Friday, August 7, 2015

The Feet and Wings of Insects

Broken blue jeans hanging on

Resting with the moon

I carried, stowed, tied down

And collapsed 

Apt as a man I never imagined


Callous hands handling troubles

Of marked misses 

Hardly hiding behind


That make their fathers cry. 

My Houndstooth Chipped

White and yellow
Like my dusty bobcat skull
That sits up on my shelf
Where I stand beneath 
In socks full of blisters

Drinking burnt coffee
Beaten down
Here comes a man of soil
Shorn by bones and
Broken oaths

Climbing out the well
You'll see some death
Pretty field of flowers
White and yellow
Willing the very best. 

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

I am left behind mourning the lack of a static mind. I am addicted to the scents of everything in the past to have gone awry, to the images of future beards of hidden skin. Addicted to flashes of my youthful longing for god knows what, watching my older brother and sister trudge home from school in the snow and bending the cat broken blinds waiting for my father to park the Lincoln town car, the land barge.

Am I supposed to, before too long, help push a baby outwards from someone lovely into their tired arms?
So one violent day out pops a new speck to make and carry burden with a chance to be fucked up by so much as a sigh. How could I not want a kid to maybe enjoy the taste of a wooden Popsicle stick, feel slightly superior when a small room laughs at their wit, and love someone so much they cannot cry?

Perhaps I'm just bitterly addicted to a drowsy attempt to place memories and hypotheses where they may measure in the grand scheme of the void. Have I somehow realized a folly of comparing and suggesting importance?

I remember the warm sheltered neighborhood mornings when my mother cut my bread in triangles and my fathers deep coffee breath told us to rise and shine and now lately I've been considering it.

August was the month seven years ago when I visited my brother in New York. In the harbor we drank Brooklyn Pilsner washing down pretzels and Stella Artois in the punk bar. We fell asleep to David Lynch with the t.v. almost muted and woke in the company of disputing hangovers. And now I think if I were to return I'd have eight million reasons to forget a particular month.

Though no other person can be a reason to brush off encounters. Not a one in eight million can erase ink. Not when I'm residing near Alpha Centauri, in the opaque nape between her legs, and resting atop canopies above South America and spooning with the craters of our moon. Not when I hear someone say 'live without regret' because I know that isn't living at all.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Was your youth too, filled with an embarrassment of nudity to carry along? A smell, hot and dry like some devils tongue and now a busy, wearied sorting through of thunderous moments wrapped in perfumed cotton being fingered in a filing cabinet. With every passing year, passing glances and inquisitive stares or tired eyed squints at a space shuttle, eye contact is less frequent with the deceleration into adulthood. Now I inspect carpet, bare floors, escalator steps, shadows that move past a gap beneath a door. But hopefully I'll see enticing feet, without being caught and with no real reason for shame.  But the women and sometimes friends may subconsciously wonder and forget while I stand still having lost the ability to be alone without loneliness. I lost the suffocation of a woman on a yoga mat and I lost a sweet tooth.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Fruitless Months

I haven't given much thought to hair some may find a bit too thick or dark on a woman's arm.
The scent of skin three days old and here I am in underwear, oblivious to the provisions of toddlers, unaware of aprons, dumbfounded by the art of ironing.
Staring at something intensely, but really it's unnoticed because my mind is wondering about the approximate volume of my empty stomach.
I'm thinking about our cheeks taking turns warming the seat of the toilet in the duplex I rented or the house her brother owned or the hotel in Louisiana back when I was still nervous about her sense of smell.
If I heard her vomiting in the middle of the night she would know that I was awake.

The malady of pretending, the road side yellow dead end sign just before make believing is through.

Friday, May 31, 2013


I might make calm and let smile.
Maybe bend the veins of leaves
when breaths and sometimes poison wash ashore.
The weight of pretty feathers
plucked all at once
is brought here together
stuck with tufts of hair.
On mornings filled with syrup stains and weathermen with
handcuff keys,
I will be dense and slow witted and you can laugh and sigh.
Making fragile plans like dandelions,
I will clean and maintain and add patience to my chores.