Inside a vampire’s heart lies a lonely word,
eternity echoing through the stillness in each chamber
with haunting clarity. All time and nowhere
to keep it, no memories, no night
sacred against the others. It carries
the curse of this secret in its shadow—
constant companion rasping the coffin lid,
craving an invitation for entrance again
and again without end, insatiable as the first
sweet copper thirst aching on the tongue,
swelling from the gut. Slowly a silence forms,
opens a new door between each lifetime
and the full moon face of familiar insanity.

The first rule
is don’t talk about feelings
love is for novels
bromances are real
masculinity is dead
replaced by something different.

There are more limp dicks
in Game of Thrones
than boobs
and hurrah for him
these are the times

Trailing after the full moon
Dark clouds circle
No stars to be seen
Just a big glowing rock
Clouds move silently
Across the night sky
A soundless, stealthy journey
But the moon sees
The moon nearly shouts 
“Here they are!”
As cloud edges come into view
Illuminated by a moon
Who can’t keep a secret

I awoke with a start,
Shook the fog from my head,
And turned…

Your gaze met mine,
Wide and pale like the full moon,
Your lip quivered
And our stubborn punk-rock pride
Dammed our damned tears

        The day we had feared
        The day we had denied

We sat upright from our rest,
From our cold, nightmare-sweat,
We chipped the sleep from the corners
Of our squinting eyes,
        The way the clock’s pointed hands
        Had chipped our resolve,

We laid to the dirt our youth
And our Germs t-shirts,
Laid to the dirt our riots,
Our philosophers, and our ideals,

And we knew we had lost

As if compelled by some distant and ancient god I cannot name, 
We spoke in unison those hallowed words:

“Pickleball actually looks pretty fun.”

Forever chemicals-        starburst, trip, tumble, twirl in place.
Your aquatic bodies, bent to snapping. Infinitesimal

And floating through your bloodstream- polypropylene
promises for the        distant future. Hypotheticals.

Bisphenol Aftertastes- methylmercury build up in the body
Of your prey animals. When we eat,     we become poison.

Calcified cartilage knows-     relent, relent, relent,
Bodies in motion know- hunger. Objects in motion know-

Waste. We know- cook it in butter with lemon and thyme.
Cosmic microwave backgrounds- heat map     of the

Mother’s empty bed, observed,         preserved.
Waste not,    want not- there are plenty of leftovers.

We saw our shapes, our outlines, made eternal,
    And it destroyed us.

Church sign, lit in sickly yellow beam:
CHANGE MY HEART OH GOD
it cried. Not to me, whose heart was settled 
as a stone is settled–so cool to the touch.

Though I still picture the writer
at night, the translucent
letters sliding like a sinner’s cards
through fingers. I imagine them peek
at the board, its holy luminescence,
and making this plea writ. What does it mean
to change a heart?

They walk back into the dark
church, empty-handed again, head full
of something. Maybe their purpose,
to strike water from a stone like Moses
or to shepherd some great flock?

I reckon with words and cannot guess
their meaning–just saw them illuminate
the night–one night–a kind of offering.

don’t watch stitches spin
break fast for first and through it
hustle for safety

Maybe we have just reached that point in our story
The part everyone hates
“2 years later”
“8 years later”
“20 years later”
The point where there is nothing to tell
Except pain and loneliness
And who wants to just read that?
The point where we don’t speak,
Our memories will fade as time goes on
I’ll forget how your hair fell when it was wet,
And you’ll forget to tell me happy birthday
Everyone left wondering what happened
Our story always unfinished
Until we meet again,
Whether that’s for one page
Or a thousand 

I went to Rural King to buy bird seed,
eat the free popcorn and look at the 40% off plants.

Used to have to buy dog and cat food
but the last of our pets are gone

so the birds and wild critters are all we have left —
Brownie, and Two-tone, Big Momma and Little Mama. 

Oh, look, there’ s Little Guy in the pine tree.

Am I wrong to want to show off a squirrel
in the yard like people show off their purebred dogs?

But wait until you see Golden Boy…

No words in the brain, 
nothing dire to convey,
at least not today.