...

everything you need
is already within you
listen to your heart

a writer's prayer

a writer's prayer

is an ink-stained tree

    gliding

                forward
and back


      in the wind

the way the forest shelters

the way the forest shelters
unintentionally, unconcerned
without thanks

shelters the animals
the moss
the manic monkeys

the forest is one
made of many
like a sea
of faces only seen
as a crowd blurring

smeared then erased
leaving only fine white
chalk-dust
behind

the way the forest shelters
i cannot shelter you

i am too invested—
curious too—
attached— 

taking a lesson from the forest
i lean back 
and fall knowing
earth will catch me—

absorb me without a thought  

little moon

half moon
of my face
slides off
and dances down
like wind taunting a leaf

2008

we liked to think we were adventurous
trail mix
an apple
crackers—
no flashlight or map

we drove out to the trail head
in your navy sedan
mid afternoon sun 
coaxing sweat from pores

this desert is something isn't it?
 
a couple hours in we wonder
Isn't This Supposed To Be A Loop?

the frantic man
noosed walking stick in hand
refused us direction and kept on
mumbling something 
about "losing the light"

that can't be good.

in retrospect
maybe we should have followed him— 
instead we held tight 
to this "loop idea"

as the sun 
slowly shriveled
i told you to Run
Run after me—
and you did 

until we no longer saw
anything
to run towards

collapsed in dirt
and fear speckled
with coarse grass 
and looked up at the stars... 

from Brooklyn

curled
ribbons of hair
defying orders
mocking you

all the way
from Brooklyn
to Portland, Oregon

there you worked in advertising
long days fueled
by coffee nights
by cocaine

just one screw
in a large timepiece
moving at jet speed

you only ate because it was easy
now the time
to cook makes your skin crawl

forgotten in this forest
anxiety a cheap date
cells reach out

shrivel and pop
like helium balloons

when I was a child

when I was a child
there was a car chase

not suspensefully detached
like in the movies

this was Shove It In Your Face
Press It Into Your Eyelids
real

followed
into the deserted parking lot

cacti stiff
catatonic stars

my father got out of the car—
approaching the one 
containing my mother

containing her
like water not yet frozen
in an ice cube tray—

leaving me as witness
as the car 
sped for him

his body splayed—
stretched—
anchored—presumed 
roadkill

as the car birthed 
wings
and fled     

jazz

he can no longer play the guitar

fingers shredded
carelessly mended

tendons mummified
fibrotic artifacts

he brings his own music—
jazz
lies down on the table—
surrendering

cradling 
the micro system 
of his ear 

intention 
on the tip of each needle

I spin them in
heart
kidney liver
lung

I Felt That Shoot Down My Entire Body
his organs light up
like a child's keyboard 

be here now.

stenciled—spray painted
"be here now"
words confined on asphalt
pulling space and time like taffy

I love art museums

the cold negative space
patient and yielding

paint and scrap
metal—fabric and—
charcoal lurch
from the drywall

my stomach flips
backward grabbing
at the base of my skull
grainy, sepia ink
the face of an old woman

scalloped flesh
pillows around hollow eyes

I lean into those eyes
collecting stories 
clipped to strings

and in that moment
just before I am irretrievable 
a hand expands

over the back of my shoulder
and guides me
on to the next room

a crowd was watching

a crowd was watching
speckled infant bird
twitching in its final moments
stunned by Nature's
brutal honesty

the small beauties of ordinary things

ripped seams
must be reunited

disheveled flailing threads
reach out for the others

something like that scene in Titanic
icy fingers—"Never Let Go"
only significantly less tragic

responding to their cries
I sprint over with needle

and thread frantically
weaving back 
and forth

stabbing 
calloused fingers
the tarnished needle

a reluctant hero
panting out of breath

locked

like outlines
of hearts
not yet colored in
the frame exists

smooth—resilient
yet fragile
like a ribcage lacking
its viscera

bones locked awaiting
the day
its soft peach-fuzzed
feathered fowl

returns
perches
and gazes
from the inside out

playing with double dactyls

higgledy piggledy
symphony melody
berberine valentine
cautiously hot

busted yolks

busted yolks at the Hi Life—coffee black
yearning to eventually be friends
fingers numb—winds slice
unapologetically through to bone

five months later I walk your dog
it feels strange to be in your apartment

you still display that painting—
that one of the bicycle we made
on my birthday

but now it is accompanied by
a new painting—
something more abstract—messier

I did not stare at it long.

one week ago

her eyes
were achingly transparent
sheer curtain of tears
vaguely 
tried to conceal
simultaneous fear
of being destroyed
and her calculated 
intent 
to do so

new old flame

the ones you're in
well they are big
burn the brightest

flare up
but extinguish quickly

fireflies
scorched moths
incinerated

my apartment
has a tiny hammer
at the end
of a chain

to break the glass
in these kinds
of emergencies

lucky

the toes of my shoes
are lucky

they are the first to graze
the fallen leaves

on my walk
to the record store

at first I am molasses
honey wax

savoring the cutting
crinkled air

swirling it against the inside
of my cheek

thoughts of summers
past holding the small of my back

eventually I reach
said record store

the owner strolls
out from the back

bits of pretzels hissing
through his teeth

#truth

i'm ready to
cauterize
this conversation

july

skin merges
with the black trampoline

you look up
towards the stars

that stain the sky
you tell her just the threads

encouraging
artistic license—but

it doesn't really matter
she will weave

her own stories now
whispering them back

like a twisted game
of telephone

dissolution

splintered clavicle
shards of bone
flaked off

like chipped porcelain
and strewn across
the ocean like ashes

dissolved
into denim saltwater
echoed by stars

ponies

that was a commendable tantrum, Sir.
your terms were clearly stated.

The Pink Pony Please.
BUT I SAID PLEASE.

Pleaase. PLEAAASSEEE!

you turned tomato red.
fire-engine red.
rare. meat. red.

but ponies are for...girls?!
what on earth?!

i can get down with your cause, Champ.
keep that inflamed head high.

haiku, or something.

steady hands surround
specimens sworn edible
intoxicating

the bridge

men's feet striking
pavement in unison

understated night
sweeps stars

and city haze
across their eyes

breast pockets
carry scars of wounds past

they do not reach for them

their hands
delicate carafes

pour
into each other's