It’s like the ringing in my ears.
It gets louder when you enter the room
with heals clicking and hands swinging
by your side, then shoved into pants pockets,
pulling out fluffs of lint
like the stuff that comes out of your mouth
in little catlike balls.

I called the doctor once
you coughed then finally
cleared your airway.
Choking should have clued you in.
You should have known then
how your phlegm, like dragon spit,
was brimstone and would eventually
burn you alive.

Cowboy strides through the shadows, twelve string on his back, red hair flowing free.

There are jokes I like to share
Strange but funny, still, to me
I type them on my keyboard
Post
Then snicker tee-hee-hee

Your idea of heaven

has made a hell for both of us.

Creator, 
from desire to win all     
                                                                            deliver me
Creator, 
from desire to take
                                                                            deliver me
Creator, 
from desire to create
                                                                            deliver me
Creator
from desire of remembrance 
                                                                            deliver me
Creator,
from the fear of death
                                                                            deliver me
Creator,
from the fear of pain
                                                                            deliver me
Creator,
from the fear of abandonment 
                                                                            deliver me
Once, 
                                                                            my one love
I could not have known the dream
where we are equal in Your eyes
                                                                            our true home
and there is no obligation
to remain where I’ve been 
                                                                            our shelter
no, not even a mere
one or five or ten minutes ago
                                                                            in this time

When Sunny Gets Blue comes on
at midnight, just as you are headed for bed.
I see your eyes grey and cloudy, your intent
to turn in, so I don’t even request a real dance,
but sit your 5 foot 11 on the side of the bed, my arms
around your shoulders, and sway with the tune,
my lips on your neck.  I like this.  I am taller
than you and I’m running the show.   

The Things I Won’t Say

Running from myself is like driving a hollow at dusk
down Browns Fork—trees leaning so close
they form a tunnel. I think I’m escaping, 
but the land is just a ribcage closing around me.

It’s a Whippoorwill road past Thelma,
a switchback where blame stacks so tall
it throws my shadow off the edge.
I drive toward a gentility I don’t possess, 
passing coal trucks piled high with the things I won’t say.

My identity is a blind curve—
too narrow for two versions of me 
to pass without one going over the edge.

I’m not running toward anywhere—
only stirring up silt in the gravel 
until the rearview disappears. 
Underneath the roles I play, 
parts of me stay scarred by coal dust,
hidden from every mirror. 

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green

Blue, Purple, Indigo, Violet

Brown, Gray, Black, White

Pink

So many emotions 
so much to do 
only so many hours 
so many tears too

rushing, pausing
pausing, rushing 
I should do 
More pausing
Less rushing

We only get to do this once 
We only get to be in this place 
Where time and life comes together
Loving you has never been linear 
Letting go will never get easier.