash up
on my shore, waited to see all those
cuts you told me you'd never heal from.
You said my silence was a torture you'd never forget,
but then you married a foreign girl
and covered up the hymns I carefully traced down
your neck, Boston proud, Maya and
Jack and Yeats be damned.
My silence must have been a torture
unknown to man since the last small splinter graced
a child's fingertip.
So I washed my hands and sheets with
the sweat of others,
let the sea-foam of darkened bedrooms
baptize me into innocence, into
I have put into permanence on my skin
the tattoos of writers and gods, let the ink cascade
down my thighs as a
lullabiesbad angelsMore Like This
hidden in atlantic sprawl (attic and spire)
they tell me nothing but lies
strange lavender feet following the flume
water racing, weight keeps clinging onto you
and I am just cement-petaled overgrowth, photogenic oxygen
flashing plumes of miscellaneous perfumes
I can't remember, can't forget
which faces grew up with regret-
ful hearts worn out, which were wet
from all the angels
and the river
and the words we always knew were nothing
still you sing them old lies
tuesday nightsthe full moon aches.More Like This
tuesday nights are always full of statues.
i wonder what it is to be dead. do you remember
the mother? the comedown from the other, write
as an animal, as a breathing piece of fabric--
the fabric felt in the lines.
you are the main event. hold still.
disengage. you are no mercury flower.
imagine imagine imagine. the airplane
coating of skin to bone. all flesh is concentrated
on your ankles.
so much has happened and will happen
before we can respond to this as an end. epicenter.
the spider-work of lines.
the gas station attendant wondering
if he did the right thing.
the sky holding its breath, beware, beware.
there are no other answers.
there is never anything but light,
and light on light never told us anything about what
we needed to know or be or wear or be wary of.
catch the clouds in your hands.
call me miracle, though i am not
a thing of wonder, i am still
i am still a being made of sticks.
watch me fall apart.
exhaustion makes the most beautiful s
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:More Like This
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement