TrespassingI will stay awake all night now,where there is no definition,for the stillness of your regardor the way your breathtickles my frame.Lovely stranger, I would askto remember you this way:only as the moment in a day,rain-and-pasture scented,bottled up in flesh. I don't want to recallthe low clouds or your arms, only how your eyes tiltedfull of a moment's light.That humid air, it settled between uswith more accuracy than the sun could haveheld in his intention. Humbled by the sweatupon your brow, the rains camedrenching us, and forcing our escapeto this place unlike home, but safeand quiet.We are nameless, here, and yetI know you. I have learned your wayswithout knowing a thing else. I am not afraidof this dark night, no, only of its brevityand the way your calloused fingertipsmay not again find my restless skin. Though,I know it is best that they do not.Life's little dangers leave me this way.They are creeping through the window to the wind.Let's
VoidMost likely, it was youhowling,what I heard;a sound callingto nothing but itself,for the white unknown,opposite ofthe blood-black wound:It was in your kitchen, over the sink,that you stood when I heard youhowl for the empty bowl, for who would notclean their plate, the waxing moonof daily routine reflectinglove and effort, reasons to resume.It was you I heardhowl for the mundane, for the everyday,for the animal groove of wakefulnesspadding down the hallway,an orange-and-white cat no longer seeking,understanding not to look.
I keep dreaming of the meadow foxSeven miles down the dirt road of your mindand cancer was the diagnosis.Not lilacs, not your sweet chemical powder smell.I close my eyes; I'm six.I don't remember being six but I feel wholly broughtinto what I can't consciously knowI felt.I've lost you out in the world;my mouth opens and my chest is so fulla pain dies somewhere, turns to water;my eyes flow and my respiration caught on that hookis left in disrepair.Your coffin.It was laid out like a sarcophagus, some goddess symbolicof the strength of your discontentcarved on its cover, replacing your face with placid fortitude;the words on the underside, facing youtore me down, they were so true, but not of you.So appropriate, but only for the death of love.And whenthe fox broke in,stole all my concentration, all my story,I let him go lest he should bite me;I let him know the taste of all my comfort.And so. Even so.We can know the meadow or the lake path in the springwhen all of spring has woken everything,or
YouTube Indie HipsterI realized today that indie playlists on YouTubeinclude too many men with beards standing outside buildingsin east London clapping their handsand playing the guitar,and that the playlist I made last weekdoesn't sound as good when I'm sober,so I guess some songs are only fortoo much sangria on a Monday nightwhen mentally I'm saying F you to my boss,my liver, and my waistline.Three things; F you to three things.And what's with men whostand with the band and tap their fiddle?!No one wants to see that. Or, if you mustplay with your fiddle then do it for real, at least;stop being a tease and give it a good strokefor everyone to hearif you even know how.I don't want to hear your premature music.I am afraid to crush on an indie hipster.
Blue YarnLike my flowersslowly dyingI too am comingto an end.My red yarn runslow;almost finished now.When the blue yarnendswill I still be here?When will I be takenfrom this earth?From the hellI live in?I have no oneto talk to;no one to help me.The doctors don't careif I am hereor gone.I can hear thewindchimesblowing from thesummer storm;peaceful sounds,tranquil sounds.They relieve my anguishfor a short time.My head is pounding.My arm is in pain.My breathing is shallow;I can't seem to get a breath.Medications are not working.No one will listen to me.Unreturned phone calls;human compassion is gone.So tired,so weak.All I want to do is leave earthfor deep, peaceful, painless sleep.7/13/07
Vermont WinterI hear the beagle's pawsrustling through the leaves.As we walk the trail: quietness,the bare-naked trees.I feel all alone with God.The ground I walk on, still.But changes all around me:I feel the breeze, a cold chill.Seasons come,seasons go.The mud, the sun,the trees, the snow.We settle in for a longVermont winter, so cold.I wonder in my mindif I will ever become old.The pain, the tears,the neverending emotions: hell.This illness now controls me.I will never be the same, this I can tell. 1/2/07
The ridiculous nature of nomenclature Drunk PoemWhy is a flock of crows called a murder?I think god became entirely too distractedwith a bottle of gin while making up language.Who ever pointed to a puddle of brainsand said "crow?"The idea of a homicide being likened to a bird is loquacious.Any explanation of how this occurredwould be entirely too punctilious