In new jeans –
the sun burning
with spring warmth –
I stood
in the back alley,
and smiled
at a garage
door
In new jeans –
the sun burning
with spring warmth –
I stood
in the back alley,
and smiled
at a garage
door
Same knees,
my heart ekes,
out the gentlest
pop, like us
so many years
ago,
long night,
and pretend,
worlds apart,
something to
hold on to,
the path away,
smiles profess,
and we wait,
eyes
melded safety,
my life inside
of another person,
I’ve
never loved
like this,
I never will
again,
ice shards left
on the pavement,
blue exhaust
a pale tracer
It slowly withered on my lap,
sufficient life, called the gods,
we, with worried eyes and
hearts, saved our best effort
for last, and while the ringed
carrion slurped at its flesh.
our sopping wet derelict
cried out for its mother’s
heat, and died over night in
a box, the final twenty-four
hours of a stray kitten, spent
as abducted, as afraid, as a
stranger, flying away now,
as dinner for forest vagrants
It’ll come to pass, that
someday she’ll get mad,
and on that occasion,
she’ll beseech me here,
cry out loud with a
a soft drawl, like silken
linen upon a dry finger,
but she’ll never know
how many years I cried,
each night I speak to her,
for our deaths those many
times, and her voice will
quiver, and I will shatter,
and the clock’ll stop, on
a day much like this one,
and we’ll imagine the time
we lost as a fever dream,
or time in jail, and renew
our bond, as mother and son,
and the bath water is too
cold today, my age, my eyes,
it should have never been,
like it was and like it is
I hear the wind
blowing, inside
I am safe, full
and filled. moods
change with it.
somber becomes
a bomber. relax
becomes tyrant.
I hear it like I
can hear the
fighting. amble
from room to
window, hearing
bellicose rattling.
my fear in my
throat, contented
over the trees’
sturdy nature.
malcontented
over my weak
heart. I guess
they only loved
my idea, not me.
I will keep them
inside with
all of this wind,
and only let
them hurt me
when it blows
I let it die, it
let itself die,
I tried to feed
it, but it bit
me. Over and
over again.
Now, at the
night’s light,
I hear it cry,
and it’s in my
heart, but it
bites.
I am
worried I
won’t ever
see it again,
except in
here, but
it bites.
It is woe
and I am
its son,
even if it
was milk,
it always
bites me.
I am sorry,
it is true,
but my
fingers and
blood are
proof, it
bites.
Please,
mother, I
was good,
my pain,
hot tears,
this blood
tainted, but
you bite.
How silly we are,
songs never end,
filament of flimsy
fils, swinging in
light-ed sun, faux
flashing pans, a
sound evermore,
death rattles to a
moon goddess, on
liquid grandeur,
stuft full of yarn,
sacred days lit
like tombstones
by fire on warm
summer nights
in the sun’s glory,
how silly we all
are here, when
nothing and no
one can recall
the past, we land
on our feet, only
to have them cut
Spent the morning in silence,
dewy leaves glisten in the
yard’s warm embrace, a dog
attached to a man walk by,
they hesitate and gawk at
a passing bird, so much is
in a moment, it’s not the
cold, the bleak, the second
is sound, happiness is a bad
memory and a willingness
to create new time, even
though it’s all just illusion
I remember the ashtray,
hard against the wall,
flung like fury and ire,
but I know what she
was doing, when she
cried at night, and at
the movies alone all
the time, philosophy
like a song of futile
Marxists, nihilism a
badge of honor for
the proletariat heart,
then the other one
died, then my other
one died, then the
new other died in
a careless act that
caused the fire to
burn bright, like
the cemetery at dawn,
tombstones like torches,
in the amber glow,
each sun a burning
fiery pit, each finger
printed with indelible
pandering, cloth and
smoke are our human
souls, rotating around
one another in succinct
waste, satellites waiting
in line, harbinging
what is next, that we
are next, the next one,
next to the one, whether
the careless one, or the
accidental one, our
smoke arises bright and
warm, our glare a new
lament for how we
were treated, so put
the pen down, and find
your one, then hold on,
for this one may be the…
Little pebbles dripping,
running window panes,
and I breathe in the lust
of drudgery as each pull
their path to the sill, still
I am, lump and frump,
while the grass grows
to the moon, and each
moment of solitude I
age eons waiting for a
final change, awakening
and finally awake, like
this place, nestled among
fields of corn, the safest
I have yet to feel since
birth long ago, when
no one was there and I
was left to wonder woe