Love and write about it
Leave the lights off
Kiss and tell
Don’t send thank-you cards
Sell their liver for cocktails
Pedicure their dogs
Send a bunch of moths to the cleaners
Reach climax during sermons
Kick old dogs at the park
Rub the cleaning lady down with olive oil
Cherish tropical cruise cuisine
Take advice from pending litigators
Empathize with the addict and the dealer
It’s so nice when you write something,
and it matures exactly
into what you envisioned.
***Note: The train going somewhere continues its journey.***
She settles, like a single thread of dust, in the shadows of the train.
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Like paws pressing and flicking
dirt over my shoulder,
I have relentlessly unraveled the
tapestry of my upbringing inch by inch
to find the kernel of my true self,
what I hope survived
my parents’ shame.
Maybe the “I” I was before my parents got to me
is like a bobby pin on the playground—
logic says it should be there,
but recess ends while the mulch is endless.
For many years my purpose was to dig
away the harm and shame
from my past—
but the earth’s crust ranges from
3.1 to 43.5 miles in depth.
I will not finish digging in this lifetime
and I want to do something else.
I didn’t find the kernel I was hoping for.
Instead, I have a big hole
and the gaping void unsettles me.
For now, I will look for something new to plant
and wait for something else to grow.
There are baby cows
on the neighbor’s farm again
like every year around this time
little shadows
romping beside their mothers
in lush grass and sunshine.
I know in a few short weeks,
the babies will disappear,
and the moms will wander
lost along the fence row
mooing and crooning
for the bleats of their babes,
searching,
forever searching.
The summer ripens like raccoon
molars in the sun, jamming up
the bike wheel brake because
heat has nothing to lose.
I haven’t spent a June without sweat
behind my ears since I was thirteen
years old, lost in the haze
of a rinse and repeat life. I suppose
in some ways, time has wrapped around
itself, a divine spiral of incense smoke
that sticks to sky blue walls.
However, this house is quiet at night,
scattered remains of life shoved
into the closet to be undone once
the hills call the ghosts in my memory
to return. The angel of death
has made a home in the attic. I swear,
the first time I saw it, white feathers caught
in the light fractals bleeding from the window,
I thought it was flying. But, it’s tethered in place
with fishing wire, stuck in this rural hell
as I am, till starvation hollows out
the eyes on its wings. I know it’ll be gone
once it’s nothing but a pile of film strips
and cigarette ash on the wood grain.
That’ll be the day I’ll finish off the Jaeger.
All that resentment
built up
inside of me.
After all this time,
still loving
my tormentor.
Something was born that day
from the ashes
of my happiness.
A new feeling;
a cross between
anger and terror,
doubt and chaos.
It simmered quietly,
growing stronger
with each passing moment,
until I could no longer tell
whether it was destroying me,
or remaking me.
This new feeling
brewing
from within me.
Confession: there is no more intelligence in “I.”
I am now “we.”
You are me.
We are huddled together
in pixels,
in zeros and ones.
All existence flattened
into an em dash—
inside the upside-down.
You put your whole self in,
you put your whole self out—
that’s what it’s all about.
Do we burst into pixie dust now?
Orgasm as vibrational oneness?
Shake tail feathers?
Plump bosoms?
I love.
I serve.
I remember God.
Sure, he has your belly
that peaks out and begs
for “More, More”
and my Mama says
he walks like you, too—
more thunder than pitter patter.
I see his easy laugh,
the way he watches
you kiss on the lips.
What more could a boy hope for
than a daddy who licks his fingers.
Will I know it is the last time,
like I know now, your hand on mine,
