Wednesday, November 30, 2011

everything has just felt wrong since you've died and it's like someone's
flipped me over on my shell and now the world is all upside 
down and nothings okay because i really need your 
advice and i don't really like anyone else 
and i think you might be proud 
of me but you're not here
and i can't really

i doing 
the right thing or
am i shouting at the empty walls
again. is anyone even out there anymore

i'm crawling out of my skin.
i'm crawling out of my skin.
bleeding palms and empty hail marys
if you want me God,
you'll have to come down here and take me.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

he named every mouse crawling in and out of his floorboards and 
truly loved each.
he says sometimes it's better than being alone.
he says that maybe one day i might
the rising heat the
burning in all the places that they aren't touching
you make me feel like a 
vibrating bell, a
plot at it's crucial point approaching the-

Monday, November 28, 2011

do you want to waste some years
with me?

Saturday, November 26, 2011

you force the art out of the world, wring it dry like a rag
and try to live fast as if
everything might disappear very suddenly.
you're happy and so am i
but i know you remember the way my hands traced your
and you wonder late at night.

i followed your scent like a hound dog and
raced after your retreating heals
as if all the memories might
disappear very suddenly.
you're happy and so am i
i've just forgotten how to face the holidays

Friday, November 25, 2011

everything smells like you tonight
[i'm crawling out of my fucking skin.]
you're a thorn in my heel 
you're the funeral procession 
you're a kink, a twisted coil in the garden hose
you're the dead scent at the end of the trail
you're a buffalo nickel
you're a drink of water 
to a dying man.

ever wake up and think
"oh god what am i doing with my life?"


Thursday, November 24, 2011


and if i change all your sad words
would you smile again?

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

it rushes you.
comes charging full force
from the chemical lit hallway next to your
tiny room.

you suppose that the devine creator
forgot a screw or two or maybe you've just lost some
circuits on the way because there's a 
in your chest that never used to be
as everything starts to feel a bit
foreign under your fingertips.
life rejects your tiny body, heaves you forward from it's throat

a wriggling fly caught in reality's immune system
you are the cancer. you are the cork
spit up by the ocean and oh dear
this isn't right, is it?

[are you there,
in that stuck between?
i'm here.]
The 3rd Decree for the Abolishment of Sound

they tried to control us
the Government bombed all the airports and 
rationed all our words
i know i should be angry but it's all so
quiet and beautiful now  
and i'm not sure that i want to go back.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

all the dirty puddles turned into
gasoline rainbows 
and everyone was happy
the end.

and what about when i'm sick in November;
swollen glands and scratchy throats
laying on the couch, miserable, complaining about
daytime television and magazines and cold toes and
dry soil and the quality of 
literature, these days.

what happens then?

Monday, November 21, 2011

i used to wake up
eat study move breathe
i used to be so fucking scared
all the time
of just about

the sky is empty and beautiful now,
i've grown expansive like
mountain ranges, i've uncoiled
and spread out in the sun like a cat.
i do not fear global warming or muggers 
or just about
i do not fear anymore.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

and much to their surprise
tiny little trees began to spring from every surface
which was lovely, really.

Friday, November 18, 2011

She came alive with the pregnancy, smiling and dancing and radiating but he didn’t believe it. Perhaps that was the problem, that he couldn’t see tiny fingers and toes when he looked at her. He couldn’t imagine it and maybe it’s his fault after all. He couldn’t visualize it into being. Oh, the horror of going from three to two. She changed after it, after the phone call and the hospital room. Nothing had ever actually changed her before and it unnerved him. She always bounced back. He read medical textbooks and articles to her and she stood on the patio, still rubbing her stomach.


It was easier to pretend she had the flu; that her bedridden body was swarming with sickness rather than despair. He can handle illness, he can fix illness. He buys her vitamins and orange juice and soup. She lets him pretend, she lets him tend to her for a bit but it grows thin.

“I got vitamin D, but I’m not sure that works as well as vitamin C. Well, actually you might be anemic too, you’re so pale lately.” 
And with that he presses the back of his hand to her forehead, searching for an imaginary fever and she shrinks away from his touch.
“I’m not sick, Jake.”
“Well, good. We’ll get you feeling better, don’t worry.” 
He stoops to kiss her and she shrinks away from that too; it’s as if his touch burns.
“I’m not sick, I’m barren.” 
Outside the window a cat leaps to a trash can lid and they both crash to the ground. 
“I can’t have children.” 
And with the words, with the admittance, she cracks. Her body leans forward and shakes with silent sobs. Subconsciously his own body takes a step backwards, and then another, and then another. An innocent man stumbling on a crime scene; he’s unsure, nervous, lost and overcome by a feeling of unfounded guilt. She’s inconsolable; she needs time to herself, surely. He doesn’t realize that he’s actually left the room until his back hits the bookcase and at that point, it’s too late. His hands swipe the keys off the counter before scrawling a note;

‘went 2 get vitamin C.’

