Sunday, August 31, 2014

the night i was born

an old farmhouse in
middle america
burned to the ground
and i think i've been carrying around those ashes
a long time
i have glass wrists and you have see-through 
slivers from the shattering
of our resolve. 
we held hands with our fingers on the door and
my mother never told me that it was okay to be scared but 
i need you and it is not a chain.

so we let spiderwebs 
form on the doorknob

Friday, August 29, 2014

i feel like a calendar flip, like the
fast forward button.
those hour talks turn to 
only flashes of sentences 
or her face
when she's not looking at anything
at all
"we've been having a conversation for 
nearly two years
and wouldn't you know,
i've still got things to say"

i am nervous in this storm,
my sickness dies only with my body so i guess
we're stuck this way 
for awhile. 
fighting the good fight-
the booming of canons never quite
leaving the sky
all the way, a ringing echo 
like the sound of throbbing
a sleeping computer hum, the shaking grind of cogs,
you put your head to my chest
and listen for the ocean
like empty seashells-
the ringing never quite
leaving your ears
all the way

Thursday, August 14, 2014


it's the levels 
as if someone
tipped the plate too far, bumbling and
curious fingers 
in a museum, 

do not touch

lips on your neck like a 
wobbling ellipse,  magician's plate 
dipping [just a bit] too low

the crowd gasps

there are policemen firing bullets
into the cheeks of citizens.
an endless cycle of white men 
killing black men.
the levels, the tipping points-
the streets have cracked,
and there is no going back


thrown out of orbit and hurling towards 
a friendly star with heat rays and 
drawn on by tiny fingers that still believe 
that a sun
can smile.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

remembering New York, part I

the green lights
down York, perfect lined and crouching like giant
spiders or something kinder like
hens wings descending from above you, like an
awkward hug, you never felt
standing in the middle of the street, as if someone
sketched the City and you were living in the
quick black chalk marks, everyone else is
asleep. the green lights down

birthday candles, an airport runway.