This thing I’m afraid to say
it won’t leave the back of my throat. 
I swallow and gulp down gallons of water
until finally I give in and switch to gin
infused with little bitter juniper memories
of the wind wept trees
whose roots grew down into our foundation,
breaking it up years before we lived there,
before we knew enough to know
what happens when things seem
Too beautiful

They smelled green
but their berries were
a funny shade of blue.
We never knew
what we cut down.

It happened in Vegas, but it didn’t stay there,
Frank flew to the moon,
Dino loved somebody sometime,
Sammy had to be himself,
Joey, well, he was there,
Peter was in, but then he was out,
That’s what she said (sorry).

The Rat Pack is gone,
But Vegas is still there,
It’s not the same,
Huge hotel/casinos dwarfing the earlier ones,
Computerized slot machines instead of the old ones,
The ones with handles you had to use muscle to pull down,
Elvis had his own thing, but he’s long gone,
Wayne Newton is not as visible as before, but he’s still thanking us in German,
A lot still happens in Vegas, but the memories go everywhere.

To hold the glass doorknob until it’s warm
in your hand, but not walk into that old
room. Or open the drawer where the mind-
altering drugs are stashed, though your body
recalls bliss. The list you must write every night
when you just want to rub your eyes. The way
you must share every note you wrote with one
other soul. To let go. To watch the ash float. Float away.

On break,
short shift,
I call you, mom.
Dial tone drones
while tears well up.
I realize
I miss you.
Miss your voice.
Miss your waddle.
Miss your criticisms
and the way you look sideways
when I tell you I ate some mushrooms.

I hope you’re healthy.
I’m sorry
I can’t visit
and I don’t call or text
often enough.
I miss you.
I never cried over your contact
until today.

The light drips
Sweet
Into my fingers
I leave the rest of me 
In shadows, curving
Around the dappling
Glowing
Jam-pink moon shine
And for once I am still

Walking a path along parallel exact invert canyons
clinging to life by toes on a continuous narrow ledge
opposing canyon wall grows near at times mirrored
allowing the slightest touch from a stranger on adjacent wall to support 

Worth the risk to reach out in the vertigo of the moment
at time walls almost colliding 
allowing an embrace of safety 
yet the crevasse bellow pulls to the unknown 

In the chance for lasting embrace the greater reward
greater than the risk of the fall
worth the known temporary surety 
imagined in dreams

Dreams two dimensional 
dreams an internal deception 
Dreams of those willing to chance
loose perception of reality, what is trusted 
and if not oneself, who?
among the multitudes of stranger/friends 

Circles  

I want to do my physical therapy exercises
because I’ve lost my ability to move fluidly,
but don’t because the floor needs vacuuming,
but don’t because vacuuming is often dangerous—
busted shins and pulled muscles plus the chance
of elevated BP from cleaning up after people
capable of cleaning up after themselves—
then there’s the issue of time and how long it takes
to clean one room improperly, meaning just vacuuming
and the issue of picking up food and dirt that are out of place.
Food belongs on a plate or in a mouth not scattered
beneath the chairs and on the floor which indicates
I’m missing my mouth more and more and the dirt,
real barn and yard dirt belong outside
and then there’s all the hair that’s down there
from me and my mate, because the pets are all dead,
which means I’m losing it, hair, not my mind,
but I could be and chances are I wouldn’t know it
because after all, delusional or denial thinking
are ways that help make my life more pleasing.

Beat Eat Beat Eat Beat
Internal combustion pills;
Wreak havoc, sometimes. 

When the baby died
she sent me a victorian tear bottle.
Cobalt blue and ornate.
The premise is once you fill it with tears,
your grief is over.
So i sat it on a sunny window sill,
where the tears would disappear
because a teaspoon of tears
would never be enough.

   Cracks
      in walls
        and
       wintered
         feet
       I fill with
          Silly Putty,
             feathers,
           and Elmer’s glue
              and cross my
                  fingers
              they will
                 heal.