the stack of books
piled next to my front door
i'm going to get rid of all of the
that i'd kept hidden at the very back of my bookshelves
i've no use for them
the stack of books
the wind is howling outside these windows. and i've stuffed loose fabric, the shirts destined to be forgotten at the salvation army as soon as i can get a ride--get around to the getting rid of it, between the outside and where i am. and i realize tonight that Home really isn't that difficult to recognize, if you aren't too stupid to allow it. to let it in. to see it even with all of your eyes closed and your heart and mind open. even if you have absolutely no place to go. there's nothing more that i need to remind me. and i only wish that i knew the words to a language in which i could express the way that this wind holds the stories of my entire history. banging on your window. begging to be let in. like the way i need my coffee in the morning. but there is and always that moment when i left you that answer phone message so many hundreds of days gone by. and the way i don't ever hear the haunting terror of the dog's chain rattling. so much. anymore. i am loved. special. fantastic. in the fabric of these moments of our lives. forever.
even if it's not that serious
have you ever cried so hard and soft that the forgotten places in the mouth like the space under the tongue and the rows of imperfect teeth ache with the feeling--a localized anesthetic of pain--that just doesn't seem to want to stop? even when i make endless lists of dinners i could cook for us. draw maps that try to sort out all the wrong turns we made to end up so useless and alone. paint out all the pictures in my head about the story of our lives in fiery concentric circles the color of tea stains.
I've eaten conch, and eel, and shark. I've eaten caviar, and elk jerky, and kimchee. I've eaten head cheese, and haggis, and duck blood soup. But I have never eaten pheasant.
to make this cramp in my left foot go away
Today, I'm thinking obsessively about the Gaia Theory. Compasses. Invisible body maps.
I just found myself in the middle of the street in front of traffic.
Miserably drunk, I wring myself out onto the sacrifice of page. Of words strewn without thought onto the screen. If only I had something to offer. If only my life were as simple to describe as the slow deteriorating fabric of jeans sent once too many times through the dryer.
These tobacco kisses I leave. A trail. Staining everything. These sheets. Every memory we ever wanted to make. In our minds. Sometimes, I wish there were a tape recorder hooked up to my brain. Drink my dinner. And wish I knew how to swallow enough to answer the ringing phone. These glasses of red against a blank useless head. I want your hands. Everywhere. These lips, useless. One dumb voice on deaf ears. The weight of a thousand days. Unchained. Words strained through a delicate web of vision if only we could see. What it might be that you mean to me. Loosed. I want it all. Fuck. Angels and silences and the stupid places in between. How to fill up the empty space asking for words. For signs I don't understand how to make. I've forgotten the language both of us used to speak.
Wrapped up in black. The color of city. Jacket tucked high to the neck against the wind. I stride. Up across the 10th street bridge. The world slowly spinning a circle around me. Like some carousel of childhood memories. Passing cars. My father's hands. This pony. I stop on the rise. Listen to the voices sounding in my head. It took a long time to . . . start the spin . . . become the thing I am to you . . . right foot first . . . And you won't tear it apart . . . close the circle . . . without a fight, without a heart . . . spinning and spinning and . . .. Stand there high above the traffic. The stunning wail of distant trains on rails running into distances. In slow motion, I stare. The world--the words--speeding in swirls around me. Grasp the cold metallic cage--this chain link fence meant to keep me from hurtling my life away onto the unforgiving concrete below like cigarette butts--let the awkward angles dig into my skin from the pressure. From this desire to find the center that holds. To step back into time. Close my eyes and scream. From the bottoms of my feet. No words that mean--
you could look for the picture of me that a good friend shot and entered at dpchallenge.com
counting calories in spreadsheets
after a night of drinking cheap beer and listening to the cd we bought for five dollars locked away from everyone else in your room with piles of blankets and pillows on the floor, we sleep late into the day and over coffee attempt to write the most pathetic haiku structured words we can devise--
it's freezing in my apartment
perhaps so much so
note, passed to superman
I've been trying to write about this fear of guns. About clear glass marbles with blue pin wheels locked on their insides that keep spinning and spinning away. And how memories are like that. Precious moving images that change and reflect in the head -- just out of tangible reach.
and the answer like cotton candy in the mouth dissolves between us
I don't have it in me. To say that I wanted you to kiss me when you came home from work. To not ruin everything. Like I do. Always do. But I already did. Like that night at George's when I made everything wild. And I made myself sleep for several hours on the floor the bathroom. Just out of reach of reality. The truth really remains. That I shouldn't be drinking wine or smoking cigarettes with this unknown factor between us. That there is no matter of flight plans or late dinners or yellow tails that can deliver us up from this reality that grasps at my throat and drags me down hard. Like a fist thrown swiftly into the throat. I want these words to make you stop short. Make you hold your breath. But the wanting is simply the reason that they can never be what I want. I can't want anything into fruition. I am merely this. Words on a page that move like ants out of my head. Without reason or plan. I want syllables. Can you hear me? I want them to stay. To stop moving. But they don't. Like respiration. Like the way my eyes won't stop seeing. I'm going to try. For fuck's sake. I wish only that I could.
it's only tuesday, i remind myself. the words whining like stark metallic hinges in my head. collapsing again and again on themselves. but you're gone. and there's no one to tell. only the texture of the cheap bathroom laminate flooring. the dingy gleem like a recompense for all the things i've ever done wrong in my life. i hold my hand against my stomach and wait. repeat the phrase 'everything will be okay' over and over again until the sense falls out. spilling around my head like the fragments of a just dropped glass. placing emphasis where it doesn't belong. this can't be happening. and you're gone. and even an extra heartbeat wouldn't put any more love inside our bones. we've run it out like an expensive bottle of champagne. left only with a slight unlocatable pain in the head and hazy memories of the good times we probably had.