I wish I could say
I’ve read every book in my house–
I like to think I just might

There are days
I don’t know what to do first–
I walk about the house,
drag my fingers across
the books on all the shelves,
touch the spines displayed
vertically, some with raised print,
bold fonts, fancy covers:
Maine Farms , Beautiful American Rose
Gardens, Dinners with Ruth, Sensual Math,
By Southern Hands, The Joy Luck Club, How to Live 
an Organized Life, The Mill on the Floss, Complete
Do-it-Yourself Manual, The Sound of a Wild Snail
Eating, Emma 

Such randomness, such delight–
I know what to do first.

The feeling of pulsing behind the eyes
Being frostbite cold
But warm to everything I touch
A separate form of conscience
The fear of being called out

I focus on the video in front of me
Forgetting entirely about this poem
Dissociate into myself thinking about dissociating into myself
Brother next to me
Talking and speaking about things I don’t understand
I nod and say “yuh” without actually getting it
Too much stimulation
I’m thirsty

Once again I forget about the poem
My life being morphed into one stream of consciousness
Yearn to go outside
Reset the timer
Stare at the smoky sky

Unconscious
Walls full of teeth
Moss over my eyes
Vines of my ears
Webs over my mouth
And sand over my tastebuds

3 hours later now
Time to restart the cycle

Passengers hum remembered regrets, rails ringing, sorrowing a song.     

the great ships

sailing 

wind through my hair

pushing 

the water 

glistening

skies beauty

reflecting

ocean depth

sinking

cannon balls

firing

night sky

beautiful

people around

running hiding

cannon ball

crashing

peoples cries

missing

cannon balls firing

the great ships sailing

missing

sound

missing

the water 

glistening

skies beauty

reflecting

ocean depth

sinking

Her number remains in my contact list    stored as a favorite
Text messages exchanged  between a mother and daughter
Peppered with a waggish meme or two
Phone calls made just to say I love you
Or to share something
That pained me    tête-à-tête  

Phone clutched in the palm of my hand
I stare at the picture next to her name  
Her hair      black ink with silvery highlights
Mine now salt and pepper like hers  
I toss my head back
Laughter erupts from my throat
As I recall a younger me telling her
I won’t go gray gracefully    I am going to fight it
It’s going to fight you back   she quipped  

It’s been 2,746 days
Without a phone call
Without a text message
Without us saying     I love you
Yet her name remains in my contacts    starred  

Binging experiences for weeks and weeks

only leaves one detached from thought,

a set of frog’s eyes surfacing in the boiling pot

as new experiences cook us alive.

You add a fresh book to the shelf of every meal 

before you chew the last bite

or pay the check for a middling treat.

Even the events that annoy and scare you

earn a few centimeters of images and poetry

alongside the volumes that years have swollen. 

You might run your hands over these imaginary bindings

while you look for a narrative 

that matches the struggles of those around you

and hope that someone else will find 

what they need along this library of your life. 

a rain slick road 
puddles rippling outward 
as the last droplets 
find their end 

reflecting a traffic light
flashing red, red, red
for an empty street 

the sun breaks through 
clouds and the evening 
gold rays 
illuminates the hilltops 

as the saying goes 
that I keep close 
it can’t rain all the time

“There are so many modern designs for easy living. On my boat I had discovered the aluminum, disposable cooking utensils, frying pans and deep dishes. You fry a fish and through the pan overboard. I was well equipped with these things.” – John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley: In Search of America

Weather, moon,
soil & growth
Synchronicities
Wisdom of Youth
Music
Microencounters of meaning
Radio broadcast schedules 
Mountains & deserts
Books & receipts
Recipes 
Psychodramas
Feeling stared down
Insight & exsight
Otherwise handy plants, terrains, & minerals
Shitstorms, ice, special winds
Dreaming
Jokes
What to say
Cycles & routes
Names & neighborhoods
A 1967 US quarter in mint condition
When you can, by heart, Good polms

…

Standing on the precipice of something kinetic
the damper of inertia is a chain around my left big toe,
a nylon noose gastric bypass shrinking my gut
and pulling tight with every inch I move forward. 
The anticipation is like the winter duvet
left too long on the bed.
After a while spring blows
and the green tree pollen 
dusts the car windshield 
and all I can do is stand still,
fearing everything outside.  
But I must exercise,
I must fill sacks with soil,
plant seeds the size of grains of sand
that shift as I walk through them.

the first fight i ever had
that i can remember 
may have been saying something wild to
a kid that i didn’t think could fight 
and he shoulder tossed me and pinned me 
and punched me twice
in the forehead
and i
learned what mercy was that day

when you see someone not fighting you back
you would think
you would give quarter 

but instead

you choose to keep harming someone

who has done little or nothing to harm you in response 

besides exist

as a reminder of all the atrocities you commit
and it’s not like you thunk you’re excluded
exempt
18-wheeler accidents don’t give enough payout 
for you to be a dick
and I don’t give a fuck if you sat courtside at the championship
Or were featured on a podcast
Or how many hoes you had in undergrad
Because all this does is piss me the fuck off
And make me mad
Because Now We Ain’t Got Shit To Show For It
So I Think
We Should Take These Gloves Off
And GO
FOR 
IT