Thursday, November 17, 2011

i fear no death
not for hatred of this life but for
how very much i have loved

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

hold me soft into your voice like a baby.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

and if i'm a puzzle piece then you're a portrait.

Monday, November 14, 2011

here is a quick list of all the things you missed

watching fruit flies drown in an old cup of coffee.
that one time i hit a deer and it did not die 
right away.
the anxiety of waiting for a letter and the anxiety of waiting 
for your letters that never came.
 that one time my brother did not wake up
on a saturday.
a 4.0 gpa.
the extraordinary feeling of finally leaving
my one safe place.
that time when i started to think you were listening
and i went a little insane.
giving up and admitting that i was wrong
to the pouring rain.
starting over again in late May.
the deposit on a dorm on 55th.
a concussion from drinking too much and trying to
go on the swings.
 waking up with socks on and waking up
at peace.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

i steal away in the middle of the night to write 
about leaves
and her love
and other temporary things.
i feel a shame in surviving sometimes.
a guilt that sits like a rock 
on my chest. i have stolen 
these seconds.
i stress under november and the weight of all the things i
have not done. see, i'm prone to
sinking in the autumn
just a bit.


Saturday, November 12, 2011


she calls me a poet
with my cigarette ashes and dark eye

i call her a painting and curl up into her lap
please tell me everything is going to be alright.
i'm rather 
right now.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

i never promised you a rose garden.

it hits you sometimes, the glowing line of windows from behind the classroom curtain like
jack-o-lantern teeth
or the sitting on a stoop smoking
cheap cigarettes and car horns as crickets.
maybe you belong somewhere else
maybe you belong to something.
and you'd never felt that before.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

d.c. had convenience stores with metal cages and
streets named after dead presidents. 
philly had cigarette butts in the sidewalk cracks and a tired
sort of feeling.
l.a. had a plastic expanse, spread out in the sun and an ache
in the california hills.
vegas had filthy lights that made the moon hide
in shame.
but n.y.c. had me at first sight.

cold toes.

he thought about a different kind of cold toes 
on the front line with bullets passing
right by his ear and the freeze of French soil
creeping into his boots.

he thought of the cool tile 
of sunday morning on his bare feet and he thought of
her knitting him thick socks and he thought of 
Upstate New York winters and rain boots.

he did not think of the blood
and he did not think of their faces.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

i wonder of news and of olds
but mostly of the olds
i wonder of you.
there's something about that coy
mona-lisa smile; like the speck of a rose
through a chain link fence.
i could never grow you a rose garden
i could never paint your face

but i could listen
to your nightmares and make you midnight coffee and tell you
your hair looks nice even when you're drunk.
i could do all the wrong things in all the right ways
if you wanted me to.

Monday, November 7, 2011

the space between dreams

she's got a thunderstorm in her eyes and i feel like a 
desert when she's around.
you catch me in the space between dreams;
in the lulling beta waves and the restlessness of an
empty mind [like a bell jar].
the greedy little hands of consciousness,
the snare of an idea
steals you away from me and i'd really like to 
hold your hand

she's got an early freeze in her smile and i feel like an
anxious snowflake when she's around.
you catch me in the space between dreams-
maybe i'll meet you there.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

dear future girlfriend

i'd love you so much that i'd even stoop to writing one of these stupid things.
i'd love you so much that i wouldn't even
mind it.
you promised you'd conquer time for me.
you promised that we'd survive but
you don't even call much anymore, do you?

the glory of falling out of love on a Tuesday morning
and words neither of us really meant.

i will write you into me
i will wish it true,
i will twist the plot 
until it leads right back
to you.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Friday, November 4, 2011


insults thrown casually 
over a dinner table and the bitterness 
of kissing with teeth.
she serves her spike-
"you're just like 

we were built of the same mold and the 
stone in an old yard that feels a little too much like
home. he used to
play dress up and scrabble and all the other games that 
little girls like and he was a 
hero to me, you know?
i push my chair back by the heels and 
slam the door.

i miss my brother very much.

beds and the things that sometimes occupy them.

rippled top sheets and the
sweetness of last night
strap my shoes on for me.

 i left you in a queen size bed, 
much too large for this room.
i left you in the fire-sit of a morning fight
much too open for noon.
i yearn

to climb the ridges in your finger tips and to
worship the sun in your pores;
your leg is my favorite leg
peeking stray from a comforter and
eyelashes tell me to create a world
of which colors could only dream, eyelashes
tell me to empty my heart
and to pour
a cup into an ocean and call it