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.
how i imagine paper abstainsI heard the first sound of morningMore Like This
in the crack of my wrist--
stretching its vine-like hands and
shrugging shoulders. these eyes were still
crossed with Mary Jane dust
and nightmares about shady uncles
when amnesia began to wear off
and the sounds all echoing before,
dulled to an audio ache. there you are,
laying akimbo almost
proud in your clueless sleep-driven
poses smelling like day-old love making
and stress leaving for the night.
there you are, one part peace, ten parts
honesty-- your fingers rolled to hold
the contours of my own. there you are,
paper-lover, enveloping my scissor form
bleeding and smiling all the same.
in riposte, ii.what was i supposed to say, what did you want to hear?More Like This
how i know your stories of empty spaces and empty freeways
and empty hands and what they don’t hold? how i know your departure’s
nearness in the absence of what i was told? or how close winter has become
in the desert of your home. it never really mattered anyway,
what was i supposed to say?
and really, when has it ever changed?
when in studying your smoke you’ve fed your head nothing but haze,
governing a stiff tongue unapologetically to the memoirs of moving worlds
of moving glass with no sound
and how every body you’ve had to mourn untangles in the stretch
before the hit before the last. before your science taught you about occupying
space in all the histories of events untold, how yours was never really there
neither existing in her last absence or your last toke.
but i could never really write anyway. not the way you lettered
to dylan or harrison, to young and the future. astronauts gone cold,
with warmest regards.to concentration,More Like This
thank you for equations
of poetry & sound. for translating
my unnatural voices. for giving me back
my childhood trees.
thank you for all the faces of age,
for your eternal haste. for busy
cemeteries. for all the work of the moon
before dawn. for transmuting our skies
to temperature, drawn.
for stimulating the prayers of rib-beat,
for licking the temple of my teeth,
for the dignity of music, the addiction to
divine, for completing/destroying me.
thank you for the currency of skin
in your white transactions.
to this body,
thank you for this love affair
with westerlies, for morningful
youth, for eyes glass in mid-
shatter, for the veins of dream,
for the ghost taste
of smoke & mary.
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
sunshine shakingmorse code upon collarbones andMore Like This
sun-bleached smiles. she
wasn't ready. she wasn't ready.
he had open arms like
the song about the london bridge;
chlorine baptized him a new
man. innocent, innocent,
what did you see
when you kissed her? the
pearls upon the waves, the
silence upon the shore. was it
quiet enough to hear
the break? thunderous blue, the
chasms of her eyes.
present, in the body
that doesn't fit, I watched
you murder the sky. I wasn't ready
tiny vesselsgod cried for us that afternoonMore Like This
on the rocks, if I could be so
selfish; you had your hands
grasping at my empty vapors before
I’d had the chance to whisper
to you. I see you
shaking. I know you’re
hungry and I know
the temperature of your
eyes when you lie. you
said you were lonely.
half-truths are the essence
of symbiotic relationships, your
fingers trailing along my hips,
glacier blue eyes holding me
still. the rapids churned. god
cried for me that afternoon.
he was selfish, too.